"Pat Murphy - Iris versus the Black Knight" - читать интересную книгу автора (Murphy Pat)

PAT MURPHY - Iris versus the Black Knight

When Iris opened her eyes that morning, the world was gray. She blinked at her bedspread: dove-gray
chenille. The walls of her room were covered with pale gray wallpaper patterned with black roses. The night
before, she remembered, the bedspread had been pink, the roses on the wallpaper had been red.

"Iris!" her mother called from the kitchen. "Get out of bed!"

Iris scrambled from bed, staring wildly around her room. Her clothes were gray; her toys were gray; the carpet
beneath her feet was gray. Outside her window, the grass was the color of ashes and the sky was filled with
clouds. No color anywhere.

"Hurry, Iris." Iris's mother bustled into the room. She was already dressed for work in a neat black suit with
black shoes. "You'll be late for school if you don't get dressed right now. Here you go." She snatched a dress
from the closet and tossed it onto the bed. "Now get dressed. No excuses now."

"But Mom," Iris said in a small voice, "the colors . . . . "

Too late. Her mother was already halfway down the hall to the kitchen. Not that it mattered much. Her mother
never had time to listen.

Iris took off her pajamas and pulled the dress over her head. Last night, the dress had been blue. It had been
her favorite dress: a beautiful sky blue with dark blue trim. Now it was the color of storm clouds and the trim
was black.

Before her mother could return, Iris hurried to her school desk, where she had been coloring the night before.
The picture she had colored so carefully in brilliant blues and reds and yellows had faded to gray and black.

She shook her head, bewildered. The crayons that lay scattered on the desk were all shades of gray and
white and black: charcoal, granite, ash gray, pearl, dirty snow. She picked up a crayon that had all the paper
peeled away. That crayon had been red the night before. When she had worn it down to the paper she had
peeled away the wrapping so that she could keep coloring. It had been red, she was sure of that. Her heart
pounded as she picked up the crayon and scribbled on a scrap of paper. The line she drew was black.

"No dawdling," her mother said, swooping into the room. "It's breakfast time, young lady."

"But my picture. . . . "Iris protested. Before she could say more, her mother had rolled the picture and
snapped a rubber band around it. She tugged a brush through Iris's unruly hair, complaining about the tangles
and the curls. Then she escorted Iris to the breakfast table.

Iris was still holding her crayon, clutching it so hard her hand ached. "But Mom . . . "

"Eat your breakfast," her mother said.

Knowing that her mother was not in a mood to listen to anything, Iris slipped the crayon into the pocket of her
dress. She ate gray cornflakes. Her mother took her to the bus stop on the corner. A granite-colored school
bus took her to school.

The bus was crowded and noisy. Iris sat quietly, surrounded by fifth graders who ignored her completely. She
looked out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of a color, any color. The stop signs were black and white;