(Don't You) Forget About Me by Quinn Kate Karyus

(Don't You) Forget About Me by Quinn Kate Karyus

Author:Quinn, Kate Karyus
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperTeen


UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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PAPA DON’T PREACH

Twelve Years Ago

I WATCHED AS DAD WALKED INTO THE INFIRMARY. He scanned the room, searching for us. You were lying on one of the cots set up for anyone who had frostbite or heat stroke. Both of your feet were wrapped in bandages. I had been sitting on a cold metal chair, swinging my legs because they didn’t reach the floor. I froze when he walked in.

I’d seen other kids my age run to their fathers, screaming, “Daddy!” It puzzled me; my instinct had always been to run to him and then kick him in the shins. He was made of secrets and lies, many more than I could count at four years old, but that wasn’t what made me hate him. He mostly ignored me, but sometimes—as if he was testing me—he’d stare at me and I would feel my heart squeeze like he was trying to pull it from my chest. The whole time he’d have that oily smile on his face, but behind it his teeth were clenched.

Now he walked straight past me, and took the chair on the other side of the cot.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said, taking your hand in his own.

His saying it made it feel true—to you at least. “Okay,” you agreed weakly.

I felt invisible whenever Dad was around. I didn’t care about not getting his attention. What I really hated was being so easily forgotten by you.

The doctor, seeing Dad, immediately came over to talk with him. I wanted to sit beside you again, and retell the day’s story. I didn’t have the tape recorder on me, but sometimes we liked to tell a story one or two times without recording, just so we could get everything right before we put it on tape.

I only half listened as the doctor explained about your injuries. He talked about third-degree frostbite and how a few lost toes shouldn’t slow you down. Then the doctor called you a hero and Dad agreed and they shook hands, congratulating each other on something they had nothing to do with. You stared past them, your eyes meeting mine, a wry smile pulling at the corners of your lips.

At last we were allowed to leave. Dad cradled you in his arms like a baby. I followed several feet in your wake. When we reached the house, he carried you all the way up to your bedroom. I watched as he gently lowered you onto your bed and then turned to shut the door behind him—right in my face. There was no lock, but even so, I didn’t dare come in. Instead, I stood in the hallway, listening to the rumble of Dad’s voice and your softer humming responses. I couldn’t help but wonder what you were both saying.

I waited for what felt like a very long time, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Finally, I heard the floorboards on the other side of the door creak, and a moment later the door opened.



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