"Charles Stross - A Boy And His God" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stross Charles)

"Ooh." Candy screwed her face up around an 'O' of a mouth and looked ever so faintly amused.
"Kiddie's got a pet god, has he? Wanna put your god up against my pit bull terrier?" She grinned
mockingly and Howie noticed some things about her; mascara and lipstick and a black leather jacket.
Candy was growing up, already apeing her elders, and she hung out with a bunch of older girls.

He was about to come out with a crushing rejoinder when an iron pair of fingers clamped themselves to
the back of his neck and forcibly rotated his head. "And what have we got here?" asked Miss Jones, in
her Number Two (scathing) tone of voice. "A silly -- shake -- little -- rattle -- boy, not paying attention
in class!"

Ouch. Yes, very silly. Howie looked up and Miss Jones looked down with all the concilliatory charm of
a rattlesnake. "And what have you got to say for yourself?" she asked, the personification of steely
retribution. The room fell silent around her, for all the world loves an execution. "Talking in class, idle
chatter, and not paying attention. Do you know what happens if you stop paying attention?" she boomed.

Howie winced in anticipation. "You stop existing?" he asked hesitantly. Thwack! came the sound of a
smart clip round the ear.

"Guess again", Miss Jones said drily as she returned to the front of the class and retrieved her chalk.
"Now as I was saying ..."

The day dragged on into dystopian distemper for Howie, and when the bell finally rang he ran out into
the afternoon sunlight as fast as he could. That was a mistake. Candy's gang was hanging out just past
the gate, and they were all there waiting for him; Bernice and Lilly the Pink and Tarantula deVille who

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 A Boy and his God

was heavily into black lace and studs; and the big, sullen one they all called Helen J. Uh oh, he thought,
but he wasn't tempted to repeat his solipsistic experiment out here, not after his disastrous failure to
dispell Miss Jones that morning. He steeled himself as he walked towards them.

"Hiya kiddy," shouted Candy. "Think I don't exist, huh?"

Oh shit, he thought. I think, therefore I'm not here ...

"Yeah, kid," drawled Bernice, crop haired number two to Candy's El Presidente pose, she who was by
right lawful custodian of the gang ghetto blaster which even now perched upon a wall, overloading with
transients from something ominously hardcore; "you wanna mess with us?" She pushed herself away
from the wall with a swing of her ample hips and shambled towards him like a great irritated bear.
Tarantula deVille leered at him and went back to preening long black fingernails that glinted ominously
in the sunlight.

"You and whose army?" Howie swore, looking round desperately. There at the other end of the street
was mom's Buick, rounding the corner with light gleaming from the chrome. "Hey, gotta go," he sang
out; "'less you want my mom to jump on you!" He turned and sped across the road. If wishes were
fishes, he ruminated, his dinner'd be awfully boring.

It was dad behind the steering wheel. "Your mom's going to be home late," he said brightly as they
pulled away from the turbulent stormclouds of adolescent experience. "She's staying over at the office;