Don't Forget Me! (11 page)

“Great,” I replied.

“Okay!” Dad said cheerfully. “Blueberry pancakes for breakfast. And we'll have a nice, long talk.”

Dad put a hand on Mom's shoulder, and they hurried out of the room. They both seemed really eager to get away.

I know they're going to go downstairs and talk about me, I thought. About how crazy I am and how I totally lost it.

I'll set them straight in the morning, I decided. I'll take them down to the basement. I'll convince them that Peter is real. And together, we'll rescue my poor brother—from wherever he is.

I yawned loudly. All the tension, all the worry, all the
horror—
it made me feel so tired, so exhausted. I suddenly felt as if I weighed a thousand pounds. I couldn't raise my arms. I couldn't keep my eyes open.

“First thing in the morning!” I murmured to myself. “First thing …”

I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Bright morning sunlight through my window startled me awake. I blinked hard, feeling dazed. Such a deep sleep. I groaned as I sat up. I didn't feel at all rested.

What kept me awake? I wondered. What was troubling me?

I gazed around the room, squinting against the bright light.

Something had upset me yesterday. But what?

What
was
it? What had me so worried?

I couldn't remember.

 

I lowered my feet to the floor and climbed out of bed. I was still thinking hard, still trying to remember what had kept me awake for most of the night.

“Peter,” I whispered finally. The word floated out as if from a distant place. “Peter.”

Yes. Peter. Of course. Peter.

“Oh, no,” I murmured. “Oh, no. Oh, no …” I had nearly forgotten him.

Peter was almost lost. Almost lost forever. And then I realized …

“I'm next.”

“Peter … Peter …” Chanting his name so I wouldn't forget it, I hurried into the bathroom to shower. Then I pulled on an oversized blue sweater over black leggings.

As I made my way downstairs, I rehearsed what I was going to say to my parents. First I'd explain how strange Peter had been acting. How at first I thought it was because I hypnotized him.

Then I'd tell them about the reporter who came to the door. And what he told me about the strange, frightening rumors about this house. I'd tell them why the house is known as
Forget-Me House
.

I'll be totally calm, I decided. I'll speak slowly and softly. They'll see that I'm not crazy. They'll believe me.

“Calm … calm …” I repeated to myself as I made my way down the back hall to the kitchen. But my heart started to pound. And my hands suddenly felt ice-cold.

“Calm … calm …”

I stepped into the kitchen.

And gasped in shock.

“Mom? Dad?”

I uttered a hoarse cry as I gazed around the dark, empty kitchen.

“Hey! Where are you?”

I clicked on the ceiling lights. My heart racing, I walked around the kitchen.

No sign of them. No breakfast dishes on the table or on the sink. No coffee cups. No cereal bowls.

“Mom? Dad? Did you leave?” I tried to shout, but my voice came out tiny and weak.

“That's impossible,” I muttered to myself.

I hurried to the kitchen window and peered out. No car in the driveway.

Did they go to work? Did they just drive off?

They must have left a note, I decided. They always leave me endless notes on the refrigerator. I turned. Bumped my knee on a kitchen stool.

“Ouch!” I hopped across the kitchen on one foot.

No. No note stuck to the fridge.

“Weird.”

Rubbing my throbbing knee, I hurried upstairs to their bedroom. “Hey, are you two still asleep?”

I stepped into the room. Mom's nightgown lay crumpled on the floor beside their unmade bed. The suitcases from their trip had been emptied and stood open against the far wall. The light in their bathroom had been left on.

“Where
are
you?” How could they leave for work without even waking me up? And what about the blueberry pancakes? What about our serious talk?

What about Peter?

“They promised….” I murmured as I headed back to my room to get ready for school. I suddenly felt so angry. And so hurt. “They promised….”

The morning went by in a slow-motion blur. What did my teachers talk about? Did any of my friends talk to me? I couldn't tell you.

I shouldn't have come to school today, I told myself as I trudged like a zombie, a brain-dead zombie, from class to class. I should have stayed home. Called my parents. Called the police. Called
somebody
to come help me rescue Peter.

“Peter, I haven't forgotten you,” I whispered sadly. “Don't worry. I haven't forgotten.”

But I kept repeating his name over. And I wrote it twenty times in my notebook in bright-red ink. Just to make sure he didn't slip away again.

At noon, I made my way into the lunchroom. Such a blur of faces … trays … laughing, talking kids.

Such a blur … such a dark blur …

Dark … darker …

“Huh?” Someone was shaking me.

Someone was squeezing my shoulders, squeezing so hard it hurt. Shaking me. Shaking me.

I blinked open my eyes. I struggled to see. “Addie—?”

She gripped my shoulders. Her face was bright red. She was breathing hard. “Danielle … Danielle, I—I couldn't get you to wake up.”

I squinted at her, feeling dizzy, the lunchroom spinning.

“I shook you and shook you. You wouldn't open your eyes. I was so scared.”

She dropped into a chair across the table from me. Her face was drenched in sweat. “I was so worried,” she said, shuddering. “You—you passed out or something.”

“I'm fine,” I whispered. I cleared my throat. “Really. I feel perfectly fine. I guess I just … dozed off for a minute.”

She lowered her gaze to the tabletop. “You're okay? Well … where's your lunch?”

“Huh?” I stared down at the table too. “Oh. Uh … I think I brought one. I … I don't remember where I put it.”

She squinted at me. “You're sitting here with no lunch?”

I shrugged.

Addie tugged at a strand of her hair, twisting it around one finger. “Well, do you feel like eating? You can share my lunch.” She shoved the brown paper bag across the table toward me.

“I'm … not too hungry,” I said.

“Didn't you see me waving to you in the auditorium during that boring assembly this morning?” she asked. “Why didn't you come over?”

“I didn't see you,” I said. “I—I'm not too together today, Addie.”

She rolled her eyes. “As if I couldn't see that? What is your problem, Danielle? When Mrs. Melton asked you to pass out the test papers, you just stared at her as if you didn't understand English.”

I blinked. “I did? Really? I don't remember.”

Addie squeezed my hand. “You sure you feel okay?”

“I'm not okay,” I confessed, my voice breaking with emotion. “I'm not okay. I'm so worried, Addie. About Peter. He—he disappeared in the basement. And when my parents got home, they wouldn't believe me. They said that—”

“Wait. Wait.” Addie made a time-out sign. “
Who
disappeared?
Who
disappeared in the basement?”

“Peter,” I said. “He went into a trapdoor, and it closed, and then—”

“Who?” Addie looked totally bewildered. “Danielle, who is Peter?”

What happened next?

Did I try to explain to Addie? Or did I jump up from the table and run out of the lunchroom?

Did I stay in school and go to classes that afternoon? Did I wander around the school grounds until the final bell rang? Did I bolt out of the building at lunchtime with Addie calling after me and run all the way home?

I don't know. My mind was a blank.

When Addie couldn't remember Peter, something inside me snapped. I guess my fear took over.

I don't remember what happened next. My memory vanished in a swirl of terrified thoughts and cold panic.

Somehow I found myself on the front stoop of our new house. The afternoon sun was lowering itself behind the trees. I saw a squirrel scampering across the gray tiles of our roof.

I tried the front door. Locked. I had forgotten to take my key.

Mom was probably home. She usually gets home in the middle of the afternoon. I tried the doorbell. I pressed it hard. Pressed it again. Then I remembered it wasn't hooked up.

So I raised my fist and pounded on the solid wood door.

Please be home
, I thought.
Please be home, Mom. We've got to save Peter. We've got to save him before everyone forgets!

I pounded some more, harder. Until my fist ached.

Finally, the door swung open. My mother stuck her head out. She squinted at me. “Yes?” she asked. “Can I help you?”

“Huh? It's
me
!” I cried.

Mom squinted harder. “I'm sorry. What can I do for you, miss?”

 

“It's me! It's ME!” I shrieked. “I'm your daughter!” I grabbed the storm door and jerked it open all the way.

Mom gasped. Her face tightened with fear. “Daughter? I don't understand. What daughter—?”

“
Let me in!
” I screamed. “You
can't
forget me! You can't! And you can't forget Peter, either!”

I lowered my shoulder and shoved her hard, out of the way.

She cried out and stumbled back into the entryway.

I hurtled into the house. The storm door slammed behind me.

“Get out!” Mom screamed. “What do you want? Get out of my house!”

“No! You come with me!” I shouted breathlessly. I grabbed her around the waist and pushed her roughly into the back hall.

“Let go of me!” she wailed. She squirmed and struggled. She grabbed my arms and tried to pry them off her. “Who are you? What do you want?”

My heart pounded so hard, my chest felt about to explode. “You're coming to the basement,” I said through gritted teeth. I gave her another hard shove. “I'm going to prove to you—”

“Do you want money?” she demanded. “Is that it? You want money? Okay. I don't have much in the house. But I'll give you what I have. Just … don't hurt me. Please—don't hurt me.”

She looked so terrified, I dropped my hands. I let her go. “Mom!”

She backed away, her eyes wide with fear. “Money?” she whispered. “Is that what you want? If I give you money, will you go?”

“I don't want money!” I screamed. “I want you to remember me! And Peter!”

“Okay, okay.” She trembled in fear. “I remember you. Yes. I do. I remember you. Is that good?”

She's terrified of me, her own daughter, I realized.

I could feel tears welling in my eyes. But I knew I had no time to waste.

She's not going to believe me, I saw. She's not going to recognize me. She's too frightened to listen to me, to let me prove anything to her.

What can I do? What?

I spun away from her. And lurched down the hall to the basement door. “Peter—I'm coming!” I called down the stairs. I jumped into the stairwell and began racing down, taking the stairs two at a time. “Peter, I haven't forgotten you. I'm coming!”

I heard footsteps above my head. My mother running across the floor. And then I heard her on the phone, her voice trembling, shrill, so frightened. My own mother, desperately calling the police.

“Yes. A strange girl. She broke into the house. She's acting very crazy. I—I think she's dangerous. Yes. Send someone. Right away.”