Rain Is Not My Indian Name

FROM MY JOURNAL:
On New Year’s Eve, I stood waiting my turn in the express aisle of Hein’s Grocery Barn, flipping through the December issue of Teen Lifestyles.
The magazine reported: “76% of teenagers who responded to our Heating Up Your Holidays survey indicated that they had French-kissed someone.”
The next day was my birthday, and I’d never kissed anyone—domestic-style or French. Right then, looking at that magazine, I decided to get myself a teen life. Tradition was on my side. Among excuses for kisses, midnight on New Year’s Eve outweighs mistletoe all Christmas season long.
Kissing Galen would mark my new year, my birthday, my new beginning.
Or I’d chicken out and drown in a pit of humiliation, insecurity, and despair. Cassidy Rain Berghoff, Rest in Peace.

That night, Galen and I jogged under the ice-trimmed branches of oaks and sugar maples, never guessing that somebody was watching us through
ruffled country curtains and hooded miniblinds. We should’ve known. Small-town people make the best spies. As we tore through the parking lot behind Tricia’s Barbecue House, my camera thudded against my hip and I breathed in the chill, the mist, and the spicy smell of smoking beef. Galen’s cold hand yanked mine past Phillips 66 Car Wash, Sonic Drive-In, and up the tallest hill in town to N. R. Burnham Elementary. Chewie, my black Lab, led us to the playground, and Galen grinned at me like we were getting away with something. I thought we were. Of course Grampa Berghoff hadn’t given us permission to prowl like night creatures on New Year’s Eve. Earlier that evening, he’d shelled out
twenty-five bucks for pizza delivery and entertainment, and said, “Watch yourself.”
But Galen drew his line at rom-coms, and I drew mine at Anime. Mercury Videos, CDs & Vintage Vinyl was a fun place to kill time, but there was hardly anything new in stock since our last visit.
Galen and I had gone out after the third phone call from his mother: the first to ask if he’d gotten to my house okay, a whopping five blocks; the second to ask if my big brother, Fynn, could drive Galen home—no problem; and finally to ask if Grampa and Fynn would be back from their dates before midnight. As if. My high-tops smacked the playground asphalt, and I opened my mouth to catch a snowflake or two. Galen let go of my hand, and I dropped into the swing beside him.
We soared. Below, Christmas lights outlined rooftops, shop windows, and the clock
tower on the Historical Society Museum of Hannesburg, Kansas. Cottony smoke puffed out of chimneys and blurred into clouds. Plastic reindeer
hauled Santa’s sleigh on top of the new McDonald’s.
Perfect, I thought. Besides haunting the streets and swinging to the heavens, I planned to try out the filters Grampa had tucked into my Christmas stocking the week before. I hoped to compose some shots of my hometown in all of its hazy
holiday glitter. But that’s not what I was nervous about. Glancing at Galen, I could still see my field trip buddy, the one who’d tugged me away from Mrs. Bigler’s second-grade class to find turquoise
cotton candy at the American Royal Rodeo. I wasn’t a hard sell. With my parents’ pocket camera ready, I’d hoped to shoot whatever wasn’t on the
guided tour. When we finally got caught, Mrs. Bigler sentenced us both to keep our noses to the brick wall for a month of recesses. Through lemonade stands, arcade games, spelling bees, and science fairs, we’d been best friends ever since.