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

"Dad." I thought my head was going to explode. "It's Thanksgiving. There is no
one out on the streets. Even the cops are at home."
"It's supposed to snow," he said.
"The forecast said tomorrow, not tonight." I tried to look my most dependable.
"I will call you as soon as I get there, and then again, right before I leave. I
swear."
"Well, Joe." Mr. Lippman walked into the kitchen. "May I extend my compliments
to the chef? That was the best Thanksgiving dinner I've had in ages."
My dad looked pleased. "Really, Burt? Well, thank you. Thank you so much."
"Dad," I said, standing by the heart-shaped key peg by the garage door.
My dad barely looked at me. "Take your mother's car," he said to me. Then, to
Mr. Lippman, he went, "You didn't think the mashed potatoes were a little too
garlicky?"
Victorious, I snatched my mom's car keys—on a Girl Scout whistle key chain, in
case she got attacked in the parking lot at Wal-Mart; no one had ever gotten
attacked there before, but you never knew. Besides, everybody had gotten
paranoid since Mastriani's burnt down, even though they'd caught the perps—and I
bolted.
Free at last, I thought, as I climbed behind the wheel of her Volkswagen
Rabbit.Free at last. Thank God almighty, I am free at last .
Which is an actual historical quote from a famous person, and probably didn't
really apply to the current situation. But believe me, if you'd been cooped up
all evening with Great-aunt Rose, you'd have thought it, too.
About the license thing. Yeah, that was kind of funny, actually. I was virtually
the only junior at Ernie Pyle High who didn't have a driver's license. It wasn't
because I wasn't old enough, either. I just couldn't seem to pass the exam. And
not because I can't drive. It's just this whole, you know, speed limit thing.
Something happens to me when I get behind the wheel of a car. I don't know what
it is. I just need—I mean reallyneed —to go fast. It must be like a hormonal
thing, like Mike and Claire Lippman, because I fully can't help it.
So really, my parents have no business letting me use the car. I mean, if I got
into a wreck, no way was their insurance going to cover the damages.
But the thing was, I wasn't going to get into a wreck. Because except for the
lead foot thing, I'm a good driver. Areally good driver.
Too bad I suck at pretty much everything else.
My mother's car is a Rabbit. It doesn't have nearly the power of my dad's Volvo,
but it's got punch. Plus, with me being so short, it's a little easier to
maneuver. I backed out of the driveway—piece of cake, even in the dark—and
pulled out onto empty Lumbley Lane. Across the street, all the lights in the
Hoadley place—I mean, the Thompkins place—were blazing. I looked up, at the
windows directly across the street from my bedroom dormers. Those, I knew, from
having seen her in them, were Tasha Thompkins's bedroom windows. The
Thompkinses, who had grandparents visiting—I knew because they'd turned down my
mom and dad's invitation to Thanksgiving dinner on account of their already
having their own guests—had eaten earlier than we had, if Nate had been sent out
two hours ago for whipped cream. Tasha, I could see, was upstairs in her room
already. I wondered what she was doing. I hoped not homework. But Tasha sort of
seemed like the homework-after-Thanksgiving-dinner kind of girl.
Unlike me. I was the sneak-out-to-meet-her-boyfriend-after-Thanksgiving-dinner
kind of girl.