"Carl Hiaasen - Hoot" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hiaasen Carl)

same workers made a one-armed lunge at Roy but missed.
Suddenly there was grass under his feet againЧthe greenest, softest grass that
Roy had ever seen. He realized that he was on a golf course, and that the blond
kid was tearing down the middle of a long, lush fairway.
On one side was a row of tall Australian pines, and on the other side was a
milky man-made lake. Roy could see four brightly dressed figures ahead,
gesturing at the barefoot boy as he ran by.
Roy gritted his teeth and kept going. His legs felt like wet cement, and his
lungs were on fire. A hundred yards ahead, the boy cut sharply to the right and
disappeared into the pine trees. Roy doggedly aimed himself for the woods.
An angry shout echoed, and Roy noticed that the people in the fairway were
waving their arms at him, too. He kept right on running. Moments later there was
a distant glint of sunlight on metal, followed by a muted thwack. Roy didn't
actually see the golf ball until it came down six feet in front of him. He had
no time to duck or dive out of the way. All he could do was turn his head and
brace for the blow.
The bounce caught him squarely above the left ear, and at first it didn't even
hurt. Then Roy felt himself swaying and spinning as a brilliant gout of
fireworks erupted inside his skull. He felt himself falling for what seemed like
a long time, falling as softly as a drop of rain on velvet.
When the golfers ran up and saw Roy facedown in the sand trap, they thought he
was dead. Roy heard their frantic cries but he didn't move. The sugar-white sand
felt cool against his burning cheeks, and he was very sleepy.

The "cowgirl" jabЧwell, that was my own fault, he thought. He'd told the kids at
school he was from Montana, cattle country, when in fact he'd been born in
Detroit, Michigan. Roy's mother and father had moved away from Detroit when he
was only a baby, so it seemed silly to call it his hometown. In Roy's mind, he
didn't really have a hometown; his family had never stayed anywhere long enough
for Roy to feel settled.
Of all the places the Eberhardts had lived, Roy's favorite was Bozeman, Montana.
The snaggle-peaked mountains, the braided green rivers, the sky so blue it
seemed like a paintingЧRoy had never imagined anywhere so beautiful. The
Eberhardts stayed two years, seven months, and eleven days; Roy wanted to stay
forever.
On the night his father announced they'd be moving to Florida, Roy locked
himself in his bedroom and cried. His mother caught him climbing out the window
with his snowboard and a plastic tackle box in which he had packed underwear,
socks, a fleece ski jacket, and a $100 savings bond his grandfather had given
him as a birthday present.
His mother assured Roy that he would love Florida. Everybody in America wants to
move there, she'd said, it's so sunny and gorgeous. Then Roy's father had poked
his head in the door and said, with somewhat forced enthusiasm: "And don't
forget Disney World."
"Disney World is an armpit," Roy had stated flatly, "compared to Montana. I want
to stay here."
As usual, he was outvoted.
So when the homeroom teacher at Trace Middle asked the new kid where he was
from, he stood up and proudly said Bozeman, Montana. It was the same answer he
gave on the school bus when Dana Matherson accosted him on his first day, and