Free Tell Me by Joan Bauer Page B

and we could be friends.
    Every day, I promise, I’ll think about her.
    I’m not going to let this go.
    I look at every van I see, whether it’s new or scratched. I look in the back window to see if she’s there.
    I call Daphne a few times to see if anyone has seenher.
    No one has.
    Just me and Winnie.
    Everything feels hard.
    Everything feels stuck.
    Now my brain opens and I remember another thing—not made up—I remember!
    The girl had a scar above her eyebrow. I try to draw it.
    It was like a squiggle. I remember it now and something else, too.
    She had earrings on. They were shaped like little pink flowers. I draw that.
    I wish my dad were here, the way he used to be.
    I could call him.
    Maybe it’s a bad time, maybe something made him angry.
    Even more reason—he needs to hear an adorable, talented voice.
    I speed-dial my father.
    Six rings.
    I don’t want to leave a message. But then, Dad’s voice breaks in. “Anna?”
    â€œDad . . .”
    â€œI am so glad to hear your voice,” he says. He doesn’t sound angry.
    I bite my lip. “It’s good to hear yours, too, Dad.”
    â€œWow, kiddo, I’m so sorry I haven’t called you.”
    â€œIt’s okay.”
    â€œIt’s not okay. I owe you a big apology. I’m sorry for all the anger, Anna, for all the outbursts . . . I’m sorrier than I know how to say.”
    â€œThat means a lot, Dad.”
    â€œI’ve been working through a lot of stuff.”
    I nod—I have, too.
    â€œTell me . . . how are you doing?”
    And we talk about that. How I have one foot here and the other foot there.
    We talk about the festival, and then in one long blurt I tell him about the girl in the van, the sheriff, and Homeland Security.
    â€œYou’ve got the big guns on your side! You’ve got a lot going on.”
    He sounds like the dad he used to be. . . .
    I want to ask, What happened?
    Okay, I’m only twelve, but I’m not stupid.
    â€œI wish you were here, Dad.”
    â€œI wish I could get away, honey. Work is crazy right now.”
    I tell him about the yellow scrunchie bracelets.
    â€œWear that like a flag,” he says.
    I hold up my hand with the scrunchie. “I will.”
    â€œI’m so proud of you, Anna. Prouder than I know how to say.”
    He used to tell me that all the time.
    I’d better not mess up.

    I’m at the library retracing her steps—how she came in through the front door not on her own, how she was yanked into the bathroom by the lady with the white sunglasses and then pulled out, how she was so brave she tried to escape.
    She’s got courage, I know it!
    I’m in the petunia suit, happy on the outside, wilting on the inside. A lady comes into the library with her baby who won’t stop crying. This mother looks so tired. I go up to her and just give her a hug, and she starts crying—they don’t prepare you for this in petunia training.
    â€œCan I help, ma’am?”
    â€œI’ve just had a miserable week.” She tries to smile, but her heart isn’t in it.
    And I do something you’re not supposed to do in the library, but I’m one tough flower and I’ve learned a thing or two. Actually, I learned this as a radish, about smiling when your heart aches.
    That song I sang is perfect for right now. I look at the lady and don’t think about my voice cracking or my nerves or any of that.
    I just let it come from my heart.
    The lady is smiling at me and nodding and her baby is quiet as I sing this song called “Smile.”
    Ben walks over as I finish, and everyone applauds.
    I take a bow. The lady with the baby shakes my hand.
    Ben says, “You said you didn’t sing.”
    â€œWell, only sometimes.”
    I go back to telling the people about the festival and passing out flyers.
    I want to say,
Have you seen a girl with baby animal