Tribal Journey by Gary Robinson Page B

really had problems—a leaky roof, rotting front steps, and cracks in the walls.
    Dad never had the time or money to fix any of this stuff. His job as a maintenance worker at the Boeing jet factory must not have paid very much. It did pay enough to keep him stocked in beer, however.
    I was lucky to have my own room upstairs. It was small but all mine. It was the best place to be when Dad went on one of his rampages.
    My younger brother Zak and his twin sister Shauna shared a room down the hall. Since birth they’ve never liked to be apart. Shauna can’t sleep if Zak isn’t nearby. So half of the room was filled with boy stuff, and the other half was all pink and girly.
    As I approached the house, I was surprised to see my mom’s car parked in the driveway.
    â€œWhat are you doing home?” I asked Mom as I walked through the front door.
    â€œIt’s Good Friday. Sunday is Easter. So they let some of us get off work early to have some quality family time.”
    That was really the last thing I was interested in.
    â€œCan I go over to Ron’s tomorrow? I told him I’d help him with a few chores.”
    â€œYou? Helping with chores? Wow, that’s a new one.” She was smiling when she said it, so I knew she wasn’t totally serious.
    â€œWe’ll see. We might do something as a family. I’ll talk to your father when he gets home.”
    I think I moaned out loud. I knew that “we’ll see” was parent code for “probably not.”

Chapter 2
Quality Family Time
    â€œAbsolutely not,” my father said when he got home from work. “This weekend is for staying at home and being with family.”
    I didn’t like the sound of that one bit.
    â€œThe last time we had a family weekend,” I said, “you watched sports on TV while Mom refinished furniture. Shauna and Zak chased each other around the yard. I played video games in my room. What kind of quality family time is that?”
    I ran up to my room before anyone could punish me for talking back. After slamming the door, I grabbed my binoculars from the dresser and focused out the window.
    Since our house was on the highest hill in West Seattle, I could see pretty far in any direction. Looking west through the binoculars I could see the southern tip of BainbridgeIsland across the waters of Puget Sound. Looking east I could see freight ships carrying their loads up and down the Duwamish River. Southeast of us was the Sea-Tac Airport, with its steady stream of jets landing and taking off. Downtown Seattle, where the Space Needle is located, was just visible to the northeast.
    Sometimes, when no one was around, I would sneak out of my window and onto the roof. You could see really far from there—so far that you could forget all your problems for a while.
    You could forget that your father drank too much and beat Mom and us kids when he did. You could forget that your mother spent hours at the Duwamish Tribal Culture Center to escape from your father. You could forget that for some odd reason the family never had any money to do anything or fix anything or buy anything new. That was a lot to forget.
    Ron texted me again. “What did they say?”
    â€œThey said no,” was all I replied and closed the phone. What was I to do now? Icould grit my teeth and try to get through another day. As usual.
    Instead, I decided to send a text blast to all my friends to let them know what was going on. Maybe someone would have an idea for how I could get out of the Saturday family time. So I started thumb-typing.
    â€œGuys, I need your help. How can I get out of spending the entire weekend with my lame family? Got ideas?” I pushed the send button and hoped.
    Within minutes reply messages came back from Ron, Amy, Ben, and Randy. Ashley must not have had her phone handy.
    â€œU can always sneak out in the middle of the nite,” Ben suggested.
    â€œTell ur parents my auntie died and