"Stephen King. The Girl who loved Tom Gordon." - читать интересную книгу автора

Pete had said nothing last night, but he'd had plenty to say this
morning, starting with the ride up from Sanford. He didn't want to do this,
it was ultimately stupid, plus he'd heard it was going to rain later on,
why did they have to spend a whole Saturday walking in the woods during the
worst time of the year for bugs, what if Trisha got poison ivy (as if he
cared), and on and on and on. Yatata-yatata-yatata. He even had the gall to
say he should be home studying for his final exams. Pete had never studied
on Saturday in his life, as far as Trisha knew. At first Mom didn't
respond, but finally he began getting under her skin. Given enough time, he
always did. By the time they got to the little dirt parking area on Route
68, her knuckles were white on the steering wheel and she was speaking in
clipped tones which Trisha recognized all too well. Mom was leaving
Condition Yellow behind and going to Condition Red. It was looking like a
very long six-mile walk through the western Maine woods, all in all.
At first Trisha had tried to divert them, exclaiming over barns and
grazing horses and picturesque graveyards in her best
oh-wow-it's-waterless-cookware voice, it but they ignored her and after
awhile she had simply sat in the back seat with Mona on her tap (her Dad
liked to call Mona Moanie Balogna) and her knapsack beside her, listening
to them argue and wondering if she herself might cry, or actually go crazy,
Could your family fighting all the time drive you crazy? Maybe when her
mother started rubbing her temples with the tips of her fingers, it wasn't
because she had a headache but because she was trying to keep her brains
from undergoing spontaneous combustion or explosive decompression, or
something.
To escape them, Trisha opened the door to her favorite fantasy. She
took off her Red Sox cap and looked at the signature written across the
brim in broad black felt-tip strokes; this helped get her in the mood. It
was Tom Gordon's signature. Pete liked Mo Vaughn, and their Mom was partial
to Nomar Garciaparra, but Tom Gordon was Trisha's and her Dad's favorite
Red Sox player. Tom Gordon was the Red Sox closer; he came on in the eighth
or ninth inning when the game was close but the Sox were still on top. Her
Dad admired Gordon because he never seemed to lose his nerve - "Flash has
got icewater in his veins," Larry McFarland liked to say-and Trisha always
said the same thing, sometimes adding that she liked Gordon because he had
the guts to throw a curve on three-and-oh (this was something her father
had read to her in a Boston Globe column). Only to Moanie Balogna and
(once) to her girlfriend, Pepsi Robichaud, had she said more. She told
Pepsi she thought
Tom Gordon was "pretty good-looking." To Mona she threw caution
entirely to the winds, saying that Number 36 was the handsomest man alive,
and if he ever touched her hand she'd faint. If he ever kissed her, even on
the cheek, she thought she'd probably die.
Now, as her mother and her brother fought in the front seat-about the
outing, about Sanford Middle School, about their dislocated life-Trisha
looked at the signed cap her Dad had somehow gotten her in March, just
before the season started, and thought this:
I'm in Sanford Park, just walking across the playground to Pepsi's
house on an ordinary day. And there's this guy standing at the hotdog
wagon. He's wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt and he's got a gold