The story
behind why I wrote Girl Warrior is
unusual to be honest. I was looking to write a contemporary young adult novel
after writing a handful of historical YA novels and was considering different
plots.
One fall day
I was subbing for P.E. at our local K-12 school. Students and I were in the
library as the weight-lifting class was sparse that day and many of the
students needed to complete class assignments.
One young
man, sixteen to be exact, bound up the steps––Late! I knew that past summer he had
jockeyed the World Famous Suicide Horse Race in Omak, WA and an idea swirled in
my head. Why couldn’t a girl qualify and ride?
Women had
qualified for this exciting Native American horse even in the past, albeit very
few.
I eyed the
boy, him thinking it was because he was tardy. He squirmed and after a bit
started spewing excuses as to why. I laughed and shared my book idea and, yes,
however mischievous it was and with a “what the heck” attitude––in a small
reservation town where everyone knows or is related to everyone––I suggested he
either get written up or give me an interview.
With
enthusiasm, he chose the interview.
Blurb:
Charnaye
Toulou has her sights pinned on winning the World Famous Suicide horse race
during the Omak Stampede. The purse will help ease a financial burden of her
paraplegic father, worn out mother, and ill grandfather. But more than that,
she wants the respect earned from becoming “King of the Hill.” This race has
been a long time rite of passage for male Natives. Charnaye is up for the
challenge to prove females too can be awarded a warrior status as times are
changing.
But when
bully Hagan Hurst chokes her and causes her self-esteem to plummet, she hooks
up with her Okanogan relatives and a horse that can take her the distance.
Anonymous threatening letters find her and they all point to Hagan. Her father
and mother become overly protective, but she meets a woman who has ran the
race, jumpstarting her confidence. The day after Charnaye graduates from high
school, she jumps in with cousin and trainer Craig Stuart and heads for her
relative’s Omak ranch. And so do the letters.
Charnaye
begins the rigorous training it takes to become “King of the Hill”, or in her
case, “Queen”, and tries to figure out who is behind the threating letters. She combats fear and anxiety, fighting
to fulfill this rite of passage.
Buy Links:
Excerpt:
We turn left, travel down Dewberry Avenue, and pass houses.
Some are empty, some have elders waving at us from the shade of their porches.
We make our way to the dirt lot. I dismount, walk through the gate, and head
straight to the hill’s lip. A tribal park’s boat is in the water to the right
as is a Jet Ski. They circle in the water like ravens spiraling down for a dead
carcass.
A handful of men on horses standby in the river to the left.
Spectators behind them wade in the water. Family and friends of the jockeys
line the dike. I shift my weight and dirt rolls down the hill. A photographer
points his lens up the hill from near the pine tree straight across. A hot sun
beats down from an azure sky. Breathe.
I wipe sweat from my brow, pray, and rub Rooster’s neck, thanking him for the
journey he’s about to take me on. For a single moment I’m calm. Until another jockey
comes to the edge. Ripples of fear from my toes work their way to my belly,
swirl around, and lodge in my throat.
“Easy as a sunset mixed with Carlos Nakai’s flute music and
caramel fudge ice cream,” Benton whispers, leaning in to my ear from behind.
Shivers dance down my back. I rub my arms. I give him a small
smile.
Officials call for the next person. Since there is a first
time horse who needs the support of a veteran, that jockey and horse, Benton
and I, and Billy Beck file into a group. Tone will follow us by himself. There
is no start gun, so we just line up like we did at Omak Lake and trust
everything will be fair. I rein Rooster into a spot.
A jockey waiting for his turn spits at me, “You shouldn’t be
here.”
Another agrees. And another. I circle Rooster and keep to
myself. Benton watches from a few feet away.
Billy Beck tells them to shut their mouths or he’ll do it for
them. “She’s earned her right to be here.”
I nod, a small smile forming on my mouth. He nods back. I
scratch him off my list of potential offenders. My legs feel Rooster’s muscles
contracting. He paws the ground. Other horses rear, side step, or dance in
place while the jockey holds them back. Even though it’s not their turn, the
horses seem to know the drill.
“I’ll be coming after you,” one guy says. “Eventually.”
The others laugh and give me cat-calls.
“If you can catch me,” I say, without looking at him. I talk
to Rooster in a soothing tone, one hand on the rein, the other on a hunk of
mane.
Bio:
Carmen Peone is an award-winning author who lives in
Northeast Washington, on the Colville Confederated Indian Reservation, since
1988 with Joe, her tribal member husband. She had worked with the late tribal
elder, Marguerite Ensminger, for three years learning the Arrow Lakes-Sinyekst-
Language and various cultural traditions and legends. She enjoys her horses and
competing in Mountain Trail Competitions. With a degree in psychology, the
thought of writing never entered her mind, until she married her husband and
they moved to the reservation after college.
Links
to Social Media:
Website
and blog: http://carmenpeone.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CarmenEPeone/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/carmenpeone
About me: http://carmenpeone.com/about/
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