Chemistry Read Online Free PDF Page A

know, and I never used to be a religious person. But living in a church this beautiful does something to you. You suddenly want to believe in its purpose, in the purpose of the people kind enough to let you stay. You want to fight for the sanctity of the only home you have.
    It’s night, but I can still see the tagging on the outer walls of my church. Certain groups want to own the place, so they mark it like dogs. It’s close enough to the school to be a target, it has enough vegetation on its grounds to provide privacy for those who don’t want to be seen, and it’s usually pretty quiet. I love it here. Aside from the occasional miscreant, it’s a paradise to me. I mean who could ask for a better house? It has beautiful stained glass windows, priceless artwork on the walls, and all the amenities a person needs to be comfortable. As long as I make myself scarce every Sunday and Wednesday, I can stay. In fact, they want me to stay. I act as a sentinel, calling the police whenever there’s a disturbance on the grounds. I keep the place clean, and they pay me for it. There are good people here, and I owe them—Valentine and I both do.
    I pass by the grand entrance, the one for guests and worshipers, and follow the walls around toward the back. There’s a small door for those of us who work behind the scenes. I shiver, turn my key, and enter. It’s cold inside, but it always is and I usually like it that way. The chill keeps me awake while I study. Tonight, though, I wish it were warm. I wish I could wrap myself in the arms of the church and feel safe for once. I wish the Virgin Mary didn’t stare at me with those stony eyes that keep asking for Valentine: “Where is he, Claude? You promised you’d look out for him. Why has he not come home?”
    Though the sanctuary is dark, I find my way easily. I’ve only been living here a year or so, but already I feel like this is where I took my first steps, spoke my first words, spent every day of my life.
    I stretch myself out on a pew without even bothering to change out of my suit. I want to see the little light in the organ loft flicker to life—the one that means Valentine is going over his music, silently tapping the keys with his fingers, memorizing a piece. I want to know that he’s okay, that his foster parents won’t give him too much grief about having to bail him out.
    Ah, who am I kidding? They’re the only people in the world who ever manage to make him cry.

BOOK FOUR
    A distant city clock strikes midnight, and each hollow toll fills my memories with dismal music. It is officially Valentine’s Day.
    I’m not a fan of holidays, and Valentine’s Day is second only to Christmas in a long list of celebrations that rub salt in my wounds, but not for the reasons you think. I’m not a person who wears all black every fourteenth of February and mopes around because I have no date and no one’s paying attention to my pain. Why would I? Love and I have never gotten along, so I’ve never wanted anything to do with it. I do just fine on my own, thank you.
    No, I hate Valentine’s Day because this is the day my parents were killed. On this day, my boarding school’s counselor called me out of class to tell me about the head-on collision. On this day, I packed my clothes, left the dormitory that had become my home, and sat in a sterile room at the hospital, avoiding the nurses’ sympathetic looks.
    Then again, on this day, I met my kid brother for the first time, so I guess it wasn’t all bad. His name was Eugene, they told me, and he was my father’s child by another woman, who had died of an overdose the previous year. The kid had no one—I could see it in his face—and unlike me, he wasn’t fine with that. He was miserable, lost and alone. I could barely stand to watch him sit in the corner and cry like the world was ending for him.
    I had no words of comfort for Eugene. What did words ever do to help anyone buried so deep in the pit anyway? I just sat