Read Don't Blame the Music for Free Online

clothes—or lack of them. Her bald shining skull and her horrible vicious language.
    She was my sister.
    I kept my chin up and I defended her.
    â€œThe final three questions on the quiz,” said Miss Margolis, “are a gift. An absolute gift.”
    â€œWhenever a trig teacher tells you the questions are a gift,” said Anthony from the back of the room, “you know you’ll need three advisors, a computer program, and four weeks to do them.”
    Everybody laughed.
    â€œDon’t panic,” said Emily. “There isn’t time left in the period to reach the final three questions anyhow.”
    I took advantage of the chatter to scribble in my journal.
    I meant to write my anger against the gossipy eager faces that had pressed into mine, but my anger came out against Ash.
Sister, sister.
    Oh, how I’ve missed her!
    I’ve been worrying …
    â€¦ currying …
    my memories.
    Trying to brush them into something sweet.
    Oh, Ash.
    Today’s been a treat.
    It really has.
    Those aren’t rock lyrics, I thought. Not a poem either. They’re my soul.
    â€œMy mother took trig in this very room,” said Anthony, “and in real adult life she has never needed a single fact you taught her, Miss Margolis.”
    â€œThank you for that contribution, Anthony,” said Miss Margolis, glaring. “It was truly inspiring.”
    â€œAny time,” said Anthony generously, and everyone laughed again.
    I looked over at him, but his eyes didn’t fall on me. By design? Was he trying to avoid seeing or thinking about me? Or had he forgotten me? My skin prickled, yearning for his attention. It was hard to focus my eyes in his direction for fear that he would look at me, and our eyes would lock and I would disintegrate and everybody would see it, and laugh.
    How can I manage to be alone with him, I thought, despairing, when so many people are rushing up asking for hot details on Ashley?
    Please God, don’t let Anthony ask me questions. Let him be understanding. Let him see I can’t bear talking about Ashley.
    I stared at Anthony.
    His handsomeness was rather like a shield. Like Ashley’s loud music or cruel words. I could not see beyond it. It protected him from view, and behind all that handsomeness, Anthony could be whatever he chose, and nobody would know.
    What an unsettling thought to have. I threw the thought out, like crumpled paper.
    â€œSpeaking of inspiration,” said Emily, “why don’t we read aloud from Beethoven’s journal? I’ll bet she’s writing something immortal right this minute.”
    They knew about my journal? My private hoard? My interior thoughts? They knew?
    Jeffrey lunged over two people, sprawling on Karen’s desk, and snatched the journal from my fingers. I cried out as if he had cut me with a knife. He would read it aloud. He would jeer. I would be as exposed as if they really had removed my clothing, and left me, like my sister, naked in a treehouse.
    Whit Moroso’s hand, like doom, robbed Jeffrey of his prize.
    Once Whit had it, it was gone. Even Jeffrey would not think of attempting to take anything from Whit. Emily made screeching noises and Karen giggled happily. Miss Margolis hesitated. She lets us get pretty rowdy, because this is an advanced class. But she was going to have to interfere and nobody liked tangling with Whit. Whit held the notebook in the air.
    I was falling into the jaws of some terrible dark hell. The mouths of the class yawned open around me. There was nothing kind or decent in the world, and I was all alone.
    Gently, Whit handed me back the journal, unopened. “It’s white-collar crime you have to look out for, you know, Beethoven,” he said softly. “High-class Jeffrey’s the danger, not low-class Whit. Lesson for the day.”
    I stared at him.
    â€œThe crime,” said Miss Margolis, “is that you have diminished your quiz time by five minutes