Free Unforgettable by Loretta Ellsworth Page A

about a guitar. It was an expensive one, with a solid spruce top. It was a bribe; a week later he asked me to help him at work.
    But what irked me was the fact that he bought me something that I had absolutely no interest in. Dink didn’t bother to find out what I’d like, even for a bribe.
    I run my hand through the money, thinking about Dink’s scam. It wasn’t anywhere near as good as the scam he pulled on Mom. He got her to fall for him, to want a future with him, to let him live with us. There isn’t near-enough money here to make up for what he did.

How I Become a Stalker
    It’s 8:50 and Halle hasn’t shown up for school yet. I’m consumed with worry because I don’t know anything about her dad. What if he transferred her to another school or locked her in her room?
    The events from yesterday replay in my head: the darkened windows of the car as it pulled up next to us, the sound of Halle’s voice as she spoke to her father. But nothing gives me a clue as to where Halle is today.
    When Mr. Feege asks if anyone remembers the sample math problem he posted on the board yesterday, I’m so preoccupied with Halle that I raise my hand and recite it verbatim. Everyone stares, including Mr. Feege. He’d used a calculator to get the answer yesterday.
    â€œI wrote it down,” I say, pointing at my notebook. Luckily, no one notices that it’s just scribbled writing, most of which is Halle’s name in various fonts.
    At 10:57 I catch Roxie in the hall between classes. “Halle wasn’t in class. Have you seen her?”
    She shakes her head. “She’s not at school. I haven’t talked to her since yesterday.”
    Roxie notices the frown on my face. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” she says in a whispery voice. “Halle cuts class sometimes.”
    But when Halle doesn’t show for our tutoring session, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. I use one of the computers and search the local white pages for Phillips. There are two listed in Wellington: one near downtown, and another on the outskirts. Both are about two miles from my house.
    I write down the addresses and wait until Mrs. Algren is finished talking to another student before I approach her. She has curly, dark hair and kind eyes that light up whenever someone walks into the library. I show her the paper with my writing on it.
    â€œMrs. Algren, at which address would a wealthy owner most likely live in Wellington?”
    Her eyebrows shoot up. “Is this your roundabout way of asking me where Halle Phillips lives?”
    My neck flushes hot. Even if I tried to lie about this, she’d know.
    She nods. “Thought so. Her older sister used to belong to our book club and I gave her a ride home a few times. She lives on Willow Way, the second address.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œIf you see her, tell her I just got in a new book she’d enjoy.”
    â€œI will.” And like that, my mind is made up. When I get off the bus at 3:02, I turn in the opposite direction of our house. There’s a crisp breeze in the air that makes my nose run. Leaves are falling from trees, littering yards and sidewalks and clogging up gutters.
    I follow the street signs, walking down Illinois Avenue. My memory is nonselective, a human Xerox machine as I pass through neighborhoods. House number 1492, a gray rambler with white trim. A red Chevy van in the driveway, Minnesota license number XHA 418.
    I avert my eyes and stare down at the pavement. Dr. Anderson said I need to make a conscious effort not to notice things; that way I won’t remember them. But it’s hard. I can’t help noticing. It’s the way my brain has always worked.
    Most people think it’s strange to have a memory like mine. But it’s just as strange to me when someone can’t remember where she placed her car keys fifteen minutes earlier or what assignment the teacher