Race to the Sun Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Rebecca Roanhorse

  Introduction © 2019 by Rick Riordan

  Designed by Mary Claire Cruz

  Cover illustration copyright © 2019 by Dale Ray Deforest

  Cover design by Mary Claire Cruz and Shelby Kahr

  First Edition, January 2020

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-368-04425-7

  Visit www.DisneyBooks.com

  Follow @ReadRiordan

  To my daughter, Maya,

  and all the other Native kids who deserve to be heroes

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Introduction

  1. I Can See Monsters

  2. Blood Everywhere

  3. The Opposite of Rainbow Sprinkles

  4. Remain Calm

  5. A Very Interesting Family

  6. No Spaghettini Macaravioli for You!

  7. Mr. Yazzie

  8. It Helps to Be a Sensitive Artist

  9. Aliens and Bigfoot and Monsters, Oh My!

  10. Operation Break Some Rules

  11. The Ancestor Club Meeting Is Indefinitely Postponed Due to Reasons

  12. Like that Time at the Water Park but Way Better

  13. Hot Cheeto Kryptonite

  14. All Aboard

  15. Too Many Coats

  16. The Sleeper Won’t Awaken

  17. The White Mountain

  18. A Cold Welcome

  19. An Impossibility!

  20. Warning: May Cause Screaming

  21. Black Mountain

  22. The Buzzard Bozos

  23. A Sawdust Cookie Between Friends

  24. The Earring

  25. On Top of Old Spider Rock

  26. Spider Woman and Dr. Thunder

  27. The Glittering World

  28. The Rainbow Road

  29. Rock Concert

  30. The Coolest Moment Ever

  31. Avoid the Pointy End

  32. Last Night a DJ Saved My Life

  33. Sandcastles

  34. Snow

  35. Worst-Case Scenario

  36. The House of the Sun

  37. Sacrifices

  38. Made-to-Order Weapons

  39. Lost and Found

  40. One Step at a Time

  41. Rise

  42. Sky Wars

  43. Out of the Frying Pan

  44. The Last Arrow

  45. Dead, Dead, Dead

  46. Reunion

  Glossary of Navajo Terms

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Keep Reading for Sneak Peek at Sal and Gabi Break the Universe by Carlos Hernandez!

  Keep Reading for Sneak Peek at Tristan Strong Punches a Hole in the Sky by Kwame Mbalia!

  THE ORIGINAL AMERICAN GODS

  Changing Woman. Rock Crystal Boy. The Glittering World. The Hero Twins.

  If those names don’t ring a bell, you’ve been missing out on some of the coolest mythology* anywhere. But don’t worry. Thanks to Rebecca Roanhorse and Race to the Sun, you’re about to plunge headfirst into the fabulous, scary, wonderful story world of the Diné, also called the Navajo. Even if you already know something about traditional Navajo tales, you’re going to squee with delight, because you have never experienced them like this before.

  Meet Nizhoni Begay. (Her first name is pronounced Nih-JHOH-NIH and means “beauty.”) In many ways, she’s a typical New Mexico seventh-grader. She just wants to be good at something, to get some respect at school. Unfortunately, nothing works. Her bid for internet fame is a fail. Her chance to become a sports superstar ends with a basketball in the face. She can barely manage to hang on to her one good friend, Davery, and prevent her artsy younger brother, Mac, from getting beat up by his nemesis, Adrien Cuttlebush.

  And as if that weren’t enough, Nizhoni has another small issue. Recently she’s been seeing monsters. Nobody else seems to notice, but Nizhoni is pretty sure that even Mr. Charles, the rich guy who is offering Nizhoni’s dad a new job in Oklahoma, is not human. Worse, it seems that Mr. Charles has sought out the Begay family because he considers Nizhoni some kind of threat.…

  I love this story, and not just because it’s a funny, brilliant page-turner with unforgettable characters and an ingenious quest. The point of Rick Riordan Presents is to publish and promote great voices from cultures that have been too often marginalized or erased by mainstream culture. No one has suffered from this more than Native and Indigenous peoples. As Rebecca says in her author’s note, it’s important for Native kids to be able to see themselves in fiction, but it’s equally important for people from all backgrounds to read about Indigenous characters who aren’t just a collection of stereotypes or long-dead figures from the past. Native cultures are alive and well and vibrant. Their stories can tell you about the original American gods and heroes, those who inhabited and embodied the land for thousands of years before the Europeans brought over their interloping Zeuses and Aphrodites and what-have-yous.

  I’ll tell you something I haven’t shared before: Piper McLean, the half-Cherokee character in my Heroes of Olympus series, was inspired by conversations I had with Native kids during school visits, of which I did hundreds over the years. They asked me repeatedly whether I could add a Native hero to Percy Jackson’s world. They wanted to see themselves reflected at Camp Half-Blood, because they simply never found themselves in popular kids’ books. Piper was my way of saying, “Absolutely! I see you. I value you. You can be part of my world anytime!”

  But my perspective is not a Native perspective. It was one thing to include Piper as part of the heroic ensemble, to share Percy Jackson’s world with kids from all backgrounds and send a message that heroes can come from all sorts of places. It would be quite another thing to write entirely from a Native protagonist’s point of view about the mythology of his or her own culture. That sort of story needed to come from a Native writer, and I yearned to find books like that and put them into the hands of young readers, Native and non-Native alike. There are so many wonderful Indigenous mythologies. They deserve to be read, shared, and spotlighted.

  For Native kids, seeing themselves reflected in books is critical. Seeing themselves reflected in the very authors who create those books is exponentially more empowering. I am thrilled that Rebecca Roanhorse agreed to write Race to the Sun for Rick Riordan Presents. It is a much-needed addition to children’s fiction, and I hope it’s the first of many!

  For all kids, reading about other cultures’ mythologies is a way to expand their imagination and their empathy. There’s an old Czech proverb: Learn a new language, gain a new soul. Mythology is similar. The traditional sacred stories of every culture can offer us a new window onto the world—a new way of seeing and understanding. As a bonus, when written by someone as talented as Rebecca Roanhorse, mythology is wildly entertaining!

  But I’ve said enough. I’ll let Nizhoni take it from here. Welcome to Dinétah. Keep your hands and feet inside the novel at all times, or some monster might bite them off. If you’re really good, maybe the Begay family will take you to Pasta Palace afterward for some Spaghettini Macaravioli!

  * Just to be clear, when I use the word mythology, it is in its first and most basic sense, meaning stories about gods and heroes, not in its later, more secondary application as something false or made-up.

  My na
me is Nizhoni Begay, and I can see monsters.

  In fact, I’m looking at one right now.

  The monster is a pale man with thin blond hair, slightly bulging eyes, and unusually red lips. He’s tall and skinny, and he has on a black suit and tie. (Monsters wear human skin more often than fairy tales would lead you to think. Scales and horns and claws are strictly for beginners. Trust me, I’m an expert on these things.)

  This monster is sitting in the second row of the packed bleachers of my seventh-grade coed basketball game, looking completely normal. Normal except for the fact that he’s wearing a suit when everyone else is wearing a T-shirt that says GO, ISOTOPES! or GO, BEAVERS! depending on which team they’re rooting for. Normal except there’s a circle of empty space around him despite the gym being filled to capacity, like nobody wants to get close to him. Maybe they feel there’s something creepy about him, too, but they aren’t sure what it is.

  I watch as a lady in a bright purple tracksuit moves in front of him, waving a red-and-black pom-pom dangerously near his face. Pretty sure if she keeps that up, she’s a goner. Monsters don’t take kindly to people invading their personal space.

  Okay, I made that up. I don’t actually know how monsters feel about personal space, or whether they eat ladies in purple tracksuits, and I’m not so much an expert as much as a reluctant amateur. I mean, I’ve only been able to sense monsters for a few months. It started as a strange feeling while watching a lady massaging the avocados at the farmers’ market, and there was the definite bad vibe from the old dude with the scaly feet and Jesus sandals at the Taco Bell. And just like in those instances, every instinct I have is shouting at me that this guy in the bleachers is not normal.

  The tiny hairs on the back of my neck rise. A chill—like the time my little brother, Mac, dumped a snowball down my shirt—shudders down my spine. Out of habit, I touch the turquoise pendant I have taped to my chest underneath my shirt. I’m not supposed to wear it during basketball games, but knowing it’s there helps me feel brave.

  “Nizhoni!”

  The way this school year has been going, trying to be brave has become almost a full-time thing. When I left my big public school and transferred to ICCS (short for Intertribal Community Charter School and pronounced icks), I really thought things would change for me. And by change, I mean I’d have lots of friends and be popular. After all, every student at ICCS is Native American, just like me. But I’ve been at ICCS for two years now and nothing is different. I’m still not popular, and I’m definitely not cool. I’m just—

  “Nizhoni Begay!”

  Coach! I whip my head around, because of course I’m not listening (Hello! Monster!), and she is right there in my face. So close, in fact, that drops of spittle fly out of her mouth and hit my cheek every time she shouts my name. I surreptitiously wipe off the spit, trying not to look completely grossed out, even though it’s pretty gross.

  Coach is no monster, but she has issues with personal space, too—she’s always in mine. She’s also a little short for basketball—but no one would ever tell her that, because she makes up for being height-challenged by being really loud. Coach is Hopi, so it’s not her fault she’s so short. Besides, she’s scary in other ways. I’m not worried she will eat my eyeballs for hors d’oeuvres or anything. (Eyeball hors d’oeuvres are very popular with monsters. I read that somewhere, FYI.)

  Coach snaps her fingers inches from my nose. “Are you even listening?”

  I nod. Total lie. Besides, it’s time-out. Nobody listens during time-out.

  “There’s five seconds left in the game!” she yells. “Your focus should be on me”—she points at herself with two fingers—“and your teammates.” She gestures at the group of seventh-grade boys and girls now huddling around me. “We need you to pay attention.”

  “Sure thing, Coach,” I chirp obediently, but honestly, all I can think about now are eyeballs stacked like meatballs on a toothpick for easy snacking.

  Coach is talking again. “Okay. Davery is going to pass the ball in. Who wants to take the last shot?”

  “I’ll do it!” I say, raising my hand.

  The rest of my team groans in disbelief.

  “Put your hand down, Nizhoni,” Coach snaps. “You’re standing right beside me.”

  “Oh, right.” I lower it. “But I can take the last shot.”

  Coach looks at me. The whole team looks at me. I stand a little straighter to seem extra tall. I, in fact, am not height-challenged. I have a good inch and a half on Coach.

  “I’ll take the last shot,” I repeat. Firmly.

  “Are you sure, Nizhoni?” Davery whispers. He’s my best friend—okay, my only friend—and always has my back, but right now he looks a little worried. His brown eyes are narrowed in concern behind his glasses and his lips press together thoughtfully. He runs a nervous hand over his short-cropped curly hair.

  “Easy as pie,” I insist. “You pass the ball to me. I’ll be at the top of the key, and—swish!—Isotopes win!” I bust out my most confident smile.

  Davery just crinkles his brow.

  “Does anyone else want to take the last shot?” Coach asks, looking pointedly at the rest of the team. Everyone looks down or away or anywhere else but at Coach, because no one wants that kind of pressure. “Anyone?” she asks again, desperate.

  I clear my throat loudly.

  “Okay,” Coach says, resigned. “Davery passes the ball to Nizhoni. Nizhoni, you take the shot. Be ready!”

  Movement in the bleachers catches my eye. It’s the monster.

  I watch as he makes his way past the other spectators. He’s pushy, knocking into people’s knees without even saying Excuse me. Rude! But then, monsters aren’t known for their good manners. Some folks give him a dirty look as he shoves his way through, but most just move aside, rub their arms like they’re cold, and mutter unhappily to the person next to them.

  I lose sight of him as the crowd rises to their feet.

  I twist my neck this way and that, straining to see where he disappeared to in the midst of screaming fans, but he’s gone. Lost in a sea of black and red.

  Coach claps just as the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of time-out.

  Everyone on the team extends an arm into the middle of the circle, touches hands, and yells, “Isotopes!”: a rallying cry for what must be the worst mascot in the history of mascots—expect maybe for this one team I heard of called the Fighting Pickles. But really, who even knows what an isotope is? Davery once tried to explain it to me—something to do with the history of nuclear technology and atomic bombs in New Mexico, blah, blah—but I fell asleep halfway through.

  Coach is yelling. We hurry to take our spots. Davery is at midcourt with the ball in his hands. I run to the top of the key and get ready for the inbound pass.

  I try to visualize the winning shot I’m about to make, like Coach tells us to. I can see it all—the crowd chanting my name, my teammates hoisting me on their shoulders and leading me around the gym in victory, just like a champion in a sports movie. Everyone will know me. I’ll be a superstar! Fame! Glory!

  I take another quick peek at the crowd, double-checking for the monster in the suit. Nothing, nothing…No, wait…

  There he is! Bottom row, courtside, twenty feet away. His eyes are red and he’s staring right at me!

  Four things happen all at once.

  1. I scream.

  2. The ref blows the whistle.

  3. Davery shouts my name.

  4. And I turn toward him just in time for the basketball to hit me—smack!—right between the eyes.

  I wake up flat on my back, blurry faces hovering over me. My own face feels warm and sticky, and I reach for my nose. My hand comes away coated in blood. I blink away tears as I recognize Coach, Davery, and a few other teammates staring down at me. A low murmur of disappointment in the air tells me that the game is over. I hear the shuffle of thwarted Isotopes fans leaving the gym.

  And then I remember. I prop myself up on my el
bows and look around, but I don’t see the monster in the black suit anymore.

  I sneak a glance at the scoreboard. The score was tied before, but now the Isotopes are down by two, which means…we lost.

  I groan, more from embarrassment than pain.

  “Take this,” Coach says, shoving something cold and lumpy in my hand. An ice pack.

  “What happened?” I ask, pretty sure I already know but hoping I’m wrong.

  “You don’t want to know the details,” Davery warns me.

  My nose hurts so badly it feels like it’s going to fall off. But I guess it’s not, because Coach grunts and says, “Walk it off, Begay. You’re fine.” Then Coach walks away herself. My teammates, who’ve been staring at me with various levels of horror, disgust, and disappointment, leave, too. I hear someone mutter, “What a loser.”

  “Thanks for caring,” I mumble after their retreating backs.

  “You okay?” Davery asks. He holds out his hand to pull me up.

  “I’m fine,” I say through a bloody nose, holding the ziplock bag full of ice to my face. Once I’m on my feet, I see that the gym has pretty much emptied out. Discarded popcorn bags and paper plates litter the bleachers.

  “Coach tried to call your dad, but nobody answered,” Davery informs me.

  “She shouldn’t have bothered,” I mutter. “I’ll just walk home.”

  Davery looks concerned, but I shrug it off. I know my friend feels bad for me, but I’m used to Dad not being able to make it to my basketball games, just like he wasn’t able to attend my first-grade school play, when I had my first speaking role as a giant fungus in The Very Hungry Caterpillar: An Interpretive Dance. It’s no surprise that he’s too busy to pick up his injured and humiliated daughter who was clumsy enough to get hit in the face with a basketball and lose the game.

  “How bad was it?” I ask Davery, bracing myself for the truth.

  “Oh, your average humiliation,” he says lightly. “Ball to the nose, blood everywhere. The Beavers get the rebound off your face and go down and score. The crowd goes wild.” He cups his hands over his mouth and makes cheering noises. Then he drops his hands and adds, “Isotopes lose, in a dramatic upset. Nizhoni Begay is banned from ever setting foot in the ICCS gym again.”