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

In my town, Grits are the ones who still sometimes drive around with Confederate
flags hanging off their pickups and stuff. Grits are the ones who still say the
N word sometimes, and not because they are quoting Chris Rock or Jennifer Lopez
or whoever. Although I happen to know quite a few so-called Grits who would
never call someone the N word, just like I happen to know, from personal
experience, a few Townies who wouldn't hesitate to call a female like myself
with very short hair and a tendency to be a little quick with my fists the D
word, or my friend Ruth, who happens to be Jewish, the K word that rhymes with
it.
So you can see why when we saw the Thompkinses moving in, some of us thought
there might be trouble from other people.
But it had been almost a month, and so far, no incidents. So maybe everything
was going to be all right.
That's what I thought then. Everything's different now, of course. Still, at the
time, all I did was try to put Dr. Thompkins at ease as he stood there in our
foyer. Hey, I didn't know. How could I possibly have known? I may be psychic,
but I'm notthat psychic.
"Hey,mi casa es su casa , Dr. Thompkins," I told him, which is probably about
the lamest thing on earth there is to say, but whatever. I wasn't feeling real
creative, thanks to Great-aunt Rose, who is a major brain drain. Also, I am
taking French, not Spanish.
Dr. Thompkins smiled, but only just. Then he uttered the words that made it feel
like it had started to snow after all. Only all the snow was pouring down the
back of my sweater.
"It's just that I was wondering," he said, "if you'd seen my son."
C H A P T E R
2
Ibacked up until my calves hit the stairs to the second floor. When they did, I
had to sit down on the first landing, which was only about four steps up,
because my knees didn't feel like they would hold me up anymore.
"I don't—" I said, through lips that seemed to have gone as cold as ice. "I
don't do that anymore. Maybe nobody told you. But I don't do that anymore."
Dr. Thompkins looked down at me like I had said a dingo ate my baby, or
something. He went, his face all perplexed, "I beg your pardon?"
Fortunately at that moment my dad came out of the dining room, his napkin still
tucked into the waistband of his pants. My mom followed him, with Mike—Claire,
as usual, attached to his hip—trailing behind her.
"Hey, Jerry," my dad said, to Dr. Thompkins, holding out his right hand. "How's
it going?"
"Hello, Joe," Dr. Thompkins said. Then he corrected himself. "I mean, hey." He
took my dad's hand and shook it. To my mom, he said, "How are you, Toni?"
"Fine, Jerry," my mom said. "And you?"
"Could be better," Dr. Thompkins said. "I'm really sorry to interrupt your meal.
I was just wondering if any of you had seen my son, Nate. He went out a couple
hours ago, saying he was just going to run to the store—Rowena ran out of
whipped cream—but we haven't seen him since. I thought maybe he'd have stopped
over here to visit with your boys, or maybe Jessica. . . ."
Over on the steps where I'd sank, I felt color start to return to my face. Sure,
I was relieved—relieved that Dr. Thompkins hadn't been asking me to find his
son. . . . He'd merely been asking if I'd seen him.