"Elizabeth Moon. The Speed of Dark " - читать интересную книгу автора

that now. I don't know how she feels. Normal people would know how she
feels, but I can't tell. The more I know her, the more things I don't know
about her. I don't know why Tom and Lucia were being mean to Don, either.
"Tom and Lucia both sounded angry with Don," I say. She gives me a
quick sideways glance. I think I am supposed to understand it, but I don't
know what it means. It makes me want to look away; I feel funny inside.
"Don can be a real heel," she says.
Don is not a heel; he is a person. Normal people say things like this,
changing the meaning of words without warning, and they understand it. I
know, because someone told me years ago, that heel is a slang word for "bad
person." But he couldn't tell me why, and I still wonder about it. If
someone is a bad person and you want to say that he is a bad person, why
not just say it? Why say "heel" or "jerk" or something? And adding "real"
to it only makes it worse. If you say something is real, it should be real.
But I want to know why Tom and Lucia are angry with Don more than I
want to explain to Marjory about why it's wrong to say Don is a real heel.
"Is it because he doesn't do enough stretches?"
"No." Marjory sounds a little angry now, and I feel my stomach
tightening. What have I done? "He's just... just mean, sometimes, Lou. He
makes jokes about people that aren't funny."
I wonder if it is the jokes or the people that aren't funny. I know
about jokes that most people don't think are funny, because I have made
some. I still don't understand why some jokes are funny and why mine
aren't, but I know it is true.
"He made jokes about you," Marjory says, a block later, in a low
voice. "And we didn't like it."
I don't know what to say. Don makes jokes about everybody, even
Marjory. I didn't like those jokes, but I didn't do anything about it.
Should I have? Marjory glances at me again. This time I think she wants me
to say something. I can't think of anything. Finally I do.
"My parents said acting mad at people didn't make them act better."
Marjory makes a funny noise. I don't know what it means. "Lou,
sometimes I think you're a philosopher."
"No," I say. "I'm not smart enough to be a philosopher."
Marjory makes the noise again. I look out the window; we are almost to
the airport. The airport at night has different-colored lights laid out
along the runways and taxiways. Amber, blue, green, red. I wish they had
purple ones. Marjory parks in the short-term section of the parking garage,
and we walk across the bus lanes into the terminal.
When I'm traveling alone, I like to watch the automatic doors open and
close. Tonight, I walk on beside Marjory, pretending I don't care about the
doors. She stops to look at the video display of departures and arrivals. I
have already spotted the flight it must be: the right airline, from
Chicago, landing at 10:15 P.M., on time, Gate Seventeen. It takes her
longer; it always takes normal people longer.
At the security gate for "Arrivals," I feel my stomach tightening
again. I know how to do this; my parents taught me, and I have done it
before. Take everything metallic out of your pockets and put it in the
little basket. Wait your turn. Walk through the arch. If nobody asks me any
questions, it's easy. But if they ask, I don't always hear them exactly: