"Justina Robson - Silver Screen" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robson Justina)

тАШBut I canтАЩt,тАЩ I said. тАШI donтАЩt even know what the question means. Why is it
asked? Why is it important? How did whoever figured it out figure it out? What put
them onto it? I canтАЩt apply this stuff.тАЩ
тАШJust donтАЩt worry about it.тАЩ She sounded dismissive, already more interested
in her work than talking to me. I felt shamed and resentful and that was the last time I
went into her room, or talked to her except in passing. It never occurred to me then
that she might be frightened by what I said, or envious.
Left alone with my fear I soon became lethargic and sullen, and it was shortly
afterwards that I threw myself into a new and more rewarding relationship with
something I did fully under-stand. Food. That was another factor adding to my
absence on the mile board. Over time I became quite the gastronaut and a terrorizer
of the kitchens. In my spare time I memorized cookbooks, compared recipes, made
fifteen different versions of mashed potato one night when I couldnтАЩt sleep тАУ and ate
them all one by one, bloated like a giant, tearful pumpkin.
I had good days, too. My walls were decorated with beauti-fully arranged
shots of raw ingredients, all labelled. There were chillies and leaves on the ceiling,
fruit above the basin, fish on the window wall, meats above the cupboard, every kind
of potato beside the bed. My atomizer gave off the scent of pecan pie. In my
pockets small silver packages of chocolate nestled safely in case of emergency.
There were many emergencies. A counsellor once came to see me about what she
called тАШyour embryonic weight problemтАЩ, but she ended up eating a whole bar of
Swiss 70% and pumping me for information on the Crofts. I was glad to give her
what she wanted, having success-fully diverted all attention from myself.
тАШYouтАЩre one of their best friends,тАЩ she said at first, obviously hoping it to be
true.
I didnтАЩt want to disappoint her so early on. I said yes. Perhaps it was true, I
wasnтАЩt sure. Did friends have to talk all the time or share things? If not, such a thing
was possible.
тАШWeтАЩre very worried about Jane.тАЩ
тАШOh,тАЩ I said, licking my finger and dabbing up slivers of chocolate from the
empty foil.
тАШShe has said she wonтАЩt go home for the holidays. Has she mentioned this to
you?тАЩ
тАШNo.тАЩ I was dopey with sugar, feeling slightly sick. I imagined myself in JaneтАЩs
position, sending this message to my mother, and what a ferocious row would
ensue. She would cry and exclaim and talk a mile a minute and eventually IтАЩd agree
to what she wanted. JaneтАЩs daring impressed me, but I felt a twinge of anxiety. тАШThey
never talk about home.тАЩ
тАШAnd do you тАУ to them, I mean?тАЩ she pleaded.
тАШNo,тАЩ I had to say. It had never occurred to me. I thought she was being
stupid not to recognize that none of us talked about home. Home was full of
possible defects and weaknesses, infor-mation that would be used against you.
Home was also too ordinary to be worth a conversation. Only juniors who missed
their mothers sniffled about it now and again in little huddles at the far edge of the
orchard.
тАШOh.тАЩ She put her last piece of chocolate into her mouth. I seemed to be
paying a high price for her so-called help. I should have given her something
cheaper, with more cocoa butter in it. Or not. She could lose a few pounds herself:
she was built like a big Welsh pony. тАШWe wondered if there were any ... troubles.
Are the parents putting a lot of pressure on them? Well, parent. Their mother died