Free One True Friend by James Cross Giblin Page B

memories are spilling all over me. I want to tell you about them, but I am ashamed. Sometimes I wonder what's the point of telling anyhow, but maybe it will make me feel better. Like one of my counselors used to say, "There are times when you need to talk things out."
    Ronald always asks me why I don't play basketball. I couldn't really tell him why; I didn't want to think about it, or talk about it. Instead, I told him the same stories I told you about our mother and father. He didn't want to listen, and I guess he was right because I wasn't going to tell him the whole story anyhow. I think you suspected, too, that my story wasn't complete. That's why you kept asking me questions about my father and my parents' accident.
    The reason I don't play basketball, baseball, or any other kind of ball is because I never learned how to play.
And the reason I never learned how to play is because I was always busy. All those stories I told you about my parents and the things they said to us and the fun times we had were true, but I didn't tell you the other side—when things began to change. That happened when I was about eight or nine years old.
    First, my father got sick. But it wasn't a hospital or doctor kind of sick. He stopped playing music.
    My mother stopped growing her geraniums and making pretty dresses for my sisters. She started working in a factory, and then in a restaurant after the factory closed.
    We moved around a lot because after a while my father couldn't work—not because he was a musician, like I told you. He was too sick to work, so my parents kept moving to find cheaper places to live. Each new place was worse than the one before.
    My mother, though, enrolled us in school, and I made sure we got there. My mom and dad insisted on that. Neither of them wanted truant officers and other people coming around asking why we weren't in school.
    I was perfect in every school I attended because I didn't want anyone asking me questions. Also, I didn't want my mom and dad to get in trouble, and it was warm in school—not freezing like in some of the places we lived in. I got free breakfast and lunch, too.
    The other kids always looked at me funny when
I first went to a new school. Guess I was funny-looking—like Charlene and her sisters. But I'd draw good pictures and give them away. And they'd end up liking me. A teacher got me into a special after-school art program. 1 started it, but 1 couldn't continue because we moved again.
    My aunt would always visit no matter where we lived. She argued with my mom and dad. One day I heard her say, "You're going to lose all of your children." I got so scared, I felt sick. My sister Olivia heard her say it also, and she started to cry. The other children saw Olivia crying, and they cried, too. I forced myself not to show that I was afraid, because I had to quiet them down, but I cried inside. That's where I still cry. But I made a promise to myself that I would keep our family together.
    I always found a store to work in, or some old person to run errands for—things a kid could do. I used to bag groceries at the supermarket so that I could get tips. The store manager would give me Cheerios, Kool-Aid, and milk to take home. Sometimes we couldn't drink the milk because it was spoiled.
    My sisters and brothers depended on me. I had to be there to take care of them. So you see, I didn't have time to play like other kids. I was sorry, though, that I couldn't take the special art class, but I still drew every chance I got. I'd draw on any kind of
blank paper or napkin. One of the store clerks saw me drawing on the back of a match cover. A tiny drawing of a geranium. "Boy, you a genius," she said, and gave me a box of crayons.
    I kept thinking that the bad times would only last a short while. My parents would get better and our life would be like before. That's what kept me being perfect in school and doing everything I could to help.
    But everything kept getting worse