Running Scared. Brenda ChapmanЧитать онлайн книгу.
With that she was gone, and I stepped into the hallway locking the door quickly behind me. The fear was definitely spreading from my large intestine to my stomach. Still, I felt safe with the door locked and Leslie standing in the hallway waiting for me.
“I’m starving, Jen!” she shouted, whirling around with her arms spread wide. She had covered her nose and cheeks with gold stick-on stars. I gave a little laugh and bent to take off my shoes, trying to forget the shadows lurking just outside on Maple Lane.
Leslie and I finished a double cheese, pepperoni pizza delivered from Papa Pasta, washed down with glasses of chocolate milk. Leslie wasn’t a bad little sister, as sisters go. She looked an awful lot like my dad, with big brown eyes that could get you to do whatever they wanted, if you weren’t careful. Luckily, Leslie didn’t seem to need to have her own way very much. In fact, she usually went along with the flow of things. Her shiny brown hair was kept in a pixie cut that came just below her jaw line, and usually she dressed in coveralls and a T-shirt. She didn’t seem to notice how cute everyone thought she was. Good thing, too.
Tonight, she wanted to read me a chapter of her favorite story, Charlotte’s Web. We snuggled up on the couch under her comforter, and Leslie read for about half an hour. Wilbur had just discovered Charlotte, hearing her voice call to him in the darkness of his pen. Leslie loved that moment when Wilbur discovers that he’s not alone. After Leslie grew tired of reading, she put her head on my shoulder.
“Do you think Mom will let us see Daddy soon, Jen?” she asked suddenly.
“Well . . . Mom’s awfully mad at him still,” I said. “Would you like to see him?” Now that was a silly question.
“I sure hope she lets us,” yawned Leslie, and I knew she needed to get to bed.
“I’ll work on her, kiddo,” I promised and took Leslie’s hand to lead her to her room. Would it be okay for me to let Leslie see her father, a father who maybe was being searched for by the police? Oh please, God, don’t let Mrs. Fielding die! Dad might have been able to leave us without a backward glance, but please don’t make him capable of doing this horrible thing.
Three
I worked for over an hour in the kitchen on my history assignment before thinking that I’d covered the fur trade to the satisfaction of Miss Dragot. I had never seen the sense of killing animals just to have a fur coat, so I guess this thirst for beaver pelts wasn’t a thing I could relate to. Still, I was satisfied with my research. I pushed aside my essay, figuring I had plenty of time before bed to finish my English homework. I searched through my binder and knapsack for nearly five minutes before I realized that my question sheet on Catcher in the Rye wasn’t going to appear. I groaned. Why couldn’t I keep my homework together? Why was I such a loser when it came to anything that required organizational skills?
I was lying with my head on my arms when there was a knock on the back door. Slowly, I lifted my head, trying to see who the figure was through the lace curtain on the window of the door. Should I just pretend nobody was home? I quietly moved to the door and lifted a corner of the curtain. Pete Flaghert stood clearly revealed in the pool of light given off from the bright bulb above the door. He was looking into our backyard and whistling through his pursed lips. I let the curtain drop back into place and reached for the door knob. Pete was probably harmless enough. I swung the door open and Pete grinned at me, holding up a piece of paper.
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