I turned off the highway, and Irish Navajo soon found itself moving through the old and banged-up state roads that Milton seemed to have in spades. All that money spent on pristine houses, yet roads, as anywhere else in the world, always seemed to come last when it came time for community funding.

  There were so many bumps and humps that I slowed down in case either of us banged our heads on the car’s roof and had a big lump sprouting out like something from a Looney Tunes cartoon.

  “You haven’t been wrapped up in a white man’s world,” I said.

  “I have.”

  “You lived all your life in a van with your parents,” I shot back, “hardly living among white people.”

  “I’m still so far away from Natives that I don’t feel like one.”

  “You have Native family though, I know that.”

  “I haven’t seen most of them in years now.”

  “Native friends?”

  There was a pause. Then I realised, outside of Winona’s parents, I’d never actually seen her with another Native American before. All of our mutual friends had either been white or white-passing. There hadn’t been many people of colour in the schools we’d gone to, or the extracurriculars after school we’d done together.

  Even I was beginning to feel like a bit of a fraud. Writing and singing all these songs about the oppressed people of the world, when I’d hardly wanted for much of anything growing up. I came from a lower-middle-class background, but still middle class. Still had a childhood that was functional. Still with a wealth of opportunities ahead of me if the whole Irish Navajo and game development dreams didn’t work out.

  I wasn’t the person to sing these songs about class solidarity or devouring every last morsel of the gluttonous rich who were destroying our futures at all.

  The thoughts didn’t disappear either as I indicated the green Ford back into my childhood neighbourhood. There was an encore of more RHCP, this time the song “Wet Sand”. It made me feel like I was standing on wet sand, and that Irish Navajo’s whole existence was founded on feet of clay.

  All these nice houses we passed through that none of the people we wrote about could afford even if they scraped together a lifetime’s worth of work.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  I sighed, then parked the Ford in the driveway.

  “You don’t have to stay with me, you know.”

  “I want to.”

  “You mean, you don’t want to stay across the road with the filmmaker?”

  Winona shook her head. “No, I want us to cuddle together again. As always.”

  I didn’t. In fact, I wanted Winona nowhere near my bedroom. Instead of all that rough-and-tumble play friends might do together, I realised I would end up getting a hard-on when she was cuddled up next to me.

  “Not tonight,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I’m just not in the mood yet,” I lied, then changed tack. “What’s going on with you and Benjamin?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I twiddled my thumbs together. “I mean… are you boyfriend and girlfriend?”

  “No, not yet,” she answered. “What makes you think that?”

  “I mean, you were on his lap in the music room. A few days ago.”

  “And? We do that. That’s what friends do.”

  “Right,” I mumbled. “Right.”

  I’d thought I’d lost everything, but the race was still on between us. I could still win that year’s worth of takeaway if only I helped Winona cross the finishing line and become ensnared by the Cohen filmmaker bloodline.

  Only, it didn’t appeal to me much any more. I didn’t just mean the reward of takeaways, or seeing Winona happy with her hands wrapped around Benjamin’s.

  No, I meant being with Felicity too. Falling for her had lost that whole soft, childlike crushing indulgence I’d steadily built in my mind about her too. In fact, the thought of spending time with either her or Benjamin seemed to give an undercurrent of dread.

  I just wanted to spend time with Winona now. Even a road trip with her to a reservation wouldn’t be as fun if I had to deal with the rich kids of Boston University at the same time.

  “Earth to Nathan?” Winona said, pinching my knee. “I need someone to open the front door, but you’re in a haze there…”

  “Right,” I said. “Let me just get the keys.”

  I pressed the car door open and started making my way through all the pockets of my corduroy jacket to find them. So many pockets. I was grumbling about that and making my way up the porch when I heard an all too familiar ping come from my smartphone.

  “What is it?” Winona asked.

  “It’s from Felicity,” I said. It was a group invite. For me. From her and Benjamin. The group chat was called Irish Navajo Travel Plans.

  “It’s abou—”

  Winona shrugged. “Forget about her. How about some Overwatch?”

  I looked down at the phone. I was hardly the only member of Irish Navajo who’d been allowed into the rich kids’ club. Winona had probably gotten hers already from Benjamin, long before we’d left O’Brien’s.

  She had let it slide for the time being. And that’s what I needed to do as well.

  “Fuck yes,” I exclaimed, “and some Domino’s to order?”

  Winona spat on the ground. “Umm, obviously not? You know Irish Navajo only settles for Pizza Hut after playing concerts.”

  “I think you mean Papa John’s, Winona,” I said.

  “Somehow you discovered a pizzeria even worse than Domino’s!”

  I laughed. “Quiet down now, I don’t want to hear any more pizza facts in case Irish Navajo sells out to some faceless pizza corporation in the sky.”

  “Shut up!” she smiled, and we walked our way in through the door.