Deadly Little Lessons Read Online Free PDF

what she remembers.”
    “Or what she blocked out,” Dad says. “We’d invite her to family dinners, birthday parties, holiday celebrations. We’d tell her about various recitals you’d be in, softball games you were playing at, spelling bees you took part in.… We never wanted to exclude her from anything, but I think, even though she seemed to want to watch you from afar, the idea of most of that stuff was too difficult for her.”
    Mom continues to toy nervously with her ring. Dad notices and takes her hand to give it a reassuring squeeze.
    “There’s something else I need to know,” I tell them. “Who’s my father?”
    Dad shifts uneasily. “It was someone at the halfway house.”
    “Another patient?”
    “A med student,” he explains. “He was an intern, working at the facility. After it happened, he was fired and kicked out of his college. But Alexia made us promise not to press charges.”
    “Did she love him, at least?” I ask, able to hear the anxiety in my voice. “Or was it just…” My voice trails off. I can’t finish the thought: the idea that he might’ve taken advantage of her, that I might’ve been conceived out of something so horrible.
    “She said she loved him,” Mom says. “She said their relationship was consensual.”
    “Where is he now?”
    “We’re not sure,” Dad says.
    “Did he ever maybe ask about me?” I venture. “To know who I am or to find out how I’m doing? Did he ever want to see me after the birth?”
    Dad keeps staring back at me—his dark brown eyes are wide and unblinking—silently telling me the truth. My birth father never wanted to know me.
    “I think I need a moment,” I tell them.
    “Of course,” Mom says, already standing up. She mutters something about a pot of tea and quickly leaves the room.
    Meanwhile, Dad moves to take my hand, and once again I crumple into the strength of his embrace, unable to resist his affection, unable to stop my tears.

A DAM COMES TO PICK ME UP as soon as he gets out of work. Dressed in cargo jeans and a bright white T that shows off his tan, he looks amazing, and he smells like vanilla-bean soap.
    I tell my parents that I’m heading out for a while. Mom actually thinks it’s a good idea. “Fresh air, fresh mind,” she says, with her jar of almond butter in one hand and a giant spoon in the other.
    But Dad is reluctant to let me go, perhaps fearing that I may never come back. “Don’t be late,” he says.
    I intercept Adam on the front walk, before he can even get to the door. “Hey,” he says, greeting me with a kiss.
    “Hey.” I give him a peck.
    He leads me to his car, a ’70s Bronco that looks pretty cool but that perpetually smells like eau de gas station. “So, what’s wrong?” he asks, opening the passenger-side door for me.
    “Please, let’s just go.”
    Adam climbs behind the wheel and drives us around for a while before finally pulling in to the parking lot behind my high school.
    “As if I didn’t spend enough time here during the school year,” I say, hating the tone of my voice, knowing that I sound ungrateful.
    “Well, we have to talk somewhere, and it looks pretty private. Do you want to go for a walk?” He nods toward the area behind the parking lot, where the Tree Huggers Society has created a sanctuary of sorts. A circle of pine trees surrounds a bunch of granite-slab benches.
    But the sanctuary reminds me too much of Ben. Of the time when I followed him along the path between the trees, sat beside him on a bench, and allowed him to run his fingers over my skin and to sense my biggest fears.
    Even the parking lot reminds me of Ben. The first time I ever saw him, it was here. The first time he ever saved my life, it was here. For months afterward, he watched me from afar, sitting on his motorcycle on the opposite side of the lot.
    Here.
    I take a deep breath, trying my best to stay in the moment, but then Adam reaches out to take my hand. And again I’m reminded of