Otherbound Read Online Free Page B

scribbles that stretched across his flesh. Dit letters. He’d practiced writing them the other night at the same time Amara had, and he’d forgotten to scrub them off. The letters along his arm aligned in a firm grid. His ballpoint couldn’t vary line thickness properly, so the lines weren’t as neat as Cilla’s or even Amara’s meticulous attempts and ended up looking cheap, almost fake.
    Nolan didn’t want to linger on them, though. Pat should be more important than some distant girl he’d never meet, no matter how much that distant girl slathered herself across his eyelids and pushed between this thought and that. “Nothing. Doodles.”
    â€œHuh. Didn’t you draw those in your journals, too?”
    Nolan froze. He tried not to sound upset: “You—read my journals?”
    â€œHow could I? I can’t open your cabinet.” Pat shrugged. “I walked past once while you were writing. I don’t want to read about your sexcapades, anyway.”
    Pat had that fake casual air, as though she said the wordevery day and it wasn’t just something she’d read online and thought was funny, but Nolan didn’t call her on it. If she’d read his notebooks, she’d be asking different questions entirely.
Who’s Amara?
And
Who’s Cilla?
And
How come you’re not more heavily medicated, Nolan?
    â€œOK,” he said, still leaning against the sink, the counter pressing a straight line into his elbows. He cleared his throat. “OK. Sorry.”
    â€œAnyway, Mom said she’d be home by five, so we’ll eat early. We’re having leftovers.”
    â€œI thought we finished those yesterday.”
    â€œThat was Grandma Pérez’s carnitas. We’re having the Thai now.”
    From three days ago? Nolan swallowed the words. The rule was that you didn’t toss out food until it turned suspicious colors. “Sounds good,” he replied, and managed a halfway genuine smile.

    â€œPatli, do you really need those gloves during dinner?” Mom said wearily.
    â€œYeah?” Pat shoveled more rice into her mouth. “If I only wore them at school, it wouldn’t be
authentic
. And I take them off during rehearsals for the play. Sometimes. My drama teacher said we need volunteers, by the way.”
    Nolan rolled a piece of corn around the rim of his plate. Aslong as he played with it, he didn’t have to consider the horrifying notion of actually eating it. His stomach rebelled at the thought. The spicy smell from Mom’s beef was bad enough already—
    â€”Amara rushed to clean up after lunch, scrubbing the plates, the cups. Next to her, Maart’s legs stuck out from the nearest alcove as he made Cilla’s bed. Amara was doing fine, Nolan thought, Nolan hoped—
    â€”throughout Mom and Pat’s conversation, Dad’s wide grin stretched even wider. All Pat’s weird choices in fashion and music and friends just seemed to amuse him. When his eyes fell on Nolan, all he said was, “Don’t forget to mention that nausea to Dr. Campbell tomorrow.”
    â€œDo you feel up to swimming yet?” Mom asked. “I’m working tonight. I’m leaving in twenty minutes, if you need a ride.”
    Nolan had almost forgotten: Sunday was his standard swimming day. He’d missed going that afternoon, but the pool closed late. He smiled a Mom-smile. “I’m much better”—such a lie—“but I think I’ll skip today.” Swimming would take his mind off things, but after what he’d found out about Mom, he had other plans. “I appreciate the offer, though.”
    Pat gave a roll of her eyes and—
    â€”downstairs, the nonstop raucousness of the inn’s pub increased. Jorn was down there, which meant Cilla was, too. They never left her alone—
    â€œâ€”he’s just being polite, Patli.” Mom tucked some hair from Nolan’s forehead