Читать книгу The Milk Chicken Bomb - Andrew Wedderburn - Страница 7

At school all the Dead Kids from up the hill take off their outside shoes and put on their inside shoes. White with stripes and velcro instead of laces, or high-tops with thick laces that are always clean. Inside the school it’s dark and hard to see, especially after having been outside for so long. Kids move around in the dark like they’re underwater, bubbles rising from their yappy mouths.

Today I figure the whole school is underwater and all the Dead Kids are jellyfish, and you can’t touch a jellyfish ’cause you’ll get stung, see. Good thing I’ve got my snorkel and my flashlight. I figure some conquistadors must have sunk around here somewhere. Jellyfish come close and I duck and pivot like they taught us in basketball. Jellyfish stare at me with their buggy jellyfish eyes, floating on stalks in the murky water. A bell rings, it must be a fishing lure; all the jellyfish start floating off in the same direction. I bet it’s a trap, I bet there’s nets and harpoons waiting down the hall. They clog up the hall, all their oozy tentacles get caught up into one big jelly lump. I bob along behind them, breathing through my snorkel, in, out. Far enough behind that when the fishing starts, I won’t get trampled if they panic. I wonder if jellyfish panic when harpoons start sticking into their crowd, when brother and sister jellyfish get hauled up all of a sudden, out and away. Or maybe they just bob along stupid-like, waiting, bubbling, not knowing any better, until the harpoon gets them right square.