"Vukcevich-RugRats" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vukcevich Ray)

in my pants pockets. I will not stand up straight don't even ask me to.

I slouch on back and say Sorry to Jack.

"Hey! It's not your fault." He straightens my cap, punches my shoulder, makes me
feel okay, says, "Stay here, you guys, I'll go check out the Supermarket."

What he means is the dumpster behind the grocery store. Sometimes they forget to
close the padlock. I settle down in the doorway with Nancy again, and we watch
Jack quiet and quick like an alley shadow going going gone.

We wait forever, and I'm half asleep with my head on Nancy's shoulder when Jack
gets back and squats down beside us.

"Look what I found."

I struggle to sit up. "What is it?"

"A turkey frank," Jack says.

"Looks like somebody's weenie," I say, and Nancy makes amazed I can't believe
you said that noises, and Jack laughs and Nancy says where do you get such
ideas, and I can't stop grinning, feels so good it hurts and maybe it's just too
much when everyone is paying attention to you, when it's finally your turn, and
maybe I'll just go off like fireworks, light up the sky, be a million sparks
down your neck, and Nancy sees that maybe it's time we just let the chuckles
settle, and she says over the top of my head to Jack, "So how do you know it's a
turkey frank.?"

"The label," Jack says. "Last good one in the package." He puts the frank down
on a scrap of cardboard, and we all lean in to look at it --so slick and pink
and perfect.

"Wish we had some cranberry sauce," Jack says. He puts his hand on my am. "Do
you think you can find us some cranberry sauce in that book of yours.?"

I take out my pocket dictionary and flip through the pages. I find an entry for
"cranberry," but there is no cranberry sauce. I glance up at Jack and Nancy and
see them waiting. I suck in my breath. I can do this. I move my finger across
the page, pretending. I say, listen.

I say, don't you remember the way your Mom used to put the can in the
refrigerator days and days ahead of time, and when you'd pour yourself a glass
of milk or get a carrot stick, you'd see it and touch its rippling sides and
silvery top and maybe peel the label back a little and you'd feel it getting
colder and colder and then right before the big spread your Morn would open up
not just one side but both ends of the can and shake the purple log of berries
out so slow and slippery onto a snow white saucer and it would plop and splatter
and slide and almost get away and she'd say whoops and you'd want a taste and
she'd cut you a little slice and you'd put the spoon in your mouth and the red