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Wired to her display box were a pair of one-size-fits-all-Indians stiletto
moccasins,
faux turquoise earrings, a dream catcher, a copy of Indian Country Today,
erasable
markers for chin and forehead tattoos, and two six-packs of mini magic beer
bottles-
when tilted up, the bottles turned clear, when turned right-side-up, the botdes
refilled.
Mojave Barbie repeatedly drank Ken and Skipper under their pink plastic patio
table
sets. Skipper said she drank like a boy.
Mojave Barbie secretly hated the color of her new friends' apricot skins, how
they
burned after riding in Ken's convertible Camaro with the top down, hated how
their micro hairbrushes tangled and knotted in her own thick, black hair, which
they always wanted to braid. There wasn't any diet cola in their cute little ice
chests,
and worst of all, Mojave Barbie couldn't find a single soft spot on her body to
inject
her insulin. It had taken years of court cases, litigation, letters from Tribal
Council
members, testimonials from chr nurses, and a few diabetic comas just to
receive
permission to buy the never-released hypodermic needle accessory kit-before
that,
she'd bought most on the Japanese black market-Mattel didn't like toying
around
with the possibility of a Junkie Barbie.
Barbie had been banned from the horse stables and was no longer invited to
dinner,
not since she let it slip that when the cavalry came to Fort Mojave, the Mojaves
ate
a few horses. It had happened, and she only let it slip after Skipper tried to force
her
to admit the Mojave Creation was just a myth: It's true. I'm from Spirit
Mountain,
Mojave Barbie had said. No, you're not, Skipper had...