The Second Chance of Benjamin Waterfalls

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  Boozhoo! This story is dedicated to all my friends and relatives of the Grand Portage (Gitchi Onigaming) Ojibwe. I hope I make you as proud of me as I am proud of you. And to my soulmate Adriana Mather, and my shining son, Wolf (Ma’iingan).

  Your life will become better by making other lives better.

  —Will Smith

  CHAPTER 1

  MAKWA (BEAR)

  I don’t know why I stole it. I don’t have any younger siblings or cousins that would have wanted it. It’s not like I know any kids I’d give it to. But still, I saw the stuffed bear on the department store shelf and grabbed it. And as soon as I walked out, I was met by security. Maybe I should have just paid for it. It was only twenty bucks.

  Instead, I ran. And no more than ten steps into the parking lot, I was tackled and pinned to the asphalt until the police arrived. It would be funny if it wasn’t so confusing. A stuffed bear? It makes no sense at all.

  This happened five days ago. My mom hasn’t said much to me since, other than telling me to go to school each morning. We’re not exactly close anymore, but she usually doesn’t stop trying to get through to me when I mess up, which according to her, is quite often.

  This time, however, I can tell by her hunched shoulders that she is quietly defeated. I’ve never intentionally done anything bad to her. I steal things, big deal. It has nothing to do with her. I mean, I’m thirteen years old. This is what I’m supposed to do, right? All my friends do bad things.

  My mom shouldn’t worry about me so much. She has enough on her mind. Like rent, bills, work, food, and somehow trying to find time to sleep in between all of that stuff.

  Life for us hasn’t been easy. But she’s always said she’s happy because she has me.

  Right now, she looks anything but happy. She is staring straight ahead, avoiding having to look at me. I know she feels my eyes on her, though, by the way she shifts her body the longer I glare at her. Truth is, I do feel bad for putting her through this.

  It’s like every time I get in trouble, it somehow adds years to her body. Every trip to the principal’s office or a courtroom adds wrinkles around her eyes. Her straight long hair is now more silver than black, her eyes are now heavier and redder rather than round and brown, and her smile has faded, leaving riverbeds around her lips. But today, she’s in a red dress under a black blazer. I haven’t seen her this formal in years. I guess my sentencing is a reason to dress up.

  I watch her shift and cross her legs. Most people find these wooden benches uncomfortable, but not me; I’m kind of used to them by now. This is my sixth time in a courtroom. I guess that’s not something to brag about, but my mama always says, Be proud of what you’re good at, and I must say, I’m pretty darn good at taking things that aren’t mine. Or at least I thought I was.

  “Case 83-212. Let’s see … Benjamin Waterfalls, please stand,” the judge says from his bench, after reading my file, which has gotten thicker with each visit.

  I’ve had this judge once before. He’s one of the nicer ones. He gave me a warning last time and made me promise I’d never be in front of him again, but I’m sure that’s what a lot of judges say to screwups like me. Besides, if everyone kept that promise, he’d be out of a job. So technically, he should thank me for stealing. But I doubt he’ll see it that way.

  The black and gold placard on his bench reads HONORABLE JUDGE Z. MASON. Last time I was here, I wondered what his first name was. Zeke? Zachary? Zander? Zane? Zion? I don’t know, Zeus? But more than wanting to know his name, I fantasized about stealing that fancy placard from right under his nose. I bet I wouldn’t get much for it, but still … It would be a fun little trophy for my room.

  I stand, and as soon as I do, my mother rises to her feet to join me.

  “Benjamin. Back again…” Judge Mason says this like his courthouse is a roller coaster that I just can’t get enough of riding. The moment I get off, I run back to the line, cut to the front, and hop back on again. “I remember last time you were here, you made me a promise. That promise is now broken. Tell me, why do you keep stealing?” he asks.

  “Not everyone gets paid to sit up there, judging people all day,” I say, which immediately is followed by a disappointed sigh from my mom.

  “I see you still think this is all a big joke,” Judge Mason continues as he reads from my file. “Well, let’s see what you’ve been up to, shall we … Fighting, shoplifting, shoplifting, vandalizing property, shoplifting, and what brings you in this time … Interesting, more shoplifting.”

  “I like to stay busy,” I say.

  “Benny! Enough!” Mom snaps.

  “And I see you brought your mother with you this time.” Mason looks up from my paperwork. “We meet at last, Mrs. Waterfalls.”

  “Miss Waterfalls, Your Honor. And yes, at last … However, I wish it were under different circumstances.”

  “As do I. Your son has a knack for getting into trouble. I know you are here to support him, but I’m afraid, with Benjamin, I have completely run out of leniency.”

  “I am here to make sure you show zero leniency, Your Honor,” she says.

  “Mom?” I blurt out, but she avoids my eyes. What is she doing? She’s supposed to be on my side.

  “That’s good to hear,” the judge continues. “Sometimes, the hard road is the only one left for these kids to take.”

  “Give him your worst,” my mother says, still not meeting my eyes. “He’s a tough guy, or so he thinks.”

  “Mom!”

  “Well, let’s just see how tough he is,” the judge says in a tone that reminds me of a game show host who’s about to reveal what’s behind door number three.

  What is going on? Why are they teaming up against me? So, I shoplifted a few times and got into a few fights, so what?

  “Your Honor, my mom is just really upset right now. I wouldn’t take her words too seriously,” I argue, since my own mother won’t speak up for me.

  “Perhaps you should have taken her words, and mine, a bit more seriously, young man. We could have avoided this altogether, but here we are,” Mason says, and pushes his palms together like he just washed his hands. What does that mean? Does that make me the dirt he just rinsed away from his skin? I get the feeling that I’ve ridden this roller coaster for the very last time.

  I feel so betrayed. My own mother is selling me out. My own flesh and blood marching me straight to the guillotine. What happened to a mother’s love being unconditional?

  Judge Mason clears his throat. “Benjamin Waterfalls. You have displayed an unfortunate pattern that only leads to a future behind bars. If I do nothing, nothing will change. Thus, it is my decision to place you in a juvenile detention center for no less than sixty days, after which, you will be on a twelve-month probation period, where you will be assigned to complete no less than two hundred and fifty hours of community service.”

  “What? Wait. That’s going to ruin my life,” I blurt out.

  “Or save it,” the judge fires back.

  This can’t be happening. “Mom! Do something. I can’t be caged like some animal,” I plead.

  She finally turns to me. I can see in her eyes that even she feels the punishment is a bit harsh.

  “Your Honor,” she says, “as fitting and deserving as your punishment sounds, may I offer up an alternative solution? One that I feel may be more effective?”

  The judge looks curious. He leans back into his chair and rubs his chin. “The floor is yours, however, if this is about grounding him by keeping him home all day, then I don’t believe it is going to help,” he says.

  What is her angle? Is she coming to my rescue, or is she making everything worse? I can’t tell. She turned away from me again.

  “What I am proposing is actually the opposite of keeping him home, Your Honor,” she says.

  “I’ll admit, I am intrigued. Please continue,” he says.

  What is she talking about? I get nervous as my mom clears her throat and squares her shoulders, about to deliver her idea of how best to punish me. “I suggest sending him to temporarily live with his father,” she says.

  My what? She just said the F word. The one word that makes me all kinds of F words: furious, frustrated, and fuming. The man is a fake. He’s a fraud. He’s no father, he’s a freaking failure.

  “My father is dead!” I shout.

  “I assure you, Judge, his father is not dead,” she snaps back.

  “He’s dead to me,” I say, turning my head to her.

  “And how do you think this will help Benjamin?” the judge asks.

  “Like my son, his father often took the wrong path to find his way h
ome. He’d lie. He’d cheat. And yes—like father, like son—he’d steal. But I knew the real him. And he had a big heart. Unfortunately, he’d often fill his heart with alcohol. And sadly, our marriage drowned. I sent him away. I told him to search for the light that had left his eyes. This was seven years ago when Benny was six years old,” she says, and sighs.

  “I’m still failing to see how this will help your son.” The judge rests his chin in his hand.

  “You see, his father is a slow learner, Your Honor, but he never gave up. After years of searching, he has recently found his light. And although I lost a husband, I don’t believe my son has lost his father. He needs his dad now. I look at my son, and I see the light in his eyes is gone. I spoke to his dad, and he has agreed to help his son find that light. It won’t be easy. But as troubled as they both can be, I also see the same strength inside. He has a warrior’s heart. Benny is smart. He is kind. He is a survivor. And if you agree to this request, my Benny will find the right path home,” she says, her gaze fixed on the judge.

  He stares back at my mother, tapping his fingers against the bench like a king on his throne.

  “He returned to his roots. Think of it as a Native boot camp. My son will learn how to correct his path the original way … the Anishinaabe way,” she says.

  “I’m unfamiliar with Native boot camps. Are they—”

  “They’re not on the books. There is no agency. They are unofficial. But they are effective,” my mom says in a lower tone, like she’s revealing a secret.

  “And you believe this unofficial boot camp will rehabilitate your son?” Mason leans toward her.

  Really? He’s buying into this?

  “Your Honor, Benjamin is a thief. He’s a liar. He has trouble written all over him. But one thing he is not is hopeless. I will not give up on my son. And it is his father’s duty to teach him how to be not just a man, but a meno-izhiwebizid,” she says. “A good man.”

  Oh Gawd. She’s pulling out Ojibwe words. What is she up to?

  “And where would this take place?” Mason asks.

  “About three hours north. In Gichi-onigaming. Our first home, Grand Portage.”

  “Well … normally, I’d advise against family intervention outside of the law, but, as a fellow Duluth, Minnesotan once said, ‘The times, they are a-changin’.”

  My mom smiles. “I do love me some Dylan wisdom,” she says.

  Judge Mason smiles back. I see an opening, and I have to take it. There’s no way I’m going to live with my dad. I buried him seven years ago. I will stay here, in Duluth, even if it’s behind bars.

  “Mom. Judge, um, Your Honor. Let’s make a deal. Let me take the community service hours. Probation is fine too. I’ve learned my lesson, but don’t send me to stay with my dad. I don’t want to see him. Please, don’t do this,” I beg.

  My mother turns to me, looks me dead in the face. “Oh, Benny, I didn’t do this. You did,” she says, and turns back to the judge.

  “Your Honor?” she asks.

  Mason takes a deep breath. The seconds feel like hours. This is killing me. Why did I have to get the nice judge? A mean one would have just slapped his sentence down and would have been done with it. Why is this guy considering my mom’s awful idea?

  “I will allow it, but this is his final chance to turn it all around.” Mason seems reluctant to look away from my mother, but he finally does. “If you end up back in my courtroom again, I won’t be so accommodating. Is this understood?” he says.

  “I’d expect nothing less,” my mother replies. Is she serious?

  “Wait!” I say, staring at my mom. “You really think some powwow is gonna clean me up? You think my dad has changed? No way. He might have fooled you, but people like him don’t change.”

  “Do people like you change?” Mason asks me.

  I look at him and want to say something clever, but “I don’t know” is all I can offer.

  “Well, let’s find out,” he says.

  “Do I have a choice?” I ask. “Do I have any say in this?”

  “No. You don’t. You gave up that right when you stopped being a kid,” he adds.

  “I am a kid. Kids steal. Kids get in trouble. Just let me pay for it like everyone else. Please.”

  “No. Kids play basketball in the park. Kids read books. Kids go to the movies with their friends. They play video games and wear baggy pants and sometimes stay out late and get grounded. You’re not behaving like a kid anymore. But I, like your mother here, am not one to easily throw in the towel. We’re giving you one last shot, Benjamin. Make it count.” Then Judge Mason slams down his gavel with the force of a basketball player slam-dunking the ball.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” my mom says, smiling.

  “Good luck with your son, Mrs. Waterfalls.”

  “Miss Waterfalls,” she corrects him again.

  They share another smile, which lasts a bit too long. Ugh. Not only did they team up against me, but now they’re making googly eyes at each other. Could today get worse?

  “You want me to wait outside while you two exchange numbers?” I ask sarcastically, but my mother nods.

  “Seriously?” I say, and look at the judge, who is also smiling.

  Oh Gawd. This is awful. I walk toward the exit as my mom approaches the bench.

  I push the doors open and enter the hallway. There are a lot of families standing around. I guess a lot of parents have bad apple seeds. I walk toward the doors that lead to the parking garage and realize this all happened because of that stuffed bear. I’m probably the dumbest thief to ever enter this courthouse.

  CHAPTER 2

  MAAZHI-GIIZHIGAD (IT IS A BAD DAY)

  My mother and I are silent the entire drive home. What’s left to say? She’s getting rid of me, and I’m going to spend the next however many days-weeks-months with a guy that split seven years ago. The guy I looked up to until I realized who he really was.

  We enter our apartment, and I make a beeline to my room. For living on the poor side of town, you’d never guess our struggle by the contents of my room. I have a stack of brand-new denim jeans, several unopened boxes of electronics, perfumes, colognes, and half a dozen wallets. All hidden under my bed.

  I make most of my money stealing from the Miller Hill Mall and then I turn around and sell everything to kids at school for a fraction of the price. Sometimes, I even hit up the campuses of Denfeld and Central to sell the merchandise to high schoolers. Thieving is my job, and I take my job seriously. This is why my bedroom door is usually locked. Until now, I had the good fortune of having a mom who respects privacy. So, naturally, I’ve taken full advantage of that.

  I slip my key into the door, but … oh crap, it’s unlocked. She was in here. I swing the door open and dive to the floor near my bed. I lift my droopy Timberwolves comforter back and look under it. My jaw drops. Nothing. It’s gone. All of it.

  AHHH! I feel the blood inside of me begin to boil. Panic rolls out in beads of sweat. How could she do this to me?

  “Mom!” I shout, but she’s already standing behind me, arms crossed and looking smug.

  “Where’s all my stuff?” I ask.

  “All your stuff?”

  “My stuff! Where is it?” I repeat.

  “Well, looks like someone broke in and took everything. Thieves really suck, don’t they?” she says, and walks victoriously out of my room.

  I slam my door shut so hard it rattles the walls. What did she do with all of it? Usually, whenever she catches me with a stolen wallet, she threatens to take it to the police station to drop it off. I guess she actually did it this time. She clearly doesn’t care that I just lost out on customers, money, and street cred. But doesn’t she realize that the money I slip into her purse at night, especially when rent is due, comes from all this stuff? Now what is she going to do?

  “You’re lucky I didn’t call the police!” my mom shouts from the living room.

  She’s right. Knowing my mom could just sell me out the way she did to the judge, I am lucky she didn’t have me arrested. That would have been a first-class ticket to juvenile hall.

  Did she take off work and spend the day returning everything to each store while I was at school? Was she embarrassed to stand in line with the customers that were there to actually shop? Did I humiliate her? How did she explain it to everyone? Did she say, My good-for-nothing son stole all this stuff from under your noses, and I’m here to give it back?