Revolution Read Online Free PDF Page B

grinning.
    He takes the bags I’m carrying out of my hands and puts them on the sidewalk. One has sandwiches in it. The other has seventeen different tubes of blue oil paint in it. Mom’s still struggling with Truman’s eyes. She went nuclear about it this morning. The only way I could talk her down was to tell her she had the wrong paints, that’s why she couldn’t get the eyes right, and then promise to go to Pearl Paint to buy her the right ones.
    He takes my hands in his, touches his forehead to mine. “Come to my party. I’m nobility, after all, and you’re only a serf so you have to do what I say. Play your guitar. Entertain me. My life’s so bloody dull I could weep,” he says.
    “Wow, that’s some offer. Jester at the court of the bored-oisie.”
    “Come on, you sexy beast. You acid-tongued, black-hearted little witch. You’re the only interesting girl in all of Brooklyn.”
    I roll my eyes. “How much did you smoke today? A kilo?”
    “Please come. I want you to,” he says. His lips brush mine. He tries for a kiss.
    Bad idea. The very worst. I push him away. “Dude, hey. I’m not radicchio.”
    “What?”
    “Radicchio. You know? The nasty red lettuce? All those goddesses you sleep with, Nick, they’re cloying your palate. You’ve had too much sweet stuff and now you’re craving something bitter.”
    Nick laughs himself silly. Pot makes anyone sound funny. Even Letterman.
    “I gotta go,” I say, breaking away.
    “Andi, wait.”
    But I don’t wait. I can’t. Standing here on Henry Street with him brings it all back. He doesn’t remember much. At least, that’s what he says. But I think he remembers everything and that’s why he gets high all the time.
    He lets me get ten steps down the sidewalk, then says, “I’ll take out my godfather’s guitar.”
    Wow. The big guns. His godfather happens to be Keith Richards.
    I turn around. “What do you want from me, Nick?” I ask him. There’s an edge to my voice.
    “It’s gorgeous,” he says. “He used it when he wrote ‘Angie.’ ”
    “What do you want? Can’t be sex. You get plenty. Can’t be drugs. You’ve got more pills than CVS. You need help with your French homework? Is that it?”
    “He gave it to me last month. When I was in England,” he says. His voice is soft now. Pleading.
    I almost say it out loud. I almost spit it at him, the word for the thing he wants—forgiveness. But then the pot haze lifts and his eyes meet mine and I can see the pain there. So I don’t say it. I let him be nice to me. It’s not what he wants, but it’s the best I can do.
    “You’re blagging,” I tell him. “It’s not Uncle Keith’s. You bought it on eBay.”
    He smiles. “I’m not. It’s his,” he says.
    “Yeah? What kind is it?” I say, testing him.
    “It’s a … um … it’s a Fender Bender. No, it’s a Paul Gibson sort of thing … some kind of stratoblaster. Bugger me, I don’t know what it is. But it’s his; I swear it. We’ll call him up and he’ll tell you. He gave it to me. If you come, I’ll let you play it.”
    “Okay. I’m there.”
    I pick up my bags, tell him goodbye, then walk past Arden. If looks could kill, I’d be vapor. “Hey, thanks for the invite,” I tell her. She doesn’t deign to reply to me. She’s saving all her lovin’ for Nick.
    “Why didn’t you just hook up with her right there on the sidewalk, Nicky? You wanted to. The whole world could see that!”
    “Piss off, Arden, will you? You’re giving me a headache.”
    Ah, young love.
    I smile as I turn onto my street. Winter break’s looking up. I decide to give Vijay a call, see if he’ll go with me. Apart from that guitar, which I very much want to play, this party has possibilities: bored rich boys, jealous rich girls, plenty of illegal substances, maybe even a loaded gun.
    If I’m lucky.

7
    T urns out I’m not. Lucky, that is. Not remotely.
    The party’s crap. Literally. I’m not in Nick’s house for ten seconds before a