The View from the Top Read Online Free PDF

noise came through the wall from his dad’s bedroom. It was a sound Tobin had grown used to, but somehow it never became less unpleasant. And it was different almost every time; his dad rarely brought home the same woman twice, or at least not twice in a row. The one he had in there right now kept saying “Steve, Steve, Steeeve” and panting as if she’d just finished a triathlon. There was some banging, too.
    He had to get out of here. Now.
    He laid his cello on his bed without packing it in its case and ran back to the van.

    Tobin zoomed down Oceanside Drive and circled around WhirrrlyWorld, with its swirling lights and gleeful screams of terror. He pulled into the parking lot, figuring this night would end the way most nights ended when he couldn’t deal with his dad’s bedroom antics: riding the Ferris wheel alone over and over until the park closed. But as he drove around looking for a spot, the cotton-candy-funnel-cake smell made his stomach feel as if he’d been riding the ferry on choppy waters and he decided to go somewhere else.
    But where?
    He sped off, the wind slapping his face. A car horn blared at him and he realized he’d just run a red. “Stupid traffic light,” he grumbled. Up until a few days ago, it had only been a stop sign. The traffic light was one of those new “safety features” requested by the people who’d built those enormous beach houses that looked as if they could eat all the other Normal houses for lunch. Normal had never had a traffic light before and, as far as Tobin knew, nobody had died because of it. So why did they need one now?
    Before he could get over his traffic-light frustration, the van lurched over a giant speed bump—another fun new safety feature.
    Tobin started to worry that he might get in an accident, so he pulled into the next driveway, marked by a mailbox with an elaborately painted name, SINGLETARY. The driveway was long and gravelly and led to a mega-cottage—a crazy castley-looking place with towers and turrets, where he’d helped his dad install a pool last summer. He was pretty sure he was safe hanging out here while he collected himself; there were no other cars in the driveway. And vacation season didn’t start for a couple more weeks. As he parked behind some towering bushes, he realized he’d never turned off the music in his car. Now it was spewing Brahms. Just for piano and cello.
    The Anabelle tape. The goddamn Anabelle tape.
    He couldn’t believe how stupid he’d been for making it. For thinking she might secretly like him back.
    Tobin slammed on the eject button and the cassette shot out of the stereo. He grabbed it and yanked at the thin brown ribbon. He kept pulling and pulling until none of the tape was left in the plastic shell, until it was a mangled heap in his lap. “Fucking hell!” he yelled as he got out of the van and tossed the whole mess into the bushes.
    What were these ridiculously high bushes doing here anyway? Tobin didn’t remember them from when he’d worked on the pool. That weird pool that was supposed to look like a pond or a marsh or something, where his dad kept making lewd comments about the supercurvy girl who lived here. She was about Tobin’s age and had some hyphenated name like Mary-something and she kept trying to talk to him while he was working. He was never interested in her, though; his dad didn’t get why. He’d always shake his head in dismay and say something like, “You should really get a piece of that.”
    Ugh, his dad was disgusting! As if girls were made of pieces! What piece did he think Tobin should go for anyway? Was there a certain piece his dad was after when he hit on ladies at bars and the beach? And had he loved all the pieces of Tobin’s mom before she died? Or was it none of them? Because that’s sure what it seemed like, with the parade of women he brought into the bed he used to share