Places No One Knows Read Online Free PDF

uninformative, and full of contradictions and the only practical option is to pick some relaxation techniques and start trying them.
    I have my candle from the credenza, even if it’s just an outsized Thanksgiving votive. Now all I need is a number to count backward from until my brain bows down to the hypnotic power of repetition.
    Eleven seems like a good choice. It’s a Lucas number, an Einstein prime, and the preferred visualization number in my mother’s guided meditation book. Downstairs, the TV is murmuring and then she switches it off and the house goes silent.
    I lie back, arms at my sides, trying to clear my mind.
    But trying not to think is much harder than it looks. At once, I’m ambushed by the faces of the people who inhabit my world every day—my mom and Maribeth and Jamie the cross-country coach. They hover in front of me in a noisy flock, voices overlapping, blending together until I can’t even tell who’s saying what. If it’s Jamie who likes Cattaleya orchids for the corsages, or if Maribeth thinks I could qualify for State.
    I understand in a muddled way that the reverse counting technique must be working. Ordinarily I’d still be wired to the core, staring at the ceiling with hot, itchy eyes and humming skin. And instead, here I am, all my thoughts slipping away, slipping away, my hands heavy and numb.
    I’m beginning to suspect that thinking is overrated. There are all kinds of people at school and I’m reasonably sure they rarely think at all. How nice it must be to have low expectations. No one wants anything from you. If you succeed in not getting arrested, they’re happy for you.
    Except for the Trunchbull…
    The Trunchbull—I hear her voice suddenly, as clear as if she were standing in the room.
I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about you.
    Marshall Holt is a burned-out loser who just happens to have nice features, good skin, and well-shaped eyebrows. And surprisingly good test scores. The smell of the candle is much stronger, suddenly—a dark, complicated array of dryer sheets, deodorant, smoke, and indifference. It’s undercut by something sweet and pungent and all its own. Pot, maybe?
    All at once, I’m back in the office, sitting behind the reception desk with my stack of hall passes, and Marshall Holt is waiting for the stamp.
    He’s looking past me, and his mouth is wide and soft in a way I’ve never noticed. Then he smiles, but it isn’t friendly. “Little miss perfect isn’t so perfect after all.”
    I stare up. The sound of his voice is realer and sharper than everything else, almost accusatory.
    The scene changes, the way it does in dreams. Now the room is small and poorly lit. I can’t make out the details, but there’s a smell of tomato sauce, onions, dog, and laundry. He’s sprawled out on an unmade twin bed, still looking at me, but not aggressive now, not arrogant. His eyes are fixed on mine, so dark I think I’ll drown there. Somewhere close by, people are talking in raised voices, but the sound is indistinct, nothing but a murmur.
    He smiles again, and this time it almost looks regretful. “Forty-five across is Lucrezia Borgia.”
    I sit bolt up, clutching my blankets to my chest.
    The clock says 1:29. My pulse is frantic.
    Somewhere down the street, a dog is howling like its heart will break. On my nightstand, the candle flickers. I lean over and blow it out.
    Lucrezia Borgia. How could I have missed that?

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    When I meet Maribeth in the commons for a cup of coffee before homeroom, she and Loring are already waiting at our favorite table.
    There’s a party supply catalog open between them and Maribeth is bent over it, running her finger along the pricing column for confetti. The way she’s biting her lip tells me everything is still proceeding to plan, a coup is imminent. One more advancement in a series of delicate maneuvers.
    I know what will happen next. Maribeth will check off an order for crepe paper streamers in the color of her choice,