Free Chasing Forgiveness by Neal Shusterman Page A

everything?”
    â€œFine.”
    He nods.
    â€œI missed a few weeks, but my grades are back up,” I tell him. “They even let me stay on the track team.” That seems to make him happy.
    â€œHave you won lots of races?”
    â€œMost of ’em,” I say with a shrug. “Maybe Grandpa could take pictures for you at our next meet,” I tell him. I don’t tell him that the season’s over and there won’t be any more meets.
    I look at him closely through the reinforced glass. I sort of wish I could hug him, but in a way I’m glad the glass is there. But I can’t tell him that. Used to be I could tell my dad anything.
    â€œPictures,” says Dad, “pictures would be nice.”
    I suddenly realize I can’t think of anything to say. I get scared. Real scared. I turn to see Grandma and Grandpa standing behind me. They just smile at me, like this is themost wonderful moment in the world. It makes me feel better. If they think this is wonderful, then maybe it is.
    I turn back to Dad. “Do they feed you good?”
    â€œOh, yeah,” he says. “Every day’s Thanksgiving.” I laugh at his joke even though it’s not all that funny.
    â€œHey,” says Tyler, “gimme a chance. I wanna talk to him, too.” Tyler grabs the phone away from me, and I grab it back.
    â€œYou don’t grab things!” I tell him. “Ask nicely. Use the p word.”
    Tyler sighs. “Can I please talk to Dad now?”
    â€œMuch better.” I hand him the phone, and he steps up to the glass. He’s so small his head barely clears the little ledge in the booth. Dad looks down on him with his sunken eyes.
    â€œYou like it here?” asks Tyler.
    â€œIt’s okay,” Dad says.
    â€œYou get your own room?” asks Tyler.
    â€œI share it,” Dad says.
    â€œBunk beds?”
    Dad nods.
    â€œWho do you share it with?”
    â€œA guy named Bob.”
    Tyler nods and wrinkles his brow, trying to picture what a guy named Bob might look like.
    â€œCan I see your room?”
    Dad shakes his head.
    â€œOh,” says Tyler, a bit disappointed.
    â€œI miss you, Tyler,” says Dad.
    â€œMe too,” says Tyler. “Why did you kill my mommy?”
    I instantly bodycheck Tyler against the wall and grab the phone away from him. Tyler whines and complains, but I push him back behind me.
    â€œWhat?” says Dad. “What was that? What, Tyler?” He pretends he didn’t hear. But he heard. I know he heard, and he knows that I know he heard. But we play the game. We both pretend.
    â€œAre you coming out soon?” I ask him.
    He shakes his head. “I still have to go to trial.”
    â€œOh.”
    Behind me Tyler is sniffling, more upset about the way I pushed him out of the way than anything else.
    â€œDad,” I ask, looking at his eyes, trying to see if they’re the same eyes I remembered, “are you better now?”
    â€œI’m feeling okay,” he says, rubbing his stomach just above his belly button.
    â€œNo,” I say, clearly and slowly. “I mean are you better now?”
    He looks at me for a moment, then looks down and starts picking at his fingernails.
    â€œPreston,” he says. “I love you, Preston. And I’m sorry.” He starts to cry. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”
    And that’s about enough. I turn around and give the phone to Grandma. I will not cry. I will not cry now. All thesecriminals looking at me, all these stone-faced guards. I give the phone to Grandma, and she talks to Dad. She cries a bit and calms him down. She’s good with people who cry. She should be a professional grandmother.
    I lean back against the ugly gray wall. It’s sticky even though the paint has probably been dry for years and years. I stand back, close my eyes, and force down the tears so the criminals won’t see, and I count the