The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian Read Online Free PDF Page A

show it to somebody. And then she just stopped."
    "Why?" I asked.
    "I don't know."
    "You don't have any idea?"
    "No, not really."
    Had she been hanging on to her dream of being a writer, but only barely hanging on, and something made her let go?
    That had to be it, right? Something bad had happened to her, right? I mean, she lived in the fricking basement. People just don't live and hide in basements if they're happy.
    Of course, my sister isn't much different from my dad in that regard.
    Whenever my father isn't off on a drinking binge, he spends most of his time in his
    bedroom, alone, watching TV.
    He mostly watches basketball.
    He never minds if I go in there and watch games with him. But we never talk much. We
    just sit there quietly and watch the games. My dad doesn't even cheer for his favorite teams or players. He doesn't react much to the games at all.
    I suppose he is depressed.
    I suppose my sister is depressed.
    I suppose the whole family is depressed.
    But I still want to know exactly why my sister gave up on her dream of writing romance
    novels.
    I mean, yeah, it is kind of a silly dream. What land of Indian writes romance novels? But it is still pretty cool. I love the thought of reading my sister's books. I love the thought of walking into a bookstore and seeing her name on the cover of a big and beautiful novel.
    Spokane River Heat by Mary Runs Away.
    That would be very cool.
    "She could still write a book," I said. "There's always time to change your life."
    I almost gagged when I said that. I didn't even believe that. There's never enough time to change your life. You don't get to change your life, period. Shit, maybe I was trying to write a romance novel.
    "Mary was a bright and shining star," Mr. P said. "And then she faded year by year until you could barely see her anymore."
    Wow, Mr. P was a poet.

    "And you're a bright and shining star, too," he said. "You're the smartest kid in the school.
    And I don't want you to fail. I don't want you to fade away. You deserve better."
    I didn't feel smart.
    "I want you to say it," Mr. P said.
    "Say what?"
    "I want you to say that you deserve better."
    I couldn't say it. It wasn't true. I mean, I wanted to have it better, but I didn't deserve it. I was the kid who threw books at teachers.
    "You are a good kid. You deserve the world."
    Wow, I wanted to cry. No teacher had ever said anything so nice, so incredibly nice, to me.
    "Thank you," I said.
    "You're welcome," he said. "Now say it."
    "I can't."
    And then I did cry. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I felt so weak.
    "I'm sorry," I said.
    "You don't have to be sorry for anything," he said. "Well, Mia better be sorry for hitting me, but you don't have to feel bad about crying."
    "I don't like to cry," I said. "Other lads, they beat me up when I cry. Sometimes they make me cry so they can beat me up for crying."
    "I know," he said. "And we let it happen. We let them pick on you."
    "Rowdy protects me."
    "I know Rowdy is your best friend, but he's, he's, he's, he's—," Mr. P stuttered. He wasn't sure what to say or do. "You know that Rowdy's dad hits him, don't you?"
    "Yeah," I said. Whenever he came to school with a black eye, Rowdy made sure to give black eyes to two kids picked at random.
    "Rowdy is just going to get meaner and meaner," Mr. P said.
    "I know Rowdy has a temper and stuff, and he doesn't get good grades or anything, but he's been nice to me since we were kids. Since we were babies. I don't even know why he's been nice."
    "I know, I know," Mr. P said. "But, listen, I want to tell you something else. And you have to promise me you'll never repeat it."
    "Okay," I said.
    "Promise me."
    "Okay, okay, I promise I won't repeat it."
    "Not to anyone. Not even your parents."
    "Nobody."
    "Okay, then," he said and leaned closer to me because he didn't even want the trees to hear what he was going to say, "You have to leave this reservation."
    "I'm going to Spokane with my dad later."
    "No, I mean you have to leave