The High Five

The Botanist

The Waxahotti high school didn't have many amenities. The battered desks were left over from the Reagan administration, and natty textbooks were still being used long after most schools had switched to pads. But it did have something other high schools didn't: a small greenhouse. It was basically just a semi-transparent tent with a couple misters, a space heater, and some sun spectrum lamps for when the days got short. An old medicine woman who worked in the garden section of the Home Depot the next town over had set it up. It was sweltering inside. Tayen would wear a tank top and shorts under her school clothes so she could strip down to work in it.

The greenhouse tent bordered the open field where the marching band practiced at break of dawn and the football team after school. Neither was very good, but being a member conferred a sense of tribal belonging. Tayen didn't fit into any tribe. She wasn't especially pretty, cerebral, social, or even nerdy. She was a tribe of one.

The greenhouse tent was Tayen's safe place. She took her lunches there, preferring her chosen isolation over the forced ostracism of the cafeteria. When she wasn't working for her father in the garage, she sometimes spent weekends there as well. Her father was a dictator at work, but when he came home late in the evenings after more than a few beers, he would descend into self-pitying rambling. Her mother was withdrawn at her best, cold and critical at her worst.

The tent was more than an escape. It was a project. Growing and fixing things was what Tayen did best. She built racks and stands out of scraps, arranging them so each plant received its due share of sun and mist. She potted, trimmed, and re-potted. The tent's makeshift nature was part of its appeal. She sometimes imagined herself being in a habitat on Mars. On Mars, you wouldn't complain that you didn't have proper glass walls or industrial-grade misters. You would make do with what you had and get on with it. That's what being a Martian, or a Native American, was all about.

Inspired by a Cherokee scientist she found on the streams, she tried her hand at field work. She collected soil and water samples and applied them to test batches. Then she carefully recorded her observations. Though her dad didn't pay her for working at his garage, sometimes she got tips. She used that money to send off for supplies and chemical assays. Now she could start drawing direct correlations between chemical leaching and its effect on the native flora. Watching leaves wilt at the edges or develop spots was a revelation. Cause and effect.

Tayen was working in the tent the day it got smashed. It happened so fast, she hardly knew what hit her. She was tallying berry clusters when she heard a nearby shout. She turned just in time to see someone come barreling into the side of the tent directly at her. Her body seized up as the intruder slammed into her with the force of a charging bull, throwing her backward into a stand of plants. The stand collapsed, and the tent came crashing down around her as the support poles buckled. To make matters worse, the person landed right on top of her, all broad torso and flailing limbs. A knee or elbow smacked her in the nose, and blood came gushing out, warm and salty. Tears of pain blurred her vision. Then there were more bodies, piling on top and crushing her. There was a sharp pressure on her wrist and thigh and a hard blow to the gut. She tried to suck in air, but her lungs weren't working. Screaming was impossible. Her face was pressed hard into the ground. She tasted dirt. It had a mineral, salty tang. Or maybe that was the blood.

"Shit, there's someone in there," she heard someone say.

The weight lifted, and the thick canvas was pulled back. Through tearing eyes, Tayen saw a ring of football players looming over her like they were having a huddle. Embarrassed and hurting all over, she covered her bloodied face and ran home. Her mother didn't poke her head out of her room. If she had, Tayen would have told her she had just gotten banged up at the garage. Blood and bruises were nothing new.