Read The Girl Who Never Was for Free Online

to be? I think of the vandalized pages in the pocket of my sweatshirt'Stewarts throughout Boston history. Could Ben have something to do with that? Ben, who is as inextricably a part of Boston to me as the Common itself?
    I look out my bedroom window. The Common's lazy paths are signaled to me by rows of lights along them, leading eventually to the brighter corner where Park Street T station sits. I stand there, torn. Is it madness to go look for Ben now? He is probably not there, not this late, but I feel compelled by the same need to find out something concrete that drove me to visit my father. My aunts don't want me to know, but I have to know. How am I supposed to make any decisions about my future when I know nothing at all about my past? When I don't really know who I am?
    I make the decision. No harm in running down there. My aunts think I'm in bed. They won't think to look for me; they won't notice I'm gone. Anyway, they're in bed by now too.
    I pull on my sweatshirt, check its pocket, all the strange things I'm randomly carrying around because I'm insane: pages ripped from old books, check; shard of glass wrapped in tissue, check. Then I slip past the grandfather clock on the landing'it chimes 6:15 as I pass'down to the front hall and out of the house.
    I walk briskly down to Park Street. It is a damp, chilly night.
    The air feels saturated with rain. I don't expect Ben to be out on a night like this, but he is there, just out of the circle of light from Park Street, standing on the grass. He is wearing jeans and a windbreaker, sweatshirt, and raincoat, and none of them match'bright orange sweatshirt, bright blue windbreaker, Kelly green raincoat, the colors clash and run together, and that is also not unusual for Ben. He is, however, without anything to sell, which is highly unusual for Ben. He is standing, the collar of his raincoat turned up against the rain in the air, hood over his head, his hands tucked into the pockets of his windbreaker, and he watches me approach, his eyes never leaving me. In this half-light, those distinctive eyes of his are the color of the rain beginning to fall around us, quicksilver, hinting flashes.
    I walk over to him, but once there, I don't know what to say, how to begin. What do you know about my mother? What do you know about me?
    Ben looks at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable, and I look back, and he talks first. 'Don't say my name.'
    The only name he has ever told me is Ben, but I know that's not what he's talking about, and that makes me furious suddenly. Ben clearly knows so much more about me than he has ever let on, than I have ever told him, and I still know nothing about him. He doesn't even want me to know his name.
    'Benedict Le Fay?'I ask scathingly. 'That name?'
    Ben winces like I'd reached out and slapped him, which is so overdramatic. All I did was snap his name.
    'So that's your name, is it? A name you never told me? How do you know I know it now? Are you in constant contact with my father's nurses? And how does my father know your name, anyway? How do you know my father? Why does my father get to know your name and not me?'The questions trip out of my mouth in a tidal wave. Now that I've started asking things, I think I might never stop.
    'Okay,'says Ben, his eyes flickering around us as if he's scared I'm making a scene, attracting attention. 'You clearly have a lot of questions, and you deserve answers''
    'I deserve answers?'Something about the phrase makes me even more furious than I already was, like the truth about my entire life is a treat he's giving me, a reward for good behavior. 'How nice of you.'My voice is dripping sarcasm. 'Exactly how much do you know about me, Benedict Le Fay?'I fling his name at him, the only thing I've managed to learn about him.
    He hisses in a breath. 'Stop that,'he commands harshly. 'You need to stop that.'
    I am so sick of being ordered around. 'Stop what? Saying your name? What is the big deal? I know one thing