The Twinning Project Read Online Free

thinking about the music, and I didn’t notice Britzky rush out of Mrs. Rupp’s class ahead of me. He was waiting for me in the hall when I walked out.
    He looked wild. “You think you’re so smart!” he shouted.
    â€œTom, watch out!” screamed Alessa. She was right behind me.
    Britzky charged me. I jumped out of the way, but Alessa didn’t move fast enough, and he slammed into her.
    â€œMind your business, whale-butt,” he growled at her.
    I helped Alessa pick up her music books. She wouldn’t look at me because she was crying.
    Too bad,
I thought.
I might have liked it here at this school for a while. But now I have to do something about Britzky.
    It would probably get me expelled again.

NINE
    NEARMONT, N.J.
    2011
    Â 
    T HE night before I did something about Britzky, I rode my bike over to Grandpa’s nursing home in time for dessert. It’s against the rules for visitors to eat there without advance notice, except for me when I bring my violin and play with Grandpa, who plays the piano. He can still do that, except if you ask him to play Mozart, you might get some old song like “Moon River.”
    He was glad to see me and gave me a big hug. “Who are you?”
    â€œTom, your grandson. John’s son.”
    â€œJohn.” He smiled. “He was here yesterday.”
    I wish. Dad disappeared two years ago when the small plane he was on crashed into a lake. He was on his way to give a violin master class. Everybody was saved except Dad. His body was never found.
    â€œWant to play?” I said.
    â€œChess?”
    â€œMusic.”
    â€œWhat do I play?”
    I led him over to the piano. We got applause before I even took my violin out of its padded backpack. Grandpa surprised me by starting Beethoven’s Sonata no. 1. Then he suddenly switched to a song from
South Pacific.
It was fun trying to keep up with him. He played tunes from other Broadway shows. I was sorry after a half hour or so when he got tired and quit.
    Dessert was great. Chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream. Old ladies kept coming over to our table to pinch my cheek and rub Grandpa’s back.
    Grandpa leaned over to me. “Listen up.” He put his mouth close to my ear and whispered, “Stay on your toes. It’s crunch time. The monitors have landed.”
    I felt sad. Poor Grandpa. Sometimes I thought he was my only friend in the world—at least the only nonimaginary one—and he was old and crazy. I hugged him and told him I had to get home.
    He said loud enough for all the old ladies to hear, “Come back soon, John.”

TEN
    NEARMONT, N.J.
    2011
    Â 
    B OTH cars were in the driveway when I got home, and there were lights on in the kitchen and living room. I didn’t want to have to talk to Mom or the Lump. I rode around to the back of the house and into the little stone garden that nobody ever used except me. I leaned my bike against a tree and waited for Eddie.
    Sometimes it takes a while for the clouds to open up so I can spot the double stars in Eddie’s galaxy. Until there’s a clear path through the sky between us, we can’t send our thought beams.
    I know this sounds insane, which is why I don’t talk about it. It all began about two years ago.
    The summer Dad disappeared, Mom was a wreck and I hung out with Grandpa. His mind was fine then. We’d sit in the stone garden and take turns reading books to each other. Grandpa’s favorite author was Mark Twain. Grandpa said everything you need to know about how the world works and how people act was in Mark Twain’s books. He said Dad thought so, too.
    First, we read
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer,
which I liked, and then
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn,
which I liked even better. Huck was a rebel. Next we read
The Prince and the Pauper,
and then
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court,
which I liked even though it was too long and I didn’t understand everything