Page 46 of Love Is a War Song

Leaving Broken Arrow was a blur—returning the rental car and checking in for our first leg of our journey with a layover at the Dallas Fort Worth International Airport.

The city where all this started. Only a couple short weeks ago, where I was sent away by bus to hide out.

My mother was on her phone checking her messages, and it was like how it always was.

I had no energy to continue the conversation from the car.

We walked through the terminal, making our way to the flight that would take us to London, where I could get my career back on track. We passed four bookstores to get to our international flight. All four had my magazine cover prominently placed.

Unlike the last time I was in public, I wasn’t recognized. Perhaps it was the deep tan I’d acquired after spending so much time in the sun with the horses. Or the haircut, no makeup, and filthy shoes I was sporting. No one had their cameras up filming me. I was just a regular person.

We boarded first, and I settled into my usual window seat, picking at the hangnails that never ceased to appear at times of high stress.

“Stop picking at your fingers. You’re going to look all scabby in close-ups of you holding the microphone.

Here.” My mom dug through her tote bag, pulling out a new black iPhone.

“I got you a new phone. It has your old number, but you’ll need to sign in to everything again.

At least it will give you something to do instead of picking at your fingers. ”

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

It was tedious signing in to a new phone, but at least I was able to get logged in to my Apple ID and connected to the plane’s Wi-Fi before takeoff. When I logged on to Instagram, I was scared to see what the notifications would look like.

Three hundred thousand notifications. My DMs were unmanageable.

I looked at my most recent post on my grid and was shocked to find a debate had unfolded among my fans.

Many people were commenting that I should be ashamed of myself, but so many more recent comments were defending me.

I went to the Explore page and there was a viral reel of Molly being interviewed on the stickball field surrounded by her Red Team.

It must have been filmed after the game yesterday.

How could that have been only yesterday?

“Is it true Avery Fox was here today playing stickball?” the male journalist asked.

“Yeah, man. She was here. Her first time playing, and she got the ball. Not bad. She didn’t have it for long, but the girl has guts.”

“Is it really true that she’s Indigenous then?”

Molly grabbed the microphone and stepped toward the camera. “Avery Fox is Muscogee, no doubt about it. She’s ours, we claim her.”

The journalist pulled Molly back by the arm, grabbing the microphone back. “So what do you say to the critics that claim she isn’t Native enough , and are you personally offended by her cover spread on Rolling Stone ?”

“The * BLEEP* ? Who can define what it is to be Native enough? C’mon, team, what do you think? Are y’all Native enough?”

The team started yelling and chanting, “Yee-ow!”

Molly turned back to the camera. “Are we Native enough for your viewers?”

“Oh, don’t put words in my mouth. I was just asking about the vocal critics online. Surely her song is offensive as well as the cover?” he prodded.

One of the men who had ripped his shirt off before the game and danced to my song jumped in, pulling the microphone to his mouth.

“We love the song. Anyone out there looking for a warrior tonight knows where they can find me.” He winked before Molly pushed him away, taking the microphone again, and nearly the journalist’s arm with it.

“That photo was stupid, but why do we allow Cher to still wear it? Why is no one asking the photographer or the magazine why they put her in the warbonnet? We get so few opportunities and visibility. I think you should be reporting on that. Molly out.” She dropped the microphone, and the video ended.

It had been viewed six million times since yesterday.

They accepted me? Molly, the team, the town?

I didn’t know who any of these random people were online.

I didn’t care to know what they said or thought of me.

The only people who mattered were in Broken Arrow, and they loved me.

A weight that had been on my chest since this whole thing started lifted.

I felt like I could breathe for the first time.

Lucas was right, it was all about community.

I quickly signed on to my old Twitter and then TikTok to see how the conversation was turning. I scrolled through videos, clips, and sound bites.

One of the most popular videos with a million views was from an account with the handle @DeerLadyIsReal responding to a comment on TikTok: she isn’t native if she’s not enrolled #pretendian.

The account holder, @DeerLadyIsReal, said in their response video, “I am not the enrollment police, but her tribe enrolls based on descendancy. So, if her mother and grandmother are citizens of the tribe, then it’s just a matter of paperwork to be enrolled.

” She put up her finger quotes around the word “enrolled.” Many comments agreed, and many others devolved into blood-quantum propaganda. I exited out of it.

On Twitter, Molly’s interview was trending along with my name. The discourse was divided. One tweet had six thousand retweets and read: She’s fake AF but still hot.

I put my phone down and threw my head back against the seat. The chorus and the discourse didn’t matter to me anymore. For the first time, ever, I knew who I was and where I came from.

I was Avery Fox, Lottie’s granddaughter, and Muscogee.

Now if only I could find Lucas’s profile somewhere. There were so many Iron Eyes Cody fan accounts but zero Lucas Iron Eyes accounts. Either he never had his real name attached to a profile or I found the only man in the world without any social media presence. He really was perfect for me.

I tried to ignore my tag notifications on Instagram, but one stood out against the rest.

@saveredfoxranch tagged me in a post with the flyer Lucas and I had made for the fundraiser. The song they used on the post was my song “I Need a Warrior Tonight”—the one Lucas hated—and it had hundreds of likes and comments.

My record label’s PR team told me not to post anything unless they read over the statement first. Fuck that.

I shared it onto my story with the crowdsource link and a caption that read: If you could find it in your hearts, please help me save this horse ranch and read about their mission and how they are helping youth who have experienced trauma and addiction.

I turned off responses to my stories and put my phone away. Even if I couldn’t be there for them in person, I wanted to keep my promise and help save the ranch.