Free Unforgettable by Loretta Ellsworth Page B

gave us two days ago.
    After crossing the railroad tracks I stop at a convenience store. The shriveled hot dogs smell good and I’m tempted to buy one, but then I notice the grime on the rack beneath them. A burly man picks one off the rack and I see that same grime on the underside of the hot dog. So I buy a Gatorade and guzzle it, then make my way up a hill toward the outskirts of Wellington. Each step brings me closer to Willow Way and also closer to a panic-induced stomachache.
    How will Halle feel about me looking up her address and coming to her house? Will she think I’m stalking her? I realize I have no idea how she’ll react. The uncertainty slows my footsteps. Maybe I should turn around and go home. Maybe I should call her first.
    I look up at the street sign in front of me. Willow Way. I turn and follow the narrow, curvy road of spacious brick homes that are three times the size of our townhome. They sweep out and down across a rolling hill. I’ve seen big homes before, but not in this town. Are all of them owned by executives at the plant?
    At 3:50 I stand in front of Halle’s house. One word describes it: colossal. It has turrets on each side and rounded windows. The lawn is meticulously landscaped with maple trees and bushes with satiny leaves that look as though they’ve been polished, unlike our house, which has an ash tree in front and a single rosebush in the back. A rounded driveway leads to the house, which backs up to a small lake. Behind her house I see a distant dock extending out from the sloping shoreline.
    She’s so out of my league. But even though I know it’s true, I don’t want to blow my shot at her, even if it’s a slim shot at best. Part of me wants to leave. The other part insists on staying to find out if Halle is okay. On the side of the house are huge ground-floor windows, ones that I might see into if I walk past. Maybe I can get a glimpse of Halle and I won’t have to knock on her door and come up with an explanation as to why I’m here.
    My shoes leave footprints in the short grass. I try to look casual, not like a Peeping Tom, which is what I feel like. Knee-high bushes frame the windows. In between is a planting of flowers. I sneak around the edge of the bushes. My heart pounds with the thought of catching a glimpse of her, like a breath of air to hold me until tomorrow. My inner critic goes into overdrive: this is dangerous, maybe even creepy. But I don’t feel like a pervert; I feel like a concerned friend. The driving force that brought me here is the result of eleven years of remembering Halle, of missing her in my life. I just have to know she’s okay.
    I pass two windows that are covered by blinds. I peek around the corner of the third window into a room that radiates opulence with its mahogany furniture and stone-carved fireplace. As luck would have it, Halle is there, sitting on an oversized chair. Her head is down and she’s reading something. I can’t tell what.
    â€œHalle,” a voice calls. She looks up.
    â€œIn here.”
    A man enters the room. His eyes are bright like Halle’s, but they hold more intensity.
    â€œI’m leaving for a meeting. Don’t forget to load the dishwasher.” His voice is condescending, like she’s ten instead of fifteen. He sounds like hot furnace air, and his voice crowds the room.
    â€œI’m not going to stop protesting. Neither are my friends.”
    â€œYou don’t tell me what you’re going to do, young lady.”
    â€œHe was my grandpa,” she yells, and there are tears in her voice. “He was your dad. How can you not care?”
    Her father shakes his head and rubs his forehead. “I don’t have time for this.” He turns and leaves.
    Her shoulders are shaking. She throws her book down. It’s Gatsby.
    The garage door opens. I turn and catch my right foot on the bush. My body flies back onto the flowers, flattening