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Angie’s Uncle Reginald. He was over six feet tall and wore heavy boots and a leather jacket. Kiki heard he drove trucks for a living and hated anyone who was not fully white. She pulled the curtains tight, turned on her desk lamp, and put her hand into the puppet. She made the cat move—up and down like it was gliding. Mama would do that. Mama had named this cat that she bought for twenty-five cents at the Thrifty Mart. Mama had wanted to call it
noraneko
, which meant
stray
in Japanese. Kiki begged for another name, so Mama christened it Yoneko, which she said meant
rice child.
“Rice child?” That sounded strange, but Mama said all cats in Japan ate rice, just like all children did.
     
    As Kiki looked at her arrowhead collection, she wished she was a Japanese child in Japan so she’d get rice for dinner. But she could already smell the aromas from the kitchen, the usual scents—onions, green peppers, and potatoes.
     
    Her first arrowhead was a gift from her grandpa before he died. When he closed his eyes for the last time, a frail figure on the heirloom feather bed, she was given twenty-nine arrowheads he’d accumulated in the mountains of North Carolina. That winter afternoon, as her throat clogged with tears, she blew her nose on a tissue Mama handed her, thinking how it smelled of honeysuckle. “There now, my
musume
(daughter),” Mama had said. “You love arrowheads. And these are all yours.” She felt glad about getting the collection, but crushed that her grandfather would no longer polish them with the silky cloth as he sat by the stereo and listened to a gospel radio station.
     
    She loved rubbing her index finger over each arrowhead and feelingthe pointed edges. Grandpa called these his prizes. He’d kept his collection in a cedar box, the kind that smelled like a forest with the sun shining over the treetops. But when Kiki was handed them, they were in a red bandana, tied at the ends. She once asked Mama where the cedar box went, but Mama shook her head and said sometimes it was best not to know too much.
     
    A fter dinner, Mari cleared the table and told Kiki to do her homework. Kiki frowned.
     
    “You have math homework, don’t you?”
     
    How could her sister tell? “I don’t wanna do it.”
     
    “Kiki, remember what Dr. Conner told you?” Mari looked deep into her eyes.
     
    Of course she remembered. But what was the point in learning math? “I’m never gonna use it, never gonna use that stupid math.”
     
    “Just go do it.”
     
    “I hate math.”
     
    “If you want to stay in mainstream school, you need to follow the rules.” Mari’s eyes were like bullets, and Kiki wanted to avoid looking at them.
     
    “Math is not a good rule. It’s a stupid subject.” She flicked a fried onion off the kitchen table and onto the floor.
     
    “Kiki, pick that up!”
     
    With a loud sigh, she did. Along with trying to do well in all her subjects, Dr. Conner reminded Kiki not to make Mari mad.
     
    Again Mari told her to get into her room. There was no way she could escape doing her homework. As she slid her chair back, the phone rang.
     
    Mari answered, then said, “Sure, she’d like to speak with you, too.”
     
    Kiki drew her arms across her chest. “I don’t want to talk to her tonight.”
     
    With her hand over the mouthpiece, Mari pleaded.
     
    “I don’t want to. I have nothing to say to her.”
     
    Mari gave her a stern look, and Kiki knew there were times you just had to do what you were told to do. Even if your brain didn’t see the need. Like math homework. She took the phone and said as cheerily as she could, “Hi, how are you?”
     
    Mama’s voice was low and soft, just as she remembered it. “I am missing you.”
     
    “Really? Well, I’m doing just great!”
     
    “Good, good for you.” Mama paused, most likely trying to come up with something to ask. Mama often asked questions. “How’s school?”
     
    “Fantastic!” She didn’t usually use that