The View From Who I Was by Heather Sappenfield Page B

long week.
    A woman in a blouse and jeans and a man with a dark braid bisecting his gold T-shirt strolled along a sidewalk that bordered the common area, deep in conversation.
    â€œIsn’t it late to be applying to college?” Corpse said.
    â€œThey’re just doing research now. It would be great to come in the fall and help out, but it’s a madhouse during that time back home.”
    The road forked as the valley fanned out, and Mr. Handler followed the left side that hugged the mountain and climbed gradually to two single-story adobe buildings. They faced southwest and looked like hotels, with tall, south-facing windows and sliding doors to patios that were bordered by waist-high adobe walls.
    â€œWhere is everybody?” Corpse said.
    â€œIn class. They should be out soon.”
    â€œHow many students go here?”
    â€œAround forty. Just juniors and seniors.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThey apply from schools across the country. Most are from reservations; most want to go on to college.” He pulled into a parking space against the mountain, sighed, and looked at his lap. “They’re just kids. Trying to figure things out. Like you.”
    â€œLike me?” Corpse said.
    He nodded. “Like you.” He climbed out of the car. “It’s gorgeous here, isn’t it?”
    She got out. The sun was warm but the air had a cold bite.
    Mr. Handler took a deep breath. “Smell that juniper? There’s nothing like it.”
    Corpse heard voices and looked up. Louise and a group of Indian students were walking along the road toward us. Shoes scuffed. Laughter rose. A swan-like girl slapped a boy’s shoulder, more of a caress, reminding me of Ash. Maybe half the school was there. They wore jeans, cords, T-shirts, jackets, sneakers; could have been kids from anywhere in America. Corpse kept the Prius between her and them. I sunk behind her.
    â€œPerry!” one girl said.
    â€œHey, Perry,” another one said.
    â€œLone Ranger,” a boy said.
    â€œHe no sabe ,” said another, and they all laughed. A joke I had no clue about.
    The girl from the reading, the one who’d held the feathers, stepped out, and Mr. Handler put his arm around her in a half-hug. “Angel,” he said.
    The girl who’d slapped the boy stepped forward, and he hugged her too.
    â€œYou’re gonna be mad at me,” she said.
    â€œUh-oh, Roberta,” Mr. Handler said.
    â€œ Uh-oh is right,” said the boy she’d slapped, and she slapped him again. There was muffled laughter.
    â€œIt’s good to see you all,” Mr. Handler said. “I can’t wait to hear how things have been. And I look forward to meeting you juniors.”
    A few glances skidded across the Prius’s maroon roof to Corpse.
    â€œThis is Oona,” Louise said. “She goes to Perry’s school back home. She’ll be helping out in the office.”
    Things got quiet, and it took every bit of strength Corpse had to stand in their scrutiny. Recognition sparked in Angel’s gaze. In the gazes of a few others.
    Louise jangled the keys. “Your rooms are next door to each other.”
    The students took this as their cue. “See you,” and “Bye,” they said and moved on. Angel glanced over her shoulder at Corpse.
    Mr. Handler opened the trunk and pulled out our suitcases, his computer bag.
    â€œThe rooms have Internet, but remember there’s no cell phone coverage down in this hollow. If you want to make a call, you have to hike up there.” Louise pointed to the top of the mountain behind us. A double-track road ran straight up it. Corpse sighed. We’d promised Gabe we’d call.
    Mr. Handler laughed. “I remember well.”
    Our rooms were on the near end of the closest building. Louise opened the first door and we followed her in. “This will be your room, Oona,” she said.
    Two single beds, a kiva fireplace, a pine