"Betty Miles - The Trouble With Thirteen" - читать интересную книгу автора (Miles Betty)

We set the marker on top of the grave, in the fresh dirt. I couldn't believe that Nora was lying under that dirt. She would never see what Kenny had made for
her. All of a sudden I began to sob. Rachel put her arm around me.
Dad said, "Remember that book we used to read when you were little, The Dead Bird?"
I nodded.
"There's a page at the end, after the children have buried the bird, with a picture of all of them flying their kites. And the words say, 'And every day, until they forgot, they went back to their little dead bird and put fresh flowers on its grave.'"
"111 never forget!"
"You'll never forget Nora," Dad said. "None of us will. But each day the sadness of her death will fade away a little."
I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to believe it yet. But I understood what he meant.
"Thanks," I said. I put my head against his chest and hugged him hard.
That was Nora's funeral.
Spring got more beautiful each day. The trees were a soft green and Mom's Ms were blooming and all the air smelled sweet. The least little thing could make me cry. A dog running across a yard. A sad part in a book. A loving glance from Mom. A dog-food ad on television. A couple of times I cried when Rachel tried to make me laugh, because I was so grateful to her.
I missed Nora terribly.
Nothing I did seemed real. I felt as though I was a stranger who was pretending to be Annie Morrison, a girl whose dog had died just when her best friend was moving away and her whole life seemed to be changing. It was almost like being in a play about this girl, without knowing how she should act or what lines she was supposed to say. Or what was going to happen to her in the next scene.
I kept wondering when the sadness would fade. It
was still so sharp my throat ached. Every day when I came home from school I had to stop myself from wishing Nora would run out the door and jump down the steps and throw herself at me with her tail thumping happily against my legs.
One afternoon as I was walking slowly up the driveway, Peter James came up behind me and tapped my shoulder.
"Oh, hi!" I was startled. "Hi, Peter." I hadn't seen him since Nora died. I'd been trying not to bump into him. Now I felt awkward and shy.
"I just wanted to say I'm sorry about Nora."
"Oh. Thanks. Thanks a lot." I stood there dumbly. I didn't know what to say. I was ashamed to talk about dying with Peter. I would have hated him to think I was stupid to be heartbroken over just a dog, when having your father die must be about a million times worse.
"I really miss her," Peter said. "She was such a good old dog. It's funny to come by your house and not have her run out with her tail wagging."
"I know it! That's how I feel, whenever I come home," I said. "It's so hard to get used to the idea that she's dead!" As soon as I said that I wished I hadn't. What Peter had to get used to was so very much worse.
But he didn't act offended. He nodded seriously. "It's a tough thing to get used to," he said. He stood there for a minute, looking at me thoughtfully as
though we shared the same experience, even though all I knew of death was Nora. I thought that was awfully kind of him. He reached out and touched my arm. "I'm really sorry," he said. Then he turned and walked away.
"Thanks, Peter," I called after him. I realized I had felt more comfortable with Peter just then, talking about dying, than I ever had before, when I was worrying about making pointless conversation or wondering how I looked. I think Peter's own sorrow must make him sympathetic to other people. I hope I can get to be more like that.
Mom wasn't home that afternoon. The house seemed very empty. I made a snack and changed my clothes and went to the basement to take clean sheets for my bed from the drier. I was pulling them out when I looked up and saw Nora's dog-chow dish on the back of a shelf where Mom must have put it, not wanting to throw it away but knowing I wasn't ready to think of another dog. When I saw the dish, I burst out crying, wiping my face on a warm clean sheet. Then I ran back upstairs and threw myself down on my bed with the sun pouring across my legs and cried and cried until I fell asleep.
Later that afternoon I got my first period.
Of course, it wasn't a surprise. I had always known it would happen. But I think I probably never truly believed it until it did. Knowing about something
ahead of time doesn't help you that much. You could talk about it with your mother and see movies about it in school and read millions of ads about girls climbing mountains or drinking Cokes while they're having their periods and still not really know how you'll feel when it finally happens to you. The ads say you feel "carefree." But how could anyone be carefree when they're noticing shifts and rumblings going on inside them and seeing this bloody stuff come out of them? Or feel carefree about the stuff getting your period is supposed to mean you're ready for, when you know you're not ready yet. And you aren't sure you ever want to be. I certainly didn't feel carefree about all that. I felt strange.
But at the same time, I was relieved. I must have been worried about getting my period for a long time without ever actually admitting it to myself. I think it made me tense. It's probably one reason I used to be so bothered by kids like Debbie or Iris McGee acting sophisticated. Maybe it's why I never especially wanted to bring up the subject with Rachel. I didn't like her to know how uncomfortable it made me. Now that it had finally happened, I wouldn't need to worry about it all the time. I could relax. That was the good part.
The bad part was that I didn't know how to tell Rachel. It wasn't that I wanted to keep it from her, but for some reason it was hard to just come right out and say it: "I got my period." Telling Mom was more
natural, somehow. I knew beforehand that Mom would be pleased. I didn't know how Rachel would feel about it.
For days after it happened, I couldn't seem to tell her. Whenever I planned to, it would turn out that Rachel had to go somewhere, or we'd be with other kids, or we would finally be alone and then I'd be too shy to bring it up. But I had to tell her. She'd find out sometime, and she'd be hurt to discover I hadn't told her right away. Finally, I promised myself that the next time we were by ourselves I'd just come out and say it.
The next time would be Saturday. Rachel wasn't going to the city. She wanted me to walk around Madison with her so she could take pictures of me in all our familiar places for her album. I was a little embarrassed-I told her I'd feel like Annie Morrison, Girl of Suburbia-but I was glad she wanted to do it.
On Saturday morning I put on my nicest shirt and brushed my hair especially well. I knew Rachel wouldn't let me brush it later. Real photographers like Rachel and her father don't want you to look as though you've gotten ready for the camera. All Mr. Weiss's photographs of Rachel have her with messy hair or dirty bare feet or milk on her mouth. They're good pictures, though. They look just like her.
I arranged my hair carefully and then I messed it up just a little so it wouldn't look arranged. I tucked my shirt tighter and stared at myself in the mirror. My
breasts seemed to look as though they belonged there. Maybe it was just that I was getting more used to them. After all, I had got my period, too.
Kenny was sleeping late, but Mom and Dad were in the kitchen when I went down.
Mom looked at me approvingly, and gave me a. hug. "Good morning!" she said.
"You look very pretty this morning, Coke," said Dad.
I think they're both pleased that I'm growing up.
When I got to Rachel's, Mrs. Weiss was just backing out of the garage.
"Hi, Annie," she said. "Isn't it a beautiful day? I'm so glad you and Rachel can spend it together." She looked at me lovingly. "How are you these days? You must really miss that beautiful dog of yours."
"I do," I said. "I'm O.K. It's just hard to get used to it." I suddenly wanted to say something comforting to her. "How are you?" I asked. "I hope you're O.K., as much as you can be."
Mrs. Weiss reached out of the car window and touched my cheek. "Thank you, hon. It'll take a while, I guess, but I'll be fine." She smiled and blew me a kiss and drove away.
"Stay there!" Rachel ran out of the house and took a picture of me coming up the walk. Then we went inside and she took me beside the doll house. After that, we started downtown.
It was about ten in the morning. The sun was already high and almost hot. The yards on Rachel's
street were dappled with leaf shadows. We walked along slowly without saying much. I thought of what I was going to tell Rachel. I didn't have to do it right away.
We turned onto Main Street at the post-office corner and went past the barber shop and the stationery store. For a joke, Rachel took my picture by the window of a store that sells fat ladies' clothes. A warm sugary smell was pouring out of the doughnut shop next door.
"Let's get doughnuts," Rachel said. She pronounced it "do-nuts" because that's how the sign is spelled. Once, when we were in about third grade, Rachel tried to complain about the spelling, but the woman behind the counter didn't understand her. She called the cook out, and he patted Rachel's head and gave us each a free jelly doughnut. So it was worthwhile, but they never changed the sign.
We bought our doughnuts and took them outside. Rachel finished hers quickly and wiped her hands.