Angels of Destruction Read Online Free PDF Page A

simplest things. Groceries, taking out the trash, fetching the mail.”
    “And you are her granddaughter. What about your parents?”
    “It says right there in the letter, Mr. Taylor. Are you going to make me say it out loud?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “Neither one of them really wants me, simple as that, I'm sorry to report.” She looked directly at his eyes.
    He dug into his desk for the proper forms, flipping through a multicolored stack of papers. “I suppose we can accommodate you, Miss …”
    “Quinn.” She leaned forward and laid her fingertips along the edge of his desk. Her nails were bitten to the quick.
    “Right. Have your grandmother fill these out and sign them, and once your grades are transferred, you'll be official.”
    Norah sighed and bowed her head. “I've never been to another school before. Have you ever heard of John Holt and Teach Your Own?. Homeschooling?”
    Mr. Taylor looked up from the folder he had been inspecting. “You mean, your mother never sent you to school? Did she teach you at home enough so that you're even ready?”
    He studied her eager, expectant face and then bent to his papers, brushing her away with a hastily scribbled note to the teacher. She could be the third grade's problem that day. In the margins, he jotted a reminder to call Mrs. Quinn, and then he added the letter to his overflowing in-box.
    Norah flew down the hallway to her classroom, coat trailing like a windblown sheet, her sole-thin shoes squealing on the linoleum with every triumphant step. Catching her breath outside Room 9, Norah peered through the rectangular aperture cut into the door, as narrow as a window in a castle wall. Sean Fallon sat in the second row, fourth seat, and the nearest empty desk was in the third row, fifth seat, close enough for direct observation of him, far enough for her to go undetected. None of the other children spotted her face framed in the casement, for, scrupulous at their cursive penmanship, they watched their hands roll right-leaning spirals favored by practitioners of the Palmer method. Eight boys and twelve girls, and if no child was absent or out at the restroom, she would be number twenty-one, not as good as a prime, but a multiple of three and seven, two lucky numbers indeed. With these auguries in mind, she opened the door and marched directly to the teacher, presented her with the note from the principal, and stood like a willow hanging over her shoulder to read along silently. All of the children had stopped in their strokes. The teacher corrected her posture and stuck out her hand. “How do you do, Norah Quinn,” she stage-whispered. “I'm Mrs. Patterson.”
    “Pleased to meet you,” Norah whispered back, and shook her hand, pumping her wiry arm like a piston.
    Mrs. Patterson unclenched and stood beside the girl, facing the twenty curious pairs of eyes peering out as if hidden inside twenty firkins. “Class, this is Norah Quinn, and she will be joining us, starting today. Why don't you tell us a little bit about yourself, Norah?”
    Curious and ready to judge, the children straightened in their chairs, awaiting word from the new creature flung into their midst.
    “I am almost nine. I like birds—anything that flies really—and leopards. I don't like Brussels sprouts. The last time someone gave me Brussels sprouts, I dumped them behind the radiator when nobody was looking.”
    The boys and girls laughed, but Mrs. Patterson's withering glare reproached them at once. “Where are you from, Norah?”
    “Oh, I've lived all over, here and there. Right now, I live with Mrs. Quinn. My grandmother.”
    The second outburst of gasps and giggles could not be suppressed by a mere stare. Mrs. Patterson rapped her knuckles upon the desktop. “Class, plenty of children live with their grandparents, so I don't think that's any excuse—”
    Two boys in the back pointed at Norah's old shoes and enjoyed a conspiratorial laugh. Sensing her control of the entire day ebbing, the