The Radleys Read Online Free PDF Page A

talking Earthwise.”
    Rowan’s shame only deepens. He looks at Lorelei’s caramel tan and evil-Bambi eyes and imagines her spontaneous combustion.
    “Wel translated, Rowan,” says Mrs. Sieben, squashing the laughter. Her smile is a kind one now. “I am impressed. I didn’t realize you could translate so accurately.”
    Neither did I , thinks Rowan. But then he registers someone through the wire glass in the door.
    Someone shooting down the corridor from another class. Clara, speeding toward the toilets, with a hand over her mouth.

    Behind the Modesty Curtain

    Peter’s fourteenth patient of the day is behind the modesty curtain, lowering his trousers and underwear. Peter tries not to think about what his job requires him to do during the next minute or so, as he tugs on the latex glove. He just sits there, trying to think of something that might scare Clara back onto meat.
    Nerve damage?
    Anemia?
    There are quite a few legitimate health problems caused by a lack of B vitamins and iron.
    There’s a risk they never used to face when the children were younger—the risk of second opinions from people like the school nurse Rowan decided to see about his skin rash who doubted it was photodermatosis. Is it worth it anymore? Is it worth all these lies? Is it worth making my children ill? The bitch of it is, my kids think I don’t care, but the truth is, I am not allowed to care—not in the way I want to.
    “Fuck.” He mouths the word, silently. “Fuck. It.”
    Of course, Peter has been a doctor long enough to realize that reassurance is itself a kind of medicine. He’s read many times about the reality of placebo effects and confidence tricks. He knows about the studies that show how oxazepam works better at treating anxiety if the tablet is green, and better for depression if yel ow.
    So sometimes that’s how he justifies the lies to himself. He’s just coloring the truth like a pil .
    But he finds it harder, with time.
    As he sits and waits for the old man, a poster on his bul etin board stares out at him, as it always does.
    A large red drop of blood, shaped like a tear.
    Then in a bold, self-important National Health Service font the words: BE A HERO TODAY.
    GIVE BLOOD.
    The clock ticks.
    There is a shuffle of clothes and the old man clears his throat. “That’s . . . I’m . . . you can . . .”
    Peter slips behind the curtain, does what his job requires.
    “Nothing too untoward there, Mr. Bamber. Just needs a bit of cream, that’s al .’
    The old man pul s up his pants and his trousers and seems on the verge of tears. Peter peels off his glove and places it careful y in the smal bin designed for the purpose. The lid clicks shut.
    “Oh good,” Mr. Bamber says. “That’s good.”
    Peter looks at the old man’s face. The liver spots, the lines, the unruly hairs, the slightly milky eyes. For a moment, Peter is so repulsed by his own self-shortened future he can hardly speak.
    He turns away and spies another poster on his wal . One Elaine must have put there. A picture of a mosquito and a warning to vacationers about malaria.
    ONE BITE IS ALL IT TAKES.
    He almost bursts into tears.

    Something Evil

    Clara’s palms are slick with sweat.
    She feels like something terrible is inside her. Some poison that needs to be expel ed from her body. Something living there. Something evil, taking over.
    Some girls enter the toilets and someone tries the door to her stal . Clara stays stil and tries to breathe through her nausea but she can’t stop the sickness from rising through her at rapid speed.
    What’s happening to me?
    She throws up again and hears voices outside.
    “Okay, Miss Bulimia, your lunch must be up by now.” A pause. Then: “Oh, that smel s so rank .”
    She recognizes the voice as that of Lorelei Andrews.
    There is a faint knocking on the stal door. Then Lorelei’s voice again, but softer. “Are you okay in there?”
    Clara pauses. “Yes,” she says.
    “ Clara? Is that you ?”
    Clara says