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

The thing is, he and Rachel's mother don't get along
that well anymore. Mr. Weiss has gone on more trips than usual this year. Each time he comes home Rachel hopes that things will get better. She doesn't say so, but I know, because that's what I hope. I'm scared of what might happen if things get worse.
"I just don't know where the dirt comes from," Rachel complained, like a woman on a TV ad. She was lying on her dining-room floor with her head in the doll house kitchen. We were giving it a spring cleaning. Rachel's father had brought her a shiny little copper teakettle from London and that got us started.
Rachel's had her doll house since we were about eight. Her father made it. It's white with green shutters, like their real house. It has ten rooms, counting the attic. When we were young we played with it in an ordinary way. We'd save our allowances and get sets of matching plastic furniture in the dime store. But now we try to make the house as perfect as we can. We have special things in every room, like the blue chest full of tiny dishes that Rachel's aunt brought her from Mexico and the fourposter bed I made her last Christmas and the hooked rug she made herself. Each room has a different color scheme. Some
people might think playing with doll houses is babyish, but the way Rachel and I do it it's actually quite sophisticated.
"What are you getting Kate for her birthday?" I asked. Kate was going to be thirteen on Saturday. She was having a sleep-over party. It was the first time one of our friends would be thirteen.
"I don't know." Rachel pulled the kitchen table out of the doll house. "I haven't really thought about it yet."
"There isn't much time." I hadn't decided what to get either. I wasn't sure what would be good, for thirteen.
Rachel took out a kitchen chair and dusted it carefully, rung by rung. Then she started to dust another. She studied it seriously, as though it was terribly important to get the chair clean. She was bent over so I couldn't see her face. Then she set the chair down and looked at me.
"You know what?" she said, very seriously.
"What?" I suddenly knew she was going to say something awful.
"I think Mom and Dad might get divorced," she said. Abruptly, she picked up another chair and started in on it.
I didn't know what to say.
"I just have this feeling," Rachel said. "Ever since Dad came back. I can't stop thinking about it. They're acting so-I don't know-so different."
"Oh, Rach!" I was scared. "Did they say anything?"
"No. I think they're trying to hide it so I won't worry. But I do worry!" She pushed her glasses up.
"Maybe it's just in your mind," I said hopefully.
"It's not! Last night I woke up and heard them arguing in this terrible way-" She paused. "I used to love to lie in bed and listen to them laughing downstairs. They don't ever seem to laugh anymore."
I felt so sorry for her.
"I know people get divorced all the time," Rachel went on, as though she'd been working this out. "It's not that unusual. Look at Sue Nason's parents. Or Debbie Goldstein's. Look at all the worse things that could happen, like Peter James' father."
Peter is Kenny's best friend. He lives on our block. His father had a heart attack on the golf course one day last fall and just suddenly died.
"Still," Rachel said. "You don't really think that anything bad could happen to you. Until it does."
I know it. I often think about that. It seems as though so much that happens to you just depends on luck. Some people have awful luck. In a way I feel guilty. I always wonder how I would act if I were blind, or crippled, or if someone in my family had a terrible brain disease. If one of my parents died. Or if they got divorced. I can't imagine it. I wish I could think I would act courageous, like people in books, but I bet I would just be whiny.
"Oh, Rach," I said. "I'm so sorry for you!" I reached out and touched her hand.
"Yeah, thanks." Rachel smiled weakly. "Anyway, I could be wrong. They could just be having some argument, not getting divorced."
"I bet that's it," I said. I hoped that was it.
The back door slammed, and Mrs. Weiss came into the dining room. She sank into a chair. "Hi, hon. Hi, Annie."
"Hi," we both said. It was hard to act ordinary. I wondered if it was hard for Mrs. Weiss, too. She took off her sweater and hung it on the chair. She didn't look that different. Mrs. Weiss is tall and quite beautiful. She looks like a fashion model, which is what she was before she got to be a nursery school teacher. Rachel says she hated it, except that's how she met Mr. Weiss.
"Want to eat supper with us, Annie?" she asked.
She sounded very normal. I wondered if Rachel could be wrong. She does have a pretty vivid imagination.
"I can't, thanks," I said. "Kenny and I promised to cook because Mom has a deadline." Mom's a designer for a print shop. She works at home. Her work room is in the attic. When she has an important deadline, she sometimes works all night.
"I don't know how your mother does it," Mrs. Weiss said. "Working under pressure all the time."
"Mom says she doesn't know how you do it," I said. "She says she'd go nuts being around little kids all day."
Mrs. Weiss smiled. "I go nuts. But I love it."
"When's Dad coming home?" Rachel asked.
Mrs. Weiss stopped smiling. "I don't know. Not till late, anyway. He phoned me at work. He's having dinner with some editor who wants a picture story on Cuba."
"Cuba!" Rachel said. "He just got home three days ago."
"That's not the editor's problem," Mrs. Weiss said quickly. Then she smiled at Rachel almost apologetically. "Listen, how about if we go eat at McDonald's? I don't feel that excited about cooking."
"Sure," Rachel said. "Neat," she added, as though she was trying to sound appreciative.
"I better go," I said. I felt guilty at wanting to get away. I picked up my books and my jacket. "So long, Rachel," I said. "So long, Mrs. Weiss."
When I went out, the sky was pink. Everything smelled springy and fresh. I walked along trying to squelch down my worried feelings, but I couldn't get them out of my mind.
The late high school bus went past just before I reached my corner. It stopped, and Peter James got off. He saw me and waved, so of course I had to walk on up to him.
"Hi, Annie," he said. He was wearing a red and navy striped shirt and faded jeans. His hair's blond. He looked like a kid on a paperback book cover.
"Hi." I started walking along with him because he seemed to expect me to. I feel embarrassed with Peter. Not just because his father died, but also because he's in high school now. I don't want him to think I expect him to be nice to me just because he's Kenny's friend and we used to play together. I try not to meet him on the street so he won't think he has to talk to me.
"Been at Rachel's?" he asked.
"Yeah." I didn't know what to add. I hoped he wouldn't think I was being unfriendly. I took a little step to get in step with him and by mistake I bumped his arm. I hate to be so awkward.
"Tell Kenny to come over after dinner," he said when we got to my driveway.
"O.K.," I said. I could just feel him trying not to look at my chest.
"See ya, Annie." He tapped my shoulder and walked away.
I glanced down quickly to see how tight my T-shirt had looked. Just then Peter turned around. I pretended to scratch my knee so he'd think I was looking down at it.