The Book of Fate Read Online Free PDF

grit my teeth and fight, trying to swallow it whole.
    “Is boring for you?” the deputy prime minister asks, clearly annoyed.
    “N-No . . . not at all,” I apologize, knowing the first rule of diplomacy. “It’s just . . . the time zone . . . we just flew in, so still adjusting . . .” Before I can finish, he turns my way.
    “You should—”
    Seeing my face, he cuts himself off. Not for long. Just enough to stare.
    Instinctively, I try to smile. Some things you can’t unlearn. The left half of my lip goes up, the right half stays flat, dead on my face.
    Boyle went down that day at the racetrack. But he wasn’t the only one hit.
    “—should take melatonin,” the deputy prime minister stammers, still staring at the faded slash marks on my cheek. The scars crisscross like interconnecting railroad tracks. When it first happened, they were dark purple. Now they’re a shade redder than my pale chalky skin. You still can’t miss them. “Melatonin,” he repeats, now locking on my eyes. He feels stupid for gawking. But he can’t help himself. He peeks again, then takes a second to glance down at my mouth, which sags slightly on my right side. Most people think I had a mini-stroke. Then they see the scars. “Very best for jet lag,” he adds, again locking eyes.
    The bullet that tore through my cheek was a Devastator—specially designed to fracture on impact and tumble into the skin instead of going straight through it. And that’s exactly what happened when it ricocheted off the armored hood of the limo, shattering into pieces and plowing into my face. If it had been a direct hit, it might’ve been cleaner, the doctors agreed, but instead, it was like a dozen tiny missiles burrowing into my cheek. To maximize the pain, Nico even stole a trick from Mideast suicide bombers, who dip their bullets and bombs in rat poison, since it acts as a blood thinner and keeps you bleeding as long as possible. It worked. By the time the Service got to me, I was so bloody, they covered me, thinking I was dead.
    The wound played punching bag with my facial nerve, which I quickly found out has three branches: the first gives nerve function to your forehead . . . the second controls your cheeks . . . and the third, where I got hit, takes care of your mouth and lower lip. That’s why my mouth sags . . . and why my lips purse slightly off-center when I talk . . . and why my smile is as flat as the smile of a dental patient on Novocain. On top of that, I can’t sip through straws, whistle, kiss (not that I have any takers), or bite my top lip, which requires more manipulation than I ever thought. All that, I can live with.
    It’s the staring that tears me apart.
    “Melatonin, huh?” I ask, turning my head so he loses his view. It doesn’t help. A face is what we hold in our memories. It’s our identity. It shows us who we are. Worst of all, two-thirds of face-to-face communication comes from facial expressions. Lose those—which I have—and in the researchers’ words, it’s socially devastating. “I tried it years ago . . . maybe I’ll give it another shot.”
    “I think you like it,” the deputy prime minister says. “Help you feel good.” He turns back to the lit silhouette of the President, but I already hear the shift in his voice. It’s subtle but unmistakable. You don’t need a translator to understand pity.
    “I should . . . I’m gonna go check on that honey and tea,” I say, stepping back from the deputy prime minister. He doesn’t bother turning around.
    Making my way through the backstage darkness of the Performing Arts Center, I sidestep between a papier-mâché palm tree and an enormous jagged rock made of plastic and foam—both pieces from the
Lion King
set which sits further behind the curtain.
    “. . . and countries look to the United States in ways that we still cannot underestimate . . .” Manning says as he finally segues into the more serious part of his speech.
    “. . . even now, when