Читать книгу Escape To Anywhere Else - Robert Rippberger - Страница 9

chapter one

I sat on the patio in the rocking chair as the smell of breakfast wafted from the house. Eggs again. Damn. Like clockwork came the clamor of Louie on the stairs. I waited with a prepared smile.

“GUHHH!” Louie cried, tumbling down the steps, clasping to the banister all the way down. I couldn’t help but laugh. It wasn’t that he was clumsy—quite the contrary—what stole his grace were the over-sized skating shoes he found by the road after someone trashed them. They were tattered, riddled with holes, and missing laces. Louie didn’t mind though. They could have looked like a block of Swiss cheese, and he still would have taken them in. For him, there really was no better find, because when school rolled around, he just might pass as cool.

The front door swung open. Louie rubbed his matted blond hair and gave a grin. His chipped tooth beamed from his mouth like an old bowling trophy in need of a good polish.

“Breakfast is almost ready.”

I nodded as he bowed and brushed past me. With the skateboard he made by scavenging parts, Louie duck-walked to the driveway. He tossed the wood plank to the ground and jumped on. The wheels slid to and fro in the dirt as he thrust himself onward, toppling forward and back with each accelerating push. I was never more certain someone forgot to put the chlorine in our gene pool.

The door pushed open again. From the soft footsteps I knew it was Dad. He was six feet tall and 290 pounds but stalked like a cat, a skill he acquired while creeping to and from hidden bottles of booze stashed around the house. “Food,” he barked and then disappeared back inside.

I climbed from the rocking chair and yelled over to Louie, “Did you hear that? Breakfast is ready.”

He nodded, flipping his skateboard back onto its wheels with his toe.

“First, watch this!”

I hesitated, contemplating whether to satisfy my hunger or delay myself with something I knew would be lame.

“Alright. Let’s see it.” I said, being a good sister. As if he were Evil Knievel, Louie sneered, stepped up, placed his feet on each lip of the board, leaned to one side, and flicked it into the air. The ascent was much more graceful than the descent. When Louie landed, the board flew out from under him, and he crashed to the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust around him. I was wrong. Not at all lame. Quite entertaining.

I continued inside under the assumption he was all right and sat down at the table. He jogged in moments later with a goofy smile on his face. I gave him a couple whacks with a rag to get the dust off, and he squirted water at me through his front teeth, a stream that I narrowly dodged. Mom coughed from the stove and told us to cut it out. We obediently stopped as she set a steaming plate of eggs down in front us.

“Morning,” she said, like a haggard waitress at a washed-up diner.

She took a drag on her cigarette. Dad wandered in from the backyard, carrying another dozen eggs and then sat next to Louie. It was clear they were father and son. High cheekbones, short frizzy hair, pale complexion—they even had the same restless hands, twirling their forks like batons until food anchored the tines.

I glanced at Mom and wondered if the two of us were as similar. Just entertaining the thought made me wince. Her twin moles and the hair on her upper lip were enough to distinguish us, I hoped. Once when we were in town, a man passing through from Chicago asked if I wanted to model for his magazine. If I’d been eighteen, I would have said yes on the spot and escaped with him, but before I could even lie, Mom had my arm and was dragging me in the opposite direction.

She sat down at the table. I smiled big. I don’t know why, but for whatever reason I was feeling lucky this morning. “So, what do you have to do today?” I asked.

She raised a brow as if I had never asked a question so sweetly before in my life—which I probably hadn’t.

“Can we maybe...I don’t know...go into town after breakfast?” I said, putting it a little more bluntly. There was a cold silence for about thirty seconds. Her face stiffened, reddened, and she slapped the table. The plates and glasses leapt with fright. My eyes fancied the floorboards.

“Why do you do this to me? Why do you do this to your father and I? Do I have to say it a hundred times? There’s nothing in there for us.”

My frustration boiled over. How could a woman of her age not know of anything to do in town? There were fun and interesting people, restaurants, movies, boys...

She took a puff of her cigarette and fogged the room. I eyed it with indignation. No wonder she didn’t care to go into town—she had just stocked up. I wanted to yell and shriek and cry, but it was a battle many times waged, always lost. Having only picked at the eggs and knowing I would forfeit my meal until late that evening, I excused myself and marched upstairs.

There was a clanking of forks and a small scuffle as my food was divided. Dad muttered something about teenagers being pigeon minded. I stepped into the peacefulness of my room and slammed the door.