Revolution Read Online Free PDF

much and I see things. Small things, mostly—like spiders crawling up the wall. But sometimes big things—like my dead brother standing in the street.
    I turn out the light, lie down on my bed, dial up the Floyd on my iPod, and listen to “Shine On You Crazy Diamond,” my homework. There are two minutes or so of some far-out synthesizers, a moody guitar comes in, there’s a pause, and then four notes, clear and stunning: B-flat, F, G, E.
    I play along in the dark, fingering an invisible board. Four notes. Nathan was right. David Gilmour got sadness down in four notes.
    I keep listening. To songs about madness and love and loss. I listen over and over again. Until I fall asleep. And dream.
    Of my father holding a bird’s nest filled with blue eggs.
    Of a small boy playing violin for men with eyes like black holes in the sky.
    Of Truman.
    He’s in the parlor, stepping out of a painting. He crosses the room to me, walking slowly, strangely. His back is broken. He bends his head to mine, kisses my cheek. His lips, bloodless and cold, whisper in my ear: Come on you raver, you seer of visions, come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine … .

6
    “H ey, Ard! Where’s the night- mère ?” Tillie Epstein, a senior from Slater, yells from across the street.
    “ ’Toxing,” Arden yells back, tossing her blond hair.
    Arden’s walking home on this fine Saturday afternoon, turning every head with her tanned legs, suede boots, and micromini. She’s got a big belt around her hips. It has a shiny buckle with PRADA on it, which is Italian for insecure . She just came out of a deli carrying a Diet Coke, a pack of cigarettes, and a bottle of Evian. The first two are lunch, the Evian’s for her bong. Tap water is, like, soooo toxic.
    “Bo or Dee?” Tillie shouts.
    “Dee.”
    Botoxing moms are hard to call. The injections don’t take long. Half an hour at the doc’s office, a bit of shopping, lunch, and then she’s back home and barging in on your afternoon X party. Most inconvenient.
    Detoxing moms are safer bets. Detox usually involves a flight to California, as well as high colonics, yurts, burnt sage, and teary dealings with the inner child. Painful, yes, but vastly preferable to teary dealings with the outer child.
    “Cool! Party at your house?”
    “Can’t. The feng shui man’s there. Our karma’s, like, really blocked, you know?”
    Roto Buddha. Only in the Heights.
    “Nick’s having some people over tonight, though,” she says.
    Tillie gives her a thumbs-up and disappears into a yoga studio.
    Nick is Arden’s boyfriend. He goes to St. Anselm’s, too. As I continue to walk behind Arden, far enough behind so there’s no possible chance of having to talk to her, he comes out of Mabruk’s Falafel, grabs her, and gives her a big, sloppy kiss.
    His full name is Nick Goode, aka Not Guilty, for all the time his dad’s lawyer spends saying those exact words in front of a judge. For DUI. Possession. For throwing up in Starbucks on three consecutive mornings. And for peeing off the top of the slide at the Pierrepont Street playground. He’s English. His dad and stepmom, Sir and Lady Goode, keep parrots.
    Nick’s messy curls gleam gold in the winter sun. His chin is bristly with stubble.
    He’s wearing boots, a kilt, and a long-sleeve tee. No coat, even though it’s December. Beautiful people don’t need coats. They’ve got their auras to keep them warm.
    He spots me as he comes up for air. He lopes over, takes my hand, and sings “ I know a girl who’s tough but sweet.… She’s so fine she can’t be beat.… I want Andi, I want Andi … ” to the tune of “I Want Candy.”
    His voice is beautiful, a knee-weakening sandpaper growl. He smells like smoke and wine. He stops singing suddenly and asks me if I’m coming to his party.
    “Nicky!” Arden yelps from down the sidewalk, alarmed.
    “Relax, Ard,” he yells over his shoulder. “Ard, short for arduous,” he whispers to me,