The Kingmaker

I look from my mother, who is an only slightly older version of me, to my father, whom I look nothing like except for my gray eyes. I carry them both in my heart, though, and I think my greatest fear is actually hurting one of them with my choices.

“We can discuss it more when I get back,” Mama says, running a soothing hand down my back. “I’m off to Seattle tomorrow. There’s a protest for that new oil pipeline they’re proposing. They’re so shortsighted. Money today won’t mean much when the water is polluted and the land is beyond repair.”

“So true,” Dad mutters. They are united in their love for me, and, though he isn’t Native, their passion for tribal issues. “Just be careful.”

Some of the old affection I glimpsed between them when I was younger gathers in her eyes. “I’m always careful, Rand. You know that, but there is so much to do and no time to waste. Injustice doesn’t rest and neither will I.”

I wish she would rest sometimes. There’s always a cause, a protest, a pipeline. Something that takes her away. I can’t complain, though. She’s the person I admire most in the world, and she wouldn’t be who she is without that passion for others.

“We’ll talk more about this when I get back from Seattle,” Mama says. “How’s that sound?”

I look between them and nod, a knot of dismay forming in my belly at the thought of displeasing one of them.

They leave me to shower and change, and when I go downstairs, my friends, family, and community overflow from our small living room. The joy on their faces is worth all I’ve endured the last four days. The Sunrise Dance is a celebration we were denied for years when the government outlawed it. We had to practice it and so many of our traditions in secret. We’ll never take it for granted again, the privilege of celebrating in the open. We owe it to ourselves, but it’s also homage to all those who came before us. It’s a thread that ties us to them.

Mena Robinson, Mama’s best friend, stood as godmother to me during the ceremony, a role that strengthens our bond even more than before. She and Mama could be sisters in appearance, but also in closeness.

“I’m so proud of you,” Mena whispers.

“Thank you for everything,” I tell her, tears in my eyes. For some reason, in her arms, surrounded by everyone who bore witness to my transition from girl to woman, the emotion of the last four days cascades over me.

“Mena, Lennix,” Mama calls, glowing and aiming her camera at us. “Smile!”

I grimace, so tired of pictures and of being the center of attention, but Mama takes many more photos. And she hovers, touching my hair, hugging me, forcing me to eat. Her love and pride wrap around me, almost smother me. By the end of the evening, I want to be in my bed and alone.

I should have made Mama take a dozen more pictures. I should have given her a thousand kisses. I should have slept at her feet.

I would have if I’d known I’d never see her again.

“A riot is the language of the unheard.”

– Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

1

Maxim

Four Years Later

I am my father’s son.

I’m the spitting image of Warren Cade. Dark, russet-streaked hair with a slight wave just like his. Identical light green eyes. Same wide stretch of back and shoulders. Toe to toe, nose to nose, we both stand six feet, three and a quarter inches. Notwithstanding the striking physical similarities, beneath our skin, inside our bones—we’re the same. Considering my father is one of the most ruthless son-of-a-bitches you’ll ever meet, that should scare me.

“Why am I here, Dad?” I sink into a buttery leather seat on his company’s private jet. “What was so important you had to pull me off campus into this mile-high meeting?”

He glances up from the file on the table in front of him. “Would it kill you to spend a little time with your old man?”

It could kill us both if the last few years are any indication of how we’ll get along on this trip. Our clashes are epic. As a kid, I was my father’s shadow. “Hero worship” would be a mild term for the way I viewed him. We were inseparable, but as I got older and formed my own opinions, found my own will, the chasm between us grew wider. My father rules our family with the same iron fist he runs Cade Energy, the family business. When he tries to rule me . . . it doesn’t go as well.

“It’s an awkward time,” I reply with a shrug. “I’m finishing my thesis and—”

“Why you even wasted your time with that master’s program, I’ll never know.”

I bite back any reply to defend my decision. It made sense when I double majored in business and energy resources engineering for undergrad. That fell in line with his plan for me. Going on to pursue my master’s at Berkeley made no sense. According to his timetable, I should have been leading a division in our company by now.

“Let’s not go there,” I finally say, running an agitated hand through my hair, overlong and almost to my shoulders.