Read Online You Don't Even Know Me by Sharon Flake - Free Book Online

is giving away free food with each pair of sneakers. “You got the coupon, right?”
    Pops nods. It’s the second time I asked him that in the last few minutes. “Hey.” He stops again, to catch is breath, I figure. “Isn’t that Willie over there?”
    Willie crosses the street, yelling my name at the same time. When he gets to us, he and I talk about the sneakers we’re getting. We want the same kind. “Let’s go. They’re buying ’em all up. Jabril texted me.” He’s walking too fast. And he wants me to hurry up. I can’t. I got Pops.
    â€œGo ahead,” Dad says.
    â€œNaw. That’s okay.”
    â€œI didn’t even wait for my mother,” Willie says, turning back to us. “It’s taking her too long to park.”
    Pops says it again. “Go on. I’m right behind you.”
    People are walking out the store with two and three boxes. And Willie won’t wait. “See y’all,” he says, taking off.
    I look at Pops. “I won’t try ’em on until you get there,” I say. And then I take off after Willie.
    So many sneakers. That’s all I think when I walk into the store. So many people, too. I look around for a seat for Pops. “Here they are.” Willie puts one in my hand. And for a while that’s all I can think about—the sneakers everybody wants. The most expensive ones I’ve ever owned.
    The salesmen are busy. We can’t get their attention. Willie checks out more sneakers. I hold on to the one I got. Three boys from our school come in. I look at the door for Pops. But then we get to talking, trying on sunglasses and checking out sweatshirts. The salesman finally asks if he can help us. And Willie hands him three more sneakers he’d like to try on. I ask for them in my size, too. It’s nice being able to afford things.
    Maybe it’s the fat woman who walks into the store and everyone staring at her like she shouldn’t have. Or maybe it’s the sneakers. Willie kept saying he looked better in his. I know what Pops would have said to me:
    â€œThose sneakers were made for your feet.”
    â€œI’ll be back,” I tell Willie.
    He knows why I have to go. But he says he wouldn’t if he was me. “Your pops is probably eating something somewhere.”
    Our friends laugh when he says that.
    I leave the store, walking at first. Running when I don’t see my dad. He’s not where I left him. Not sitting at the table with the umbrella over it, or on the green bench in front of the jeans store, either. I look up the street. Down the block. I even go in the opposite direction. Then I’m back where I left him, standing on the curb—thinking the worst.
    We don’t have cells. We can’t afford them. And I’m with him all the time, unless I’m at school. “Dad! Dad!” I’m screaming.
    People want to know if I’m okay.
    â€œNo,” I say, when the fourth person asks.
    â€œWas your dad wearing a red shirt with a white collar?” a man asks.
    I just look at him.
    â€œWas he a big guy—fat?” His arms go out in both directions like my dad is the size of a tank.
    â€œYeah.”
    He points up the street. “I saw him, sitting by the curb. The heat got to him, I think. So some people helped him to his feet; got him over to a table back there.”
    I take off. Yelling for him the whole way. Finally, at this restaurant where the sign out front has a picture of a fish with a pipe between his lips, I see Pops, sitting, fanning himself. Six glasses of ice water are on the table. People are asking if he’s okay. Willie would call me a baby, but I hug him so hard he has to ask me to let him breathe.
    He’s okay, a few people say. “Almost passed out, but we held on to him.”
    They’re standing around Pops like they know him. “He said you were up the street. We were just coming for