All Unquiet Things Read Online Free PDF

book off the desk and looked at the spine: Crime and Punishment .
    “This should be fun,” I said.
    “It will be hell. But you’ll thank me later.”
    “Might as well give me one for Harvey while you’re at it,” I said. Carmen handed me a second copy as other students began to file in. “Not that he’ll read it.”
    “Defamation of character,” Harvey protested from behind, which made Carmen laugh.
    The last person to stroll into class was Audrey. I was surprised to see her there. I’d never had an advanced class with her, ever, as she wasn’t an AP sort of girl. Even Harvey, oblivious to almost everything, leaned over to me and asked, “Is she lost or something?”
    She walked with the air of a visiting dignitary and surveyed the room, scoping for a good seat. The first place she looked was straight to where Harvey and I were sitting, but the back row filled up the fastest in every class at Brighton and there were no empty seats. Finally, she was forced to take one up front.
    Halfway through class the second-period office aide came in quiet as a cat and handed Carmen a small blue slip of paper. Seeing the color, I knew it was for me.
    “Neily?” Carmen waved the piece of paper. I gathered my things from around my desk and went up to the front to retrieve it.
    “You’re excused,” Carmen told me unnecessarily. When you get a summons from the school psychiatrist, it’s never a question of whether or not you’re excused.
    Eighth Grade—Fall Semester
    M y anxiety returned as Carly and I made our way up the drive of her very large, very elegant home. It looked nothing like my father’s house, which was ostentatious and cold, the embodiment of new money. People sometimes say that all California money is new money, but there is a difference between the people who know how to hide it and the people who don’t even know it’s something to be ashamed of. Still, I cringed the way I always did when I went to visit my father, and felt the icy blast of separateness travel up my spine. You don’t belong here , everything—every object, every room, every piece of art or furniture—seemed to be saying. This is not your place .
    Miranda, Carly’s mother, tried her best to set me at ease. She welcomed me warmly, brought me into the kitchen to point out where they kept the snacks and the sodas, then took off for parts unknown, pausing to rumple Carly’s hair and say, “Have fun, kids,” before disappearing.
    The afternoon consisted largely of Carly and me watching television, but mostly I just watched her. When she became absorbed, her face, usually so animated, would go absolutely still, and she would purse her lips. I would always catch her doing this when we were reading. Once, I pointed it out to her, and she tried very hard not to do it again. That was the funny thing about her—she never seemed to give much of a damn about what anybody thought. But she did—she really, really did.
    After an hour or so, it occurred to me that I might want to see the rest of the house. It didn’t look like Carly was going to offer to give me a tour, so I asked her where the bathroom was—“Down the hall, to the right, past the fountain”—and then marveled inwardly a little at the idea of a fountain in the Ribelli’s front hall.
    In actuality, the fountain was less like the Trevi of my imaginings and more like a piece of tin mounted on the wall, with water running over its surface in whispering rivulets. Miranda Ribelli was sitting in the living room, which was on the opposite side of the hall, reading a Michael Crichton novel and sipping a glass of white wine. I went into the bathroom and ran the faucet, staring at myself in the mirror.
    My hair needed a cut—it always did. I looked myself over from head to toe, wondering what Carly saw when she looked at me. What I saw was unpromising—a gangly boy, tall and lanky, with arms that were strong but lacked tone and a countenance that lacked conviction. I had no idea