"Cabot, Meg - 1-800-Where-R-You 04 - Sanctuary" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cabot Meg)

the eleventh grade—not to mention the whole jailbait factor. But let's be real.
You and I come from different worlds."
"That," I said, "is so not—"
"Well, different sides of the tracks, then."
"Just because I'm a Townie," I said, "and you're a—"
He held up a single hand. "Look, Mastriani. Let's face it. This isn't going to
work."
I've been working really hard on my anger management issues lately. Except for
that whole thing with the football players—and Karen Sue Hankey—I hadn't beat up
a single person or served a day of detention the whole semester. Mr. Goodhart,
my guidance counselor, said he was really proud of my progress, and was thinking
about canceling my mandatory weekly meetings with him.
But when Rob held up his hand like that, and said that this, meaning us, wasn't
going to work, it was about all I could do to keep from grabbing that hand and
twisting Rob's arm behind his back until he said uncle. All that kept me from
doing it, really, was that I have found that boys don't really like it when you
do things like this to them, and I wanted Rob to like me. To more than like me.
So instead of twisting his arm behind his back, I put my hands on my hips,
cocked my head, and went, "Does this have something to do with that Gary dude?"
Rob unfolded his arms and turned back to his bike. "No," he said. "This is
between you and me, Mastriani."
"Because I noticed you don't seem to like him very much."
"You're sixteen years old," Rob said, to the bike. "Sixteen!"
"I mean, I guess I could understand why you don't like him. It must be weird to
see your mom with some guy other than your dad. But that doesn't mean it's okay
to take it out on me."
"Jess." It always meant trouble when Rob called me by my first name. "You've got
to see that this can't go anywhere. I'm on probation, okay? I can't get caught
hanging out with somekid —"
The kid part stung, but I graciously chose to ignore it, observing that Rob, in
the words of Great-aunt Rose's hero, Oprah, was in some psychic pain.
"What I hear you saying," I said, talking the way Mr. Goodhart had advised me to
talk when I was in a situation that might turn adversarial, "is that you don't
want to see me anymore because you feel that our age and socioeconomic
differences are too great—"
"Don't even tell me that you don't agree," Rob interrupted, in a warning tone.
"Otherwise, why haven't you told your parents about me? Huh? Why am I this dark
secret in your life? If you were so sure that we have something that could work,
you'd have introduced me to them by now."
"What I am saying to you in response," I went on, as if he hadn't spoken, "is
that I believe you are pushing me away because your father pushed you away, and
you can't stand to be hurt that way again."
Rob looked at me over his shoulder. His smokey gray eyes, in the light from the
single bulb hanging from the wooden beam overhead, were shadowed.
"You're nuts," was all he said. But he really seemed to mean it sincerely.
"Rob," I said, taking a step toward him. "I just want you to know, I am not like
your dad. I will never leave you."
"Because you're a freaking psycho," Rob said.
"No," I said. "That's not why. It's because I lo—"
"Don't!" he said, thrusting the rag out at me like it was a weapon. There was a