Sherman Alexie - Flight

That takes me awhile. I have a lot of zits.

“Okay, good,” she says. “Now this last stuff, it’s an all-over moisturizer and oil-reducing cream. It’s funny, but it will keep your skin moist but dry at the same time.”

“I don’t get it,” I say.

“I don’t either,” she says, “but it works, okay? Trust me.”

I rub that stuff all over my face.

“There, that’s good,” she says. “We do this twice a day, and your face should start clearing up in a week or two. A few months from now, you’ll be brand-new.”

That just gets me in the soul. Right there, I start to cry. Really. I just weep and wail.

Mary hugs me. She hugs me tightly. It feels great. I haven’t been hugged like that since my mother died.

I’m happy.

I’m scared, too. I mean, I know the world is still a cold and cruel place.

I know that people will always go to war against each other.

I know that children will always be targets.

I know that people will always betray each other.

I know that I am a betrayer.

But I’m beginning to think I’ve been given a chance. I’m beginning to think I might get unlonely. I’m beginning to think I might have an almost real family.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I keep saying.

“It’s okay,” she says. “You’ll be okay.”

“Michael,” I say. “My real name is Michael. Please, call me Michael.”

I OWE SPECIAL THANKS to Nancy Stauffer, for her continuing grace and friendship; to Morgan, Elisabeth, Deb, Eric, and everybody else at Grove, who were there in the beginning and are still with me in the middle; to Christy Cox, who keeps order in my insane life; and to my mother and siblings, who let me write about them and don’t complain publicly.