In THE YOUNG HEALER tradition meets contemporary when what starts out as just another day becomes anything but that for young Feather Anderson. Her beloved grandfather, a traditional Lakota healer, pulls her out of class one snowy morning and takes her on an old-fashioned vision quest in the heart of New York City in hopes of finding the perfect Lakota medicine. It becomes the most magical day ever for eleven-year-old Feather Anderson, the day she saves her little brother’s life. Feather follows in her grandfather’s footsteps of healing as a medicine man and she then earns her newly-given secret Lakota name. When her younger brother lays dying in the hospital, Feather's Lakota grandfather, a tribal healer, comes to take her on a healing quest all around wintery New York City. As he explains to her, she has the gift of healing and she must perform the rituals with him to cure Peter. While Feather wishes to go directly to the hospital, her Grandfather takes a seemingly mindless, slow, meticulous path around the city. The juxtaposition of old Indian ways, especially the slow indirectness of it all, against the modern New York with taxis, pizza places, herbal medicine shops, tall buildings and rush, rush, rush produces an air of calmness so necessary to making the healing work. At some moments, it is reminiscent of Witi Ihimaera's The Whale Rider , (Harcourt, 2003) which describes a young Maori girl who must become a healer modern [sic] New Zealand. --BayViews Frank N. McMillan III has had a lifelong interest in and respect for the history and traditions of the first Americans. He consults with nonprofit organizations that address homelessness, poverty, illiteracy, and other urgent social issues. He lives in Corpus Christi, Texas. It was second period math class. While Mrs. Ortega was writing on the chalkboard, my friend Emily, who sits right across from me, slipped me a note. Emily is absolutely famous for her notes. She folded this one extra tight, so it was obviously important, I remember thinking, as I gently pried it open. Rustling paper always puts Mrs. Ortega on high alert. She has the hearing of a golden retriever and, man, is she serious about passing notes. If she finds one of those going around—or, worse, catches you sending a text—well, let’s just say her bite is worse than her bark. Needless to say we’re always careful . . . not that we don’t keep doing it. Nobody likes a quitter, right?             “Well?” Emily said with her eyes.             I read the note: “This is top secret. Repete, top secret.” I laughed to myself. Emily never was the greatest speller.             I kept reading. “What are you doing after school? I heard Billy Braslau is going to be at Banzai Pizza with some friends. I think he really likes you. Seriously. Let’s go there and aksidently “bump” into him. You can call your mom when my mom picks us up. This is important, E.”             As quietly as I could, I tore a piece of paper from my ring binder. Emily nearly died when I ripped it out. Her black perm bounced with nervous energy. I bet if you hooked Emily up to a generator, you could power all of New York City and large parts of Jersey. Luckily Mrs. Ortega’s supersensitive ears didn’t detect a thing. She was completely absorbed in explaining numerators and denominators.             My pencil was dull, so my answer was kind of sloppy. “Are you sure? You better be, ‘cause if—”             Someone knocked on the door. Thankful for the distraction, the whole class turned toward the noise as fast as my cat Miko does to the sound of the electric can opener. I stopped writing and shoved the note inside my math book. The school counselor, Mr. Jenkins, stuck his shiny bald head inside the room. He whispered to Mrs. Ortega, and then they both stared so hard in my direction that it felt like their eyes pierced holes right through me.             Mrs. Ortega cleared her throat. “Feather?”             “Yes, ma’am?” I was really self-conscious now because everyone was looking at me.             “Could you step outside for a moment, please?”             The whole class gasped, “Oooh!” My heart started to beat fast.             “And bring your belongings, too, please,” Mrs. Ortega added.             “Oooh!” went the class.             My heart really started to thump. ‘What did I do now?’ I wondered. I pulled on my coat and backpack. I was halfway down the aisle when I remembered I’d left my mittens and hat under my desk, so I rushed back to get them. The whole class was staring at me like I was going to the electric chair or something. I heard somebody snicker mockingly at the back of the room.             Emily twisted around in her seat, looking all panicky, and mouthed the words “Call me!” She lives for emergencies. I nodded at her and ran back to the door.             I realized at that moment I wasn’t in trouble after all when I got a better look at the expression on Mrs. Ortega’s face up close. She looked worried