"Susan Wade - The Convertible Coven" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wade Susan)

THE CONVERTIBLE COVEN
By Susan Wade
****

I CUT OUT OF MY TRIG class twenty minutes early on Wednesday to make the
meeting of the “Powers of Witchcraft” series at the Pagan Church. I hated to leave
because Dr. Lufkin was explaining the Hartford algorithm and talking about its
development process, which was fascinating. Plus Dr. L. gave me a disappointed
look as I left, which made me feel bad. He’s a great prof.

Anyway, I left, and twenty minutes should have been plenty of time to make it
to the seminar, except Mr. Brown wouldn’t start. Mr. Brown is my car. He’s a 1969
VW fastback with a sunroof and a dark bronze-brown paint job, which is how he
got his name.

My father still hasn’t reconciled himself to me buying Mr. Brown instead of
the seven-year-old Toyota he had all picked out for me. But the second I walked
onto that used-car lot and saw Mr. Brown, with that dent in his fender that looked
just like a dimple in his front-grille smile, I knew he was the car for me. The way I
look at it, I worked two summers to save the money, and it was going to be my car,
not Dad’s. Mr. Brown may not be as new as that Toyota was, but he’s got
character.

On the Wednesday in question, he was displaying more than usual. I got in,
flung my backpack in the passenger seat, and prepared myself for the ritual by
clearing my mind, taking deep breaths, and opening myself to the inner light. Then,
when I was certain my aura was clear, I inserted the key in the ignition, pumped the
accelerator three and one-fourth times, and turned the key.

This works every time, if I’ve really found inner stillness. I guess I hadn’t
because Mr. Brown gave a long soggy cough and nothing more. I tried again. No
dice.

A guy with short kinky black hair and a kind of goofy-looking shy grin
stopped next to Mr. Brown. He shifted his books to his left arm and said, “Excuse
me, miss. Maybe I can help?”

I was about to explain that conversations distracted me from cleansing my
aura, when he added, “Sounds to me like one of your spark-plug wires has worked
loose.”

Mr. Brown had sounded funny. I got out. “Hey, you might be right,” I said,
opening the trunk and checking the connections. One of the rubber connector caps
at the end of a wire was cracked and wasn’t seated tightly. “How’d you guess?”

The guy got a little pink. “I work on cars. It’s how I’m putting myself through
school. VW’s are my specialty.”

I held out a hand. “I’m Angie,” I said. “Thanks for the suggestion.”