"Steven Gould - Jumper 03 - Griffin's Story" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gould Stephen Jay)

Sensei Torres laughed and had everybody change partners. Later he said to me privately,
"Good eyes, Griff. It was bad karate. In a real fight, you can't block a strike that hasn't even
started."
But Paully was waiting when I finished changing for the walk home, just inside the locker
room, blocking the door. "So, you limey ass–licker, think you're somethin' with that stutter
punch? Think you can make me look bad in front of Sensei?"
 Maybe Dad was right about me having trouble keeping my mouth shut. It just came out,
unbidden.
"Bollocks. You don't need me to look bad. You do that all by yourself." Right away I was
sorry I said it, scared, in fact, but how do you take something like that back, especially when
you mean it?
He just charged, rage painted on his face like red paint, his fist cocked back and looking
larger than any paintball.
I couldn't help it. Really, I didn't mean to do it, I didn't mean to break the rule, but one
second his fist was heading toward my face like a thrown rock and the next I was standing in a
cloud of dust in a ravine, next to a paintball–splattered boulder, out in the Empty Quarter.
I'd just broken rules number one and two (don't jump near home and don't jump where
someone can see me) and maybe even rule four (don't jump unless I must–if I'm going to get
killed or captured).
I was in so much trouble.
So I lied. I jumped back to the school, outside, in the hollow between the stairs and a
hedge where I sometimes waited before karate, before the last bell rang. I used to sit in there
and watch, invisible, the outsider–the foreign homeschooler– and watch all the kids run off,
met by their parents or playing with each other on the playground.
I waited until I saw Paully leave, walking odd, looking back at the school with wide eyes. I
exhaled. He looked okay. My worry was that he'd run into the jump rot before it faded.
It only takes five minutes to walk home. I did it in two.
"How was class?" Mum asked when I pounded up the steps and into the kitchen. She
glanced at the clock. "Did you run?"
"Uh, yeah. Thirsty." I buried my face in the fridge. I could feel my ears burning. I never lied
to Mum. Well, technically it wasn't lying but they'd always been clear about lying by omission.
I came out with the Gatorade. Mum had already pulled a glass from the dishwasher. She
gave me a quick squeeze around the shoulders then set the glass on the counter. "Pork pie for
supper. Potatoes or rice?"
"Rice."
"Broccoli or green beans?"
I made a face. "Broccoli, if we have to."
She laughed. "Well, there's pudding after."
I nodded and headed for my room, but she snagged me by the collar. "Are you all right?"
She put the back of her hand against my forehead.
"What?"
"You didn't ask what kind of pudding. I'm thinkin' some terminal illness, maybe Ebola."
"Ha–ha. Okay, what kind?"
"Raspberry tart."
I said, "Brilliant!" to please her, but the truth was the thought of food made my stomach
clench into a hard little knot. "I think I'll just go and try another unit of math, okay?"
She took an exaggerated step back from me. "Or it could be bubonic plague. But go–mine
is not to question why. This may not last–it could be a fluke, a temporary aberration. Let's not
mess with it."
As I walked back to my room I heard her saying, "And maybe he'll do a science unit and a