The Patron Saint of Butterflies Read Online Free PDF

from around the bend in the dirt path, moving slowly up the hill. Darting behind a lilac bush, I peer out through the leaves. Sleek and compact as a bullet, the car is the color of gunmetal. Its glossy exterior is spotless, and the tiny silver hood ornament catches the sun in a flash of light. The little hairs on myarm stand up as I catch a glimpse of Veronica sitting behind the wheel. She is not wearing her robe. No surprise there. Gold bracelets encircle her thin wrists and a blue scarf, knotted at the throat, covers her blond hair. I hold my breath as the car passes in front of me. There’s no telling what will happen if Veronica catches sight of me now, especially after all the trouble I got into this morning. I hunch down farther against the bush, but the car rolls on past and continues without pause up the remainder of the hill.
    Spooked, I run the rest of the way down to the East House without stopping and poke my head in cautiously. The prayer service has obviously ended, as a bunch of the older kids are crowded around the window in the front of the room.
    “Did you see it?” I hear Peter ask. “I think it’s called a Mercedes. My dad told me Emmanuel was ordering it from somewhere in Long Island.”
    I roll my eyes. Out of all the boys in my group, Peter is definitely the most gullible, which is why I dared him to stick his tongue in my mouth this morning. Thinking about it now, the way he nearly lunged at me with his mouth wide open, I feel sick to my stomach. I should have picked someone with a little more backbone, someone who at least would have made going into the Regulation Room afterward worth it. Peter was too easy. Plus, he gave me up in a heartbeat when Emmanuel demanded an explanation, pointing at me from across the room with a trembling finger. “It was Honey’s idea,” he whispered. “I didn’t even want to.” What a jerk. His little ears, which turn pink when he gets embarrassed and had appealed to me earlier, now just looked stupid. To tell you the truth, though, I wasn’t really surprised. Peter is a carbon copy of hisparents, especially his mother. Mrs. Winters practically kisses the ground Emmanuel walks on. She’s been telling that poor kid what a godlike person Emmanuel is since he was old enough to talk.
    You know, some days I think I am going to lose it when I think about the fact that I don’t have the faintest idea who my mother (or father) are, but other times I seriously believe that their absence has given me an advantage over the rest of the kids here. Think about it: I am the only kid in this place who doesn’t have a second set of authority figures yammering in my ear day in and day out about how divine Emmanuel is. And while everyone around me seems to think that my parentless “situation” is pitiful, I think it has actually provided me with room to think for myself. Poor Agnes and Benny and Peter and all the rest of the kids don’t have any room left in their heads to have an original thought. Not only are their brains crammed with all of Emmanuel’s and Veronica’s crap, but they have their parents’ crap on top of it. They can’t win.
    Now I look at my group, which is made up of the twelve-to fifteen-year-olds, over in the corner, rubbing their knees and stretching. The littlest kids are wandering around the room in a kind of daze, their eyes rheumy from staring at the cross on the wall for so long. Six-year-old Iris Murphy, who is always making a fuss about something, is crying about the shooting pains in her legs. Christine rubs her back, trying to console her.
    Ducking into the bathroom across the hall, I splash cold water on my face and then look at myself in the mirror. Horrible. Swollen, puffy eyes, splotchy skin, three bright red pimples on my chin. I squeeze one of them until it bleeds anddecide against squeezing the rest. Pulling the rubber bands off the bottom of my braids, I shake my hair loose, snatching out pieces of grass. Christine told me once