Hole For A Fence Post İngilizce Kitap Özeti - IRCForumları - IRC ve mIRC Kullanıcılarının Buluşma Noktası

PySSyCaT · 07 Mart 2016, 15:17

I could see them through the screen, through the orange and red crayon streaks and the pencil holes. They had lived in my room before we added the new wing and as kids they'd crayoned the screen and shoved pencils through it. Flies and sometimes mosquitoes came in and I cussed them for it, at night when I could hear the miniscule whine near my ear. I put masking tape over the holes, but it never held for long.

I had the fan blowing over my bed and my bare legs and back; I was wearing a new bandana-patterned halter, like Mom's, that tied behind the neck with strings that tickled my back. My hair was a bob for the summer. I hated it. It made me look like a twerp, but Mom was right - it did keep the pricklies off my neck and shoulders. She said it would grow back by September.

I couldn't stand the heat. Humditty, Sam called it. He was big and rowed on the college varsity. I got dragged to races to stand in mud and shiver in wind and I hated it, but back at the boathouse he always grabbed me by the waist and launched me high over his head, probably to show off how strong he was. I dreaded that he would hug me because he stank after the races. Usually his team lost, though, so he didn't always hug me. Ralph - it wasn't even his real name. He changed his name every so often, I think because of that kid in A Thousand Clowns, the one up for adoption and at loose ends. His real name was Reginald. I loved to call him Reggie because he used to pretend to chase me, yelling "Time for Angie's Reggie-wedgie!" and I knew what it meant because once he did it to Sam. You pull up the back of some one's underpants, which is real uncomfortable. He never gave me a wedgie but I'd scream as if he might and I would run like the dickens. Anyway I couldn't call him Reggie if I wanted him to answer. He wouldn't answer to anything but his chosen name. Sam and Ralph were in the back yard, in the full blaze of the June heat, playing lawn tennis. It made me sleepy, weary, just watching. They moved as if in the pond, arms and legs wobbly and gooey. The game was really stupid. They stood apart, sometimes a few feet, sometimes the whole lawn, and just hit the ball back and forth. The ball could be bald or new - they didn't care - or frayed with pieces hanging where Culloden gnawed on it. Culloden was our big collie. He had only one front paw because the other got shot off. Sometimes it looked as if they were trying to rally, to see how many times they could hit it back and forth, but then one would just let the ball go by, or wave at it with his old racquet as if to show where the ball went, and I would groan. I counted the rallies, hoping they'd break the record of the last rally, but it made me weak to watch them.

by Peter Raymon

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