Sherman Alexie: The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian

"I can't apologize to everybody I hurt," Mr. P said. "But I can apologize to you."

It was so backward. I'd broken his nose but he was trying to apologize to me .

"I hurt a lot of Indian kids when I was a young teacher," he said. "I might have broken a few bones."

All of a sudden, I realized he was confessing to me.

"It was a different time," Mr. P said. "A bad time. Very bad. It was wrong. But I was young and stupid and full of ideas. Just like you."

Mr. P smiled. He smiled at me. There was a piece of lettuce stuck between his front teeth.

"You know," he said. "I taught your sister, too."

"I know."

"She was the smartest kid I ever had. She was even smarter than you."

I knew my sister was smart. But I'd never heard a teacher say that about her. And I'd

never heard anybody say that she was smarter than me. I was happy and jealous at the same time.

My sister, the basement mole rat, was smarter than me?

"Well," I said, "My mom and dad are pretty smart, too, so I guess it runs in the family."

"Your sister wanted to be a writer," Mr. P said.

"Really?" I asked.

I was surprised by that. She'd never said anything about that to me. Or to Mom and Dad.

Or to anybody.

"I never heard her say that," I said.

"She was shy about it," Mr. P said. "She always thought people would make fun of her."

"For writing books? People would have thought she was a hero around here. Maybe she could have made movies or something, too. That would have been cool."

"Well, she wasn't shy about the idea of writing books. She was shy about the kind of books she wanted to write."

"What kind of books did she want to write?" I asked.

"You're going to laugh."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

Jeez, we had both turned into seven-year-olds.

"Just tell me," I said.

It was weird that a teacher was telling me things I didn't know about my sister. It made me wonder what else I didn't know about her.

"She wanted to write romance novels."

Of course, I giggled at that idea.

"Hey," Mr. P said. "You weren't supposed to laugh."

"I didn't laugh."

"Yes, you laughed."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"Maybe I laughed a little."

"A little laugh is still a laugh."

And then I laughed for real. A big laugh.

"Romance novels," I said. "Those things are just sort of silly, aren't they?"

"Lots of people—mostly women—love them," Mr. P said. "They buy millions of them.

There are lots of writers who make millions by writing romance novels."

"What kind of romances?" I asked.

"She never really said, but she did like to read the Indian ones. You know the ones I'm talking about?"

Yes, I did know. Those romances always featured a love affair between a virginal white

schoolteacher or preacher's wife and a half-breed Indian warrior. The covers were hilarious:

"You know," I said, "I don't think I ever saw my sister reading one of those things."

"She kept them hidden," Mr. P said.

Well, that is a big difference between my sister and me. I hide the magazines filled with photos of naked women; my later hides her tender romance novels that tell stories about naked women (and men).

I want the pictures; my sister wants the words.

"I don't remember her ever writing anything," I said.

"Oh, she loved to write short stories. Little romantic stories. She wouldn't let anybody read them. But she'd always be scribbling in her notebook."

"Wow," I said.

That was all I could say.

I mean, my sister had become a humanoid underground dweller. There wasn't much

romance in that. Or maybe there was. Maybe my sister read romances all day. Maybe she was trapped in those romances.

"I really thought she was going to be a writer," Mr. P said. "She kept writing in her book.

And she kept working up the courage to 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."