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The Goats (A Sunburst book) - Softcover

Cole, Brock

 
9780374425753: The Goats (A Sunburst book)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0374425752 ISBN 13: 9780374425753
Verlag: Farrar, Straus & Giroux Inc, 1990

Inhaltsangabe

Howie and Laura, two misfits among a camping group, are left on an island overnight as a practical joke but the pair escape during the night and are forced to lie, steal, and dodge the police as they search for safety. An ALA Notable Book. Reissue.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Brock Cole, a former teacher of philosophy, is the author of several highly acclaimed novels as well as the author and illustrator of many picture books. He lives in Buffalo, New York.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Goats, The
The Island
WHEN HE came back to the beach with wood for the fire Bryce grabbed him from behind. The firewood scattered, bouncing off his knees and shins.
"Okay, Bryce," he said. "Cut it out." He tried to sound unafraid, even a little bored.
Bryce pulled his elbows back until they were almost touching. The boy tried to look up at the other kids. They turned their faces away, squinting out over the lake or frowning up into the trees above the beach.
"Hey," Bryce said. "Do I have to do everything?"
For a moment no one moved, and then Murphy shrugged and knelt down heavily in front of the boy. He was frowning, as if he had to do something disagreeable.
"Don't," said the boy.
Murphy pulled down his shorts. The boy's knees folded, and as he fell Bryce tugged his sweat shirt over his head. It was a new shirt. It had the camp emblem of the Tall Pine on the front. Someone sat on his knees so they could pull off his shoes and socks. Then they let him go. He scuttled sideways on his hands and knees into a thicket of reeds and fell on his side. He could hardly breathe.
"Come on, Howie," Murphy said. "You're a goat. Don't you get it?"
The boy curled up tightly, squeezing his eyes shut, waiting for the world to explode.
"I don't think he gets it," Murphy said.
The boy didn't move. He heard the canoes being shoved back into the water. There was a clatter of paddles and a loud splash. Someone laughed.
"Do you think he's okay?" Murphy whispered. No one answered.
When he was sure they were gone, the boy sat up. He was stiff, and his arms ached. His glasses had been knocked askew. He took them off, straightened one of the bows, and put them on again. His hands were shaking.
It was beginning to get dark. He couldn't see the canoes. Across the lake someone had turned on the lights at the camp boathouse. He could see the masts of the class boats swaying above the dock. They looked very far away.
"Damn," he said softly.
He didn't know what he was supposed to do now. Nobody had said. He didn't understand why they had taken his clothes and left him alone on the island. He thought that someone else would probably know what to do, but he didn't. It was because he was so out of it.
The mosquitoes were starting to bite. He had some repellent on his face and legs, but not all over. If he had known what they were planning, he would have hidden a bottle somewhere when he went to find firewood.
Slowly he got to his feet, brushing off the sand and pine needles clinging to his skin. He had never been naked outside before, and the feeling of being completely exposed was worse standing up. He wanted to crouch down again in the reeds, but he forced himself to move. There had to be something he could do.
It was a relief to find a path which led up toward the center of the island. In the shelter of the trees he felt less vulnerable. He wished it was pitch dark. He had never been afraid of the dark.
At the top of the island was an old tent platform. It had a canvas roof and sides of wood and screening. He stood at the edge of the clearing and looked at the tent platform and listened, but he couldn't hear anything except leaves rubbing against one another and the little slapping noises the waves made on the shore below. He crossed the clearing quickly and fumbled with the latch of the screen door. He was suddenly anxious to have the four walls around him.
He wasn't ready when someone inside said, "Go away."
His legs bounced him across the clearing before he could stop them, but there was nowhere to go. There was absolutely nowhere to go. He took a deep breath and walked quietly back to the door. He sat down on the steps, keeping his front hidden. He could hear someone crying inside. It sounded like a girl. She was gulping and crying at the same time.
"Hey," he said.
"I said go away."
"Hey, I can't. They took my clothes."
He waited, but there was no response.
"The mosquitoes are killing me. They really are."
Again there was no answer, but he heard a brief scuffling inside, and then the catch being released. As he pushed open the door, something black and shapeless scuttled into a corner. He didn't know what to do. He was glad it was dark inside.
"Did they leave anything?" he asked finally.
"There're some sandwiches and stuff on the table."
"I mean some blankets or clothes. I'm freezing."
"There's just one blanket."
And she had that, he thought. He felt his way to the table in the center of the room and ran his hand lightly over the surface. There was a package done up in plastic wrap, a box of matches, and something that felt like a candle lantern.
He left the table and groped his way toward a corner as far from the girl as possible. He found a cot therewith a bare, damp mattress and a heavy pillow smelling of mildew. He sat down on the cot, holding the pillow on his lap.
"What are we going to do?" he asked.
"Nothing. Sit here."
"They'll probably come back in the morning."
"I know it."
He wondered what that would be like. Would they sneak up and try to peek through the screens, or would they be yelling and dancing around? He didn't know what went on in their heads. Sometimes he thought he knew, but then it turned out that he didn't.
"Hey. There's a candle lantern. I'm going to light it."
"Don't."
"I'm freezing, I tell you."
Holding the pillow to his front, he felt his way back to the table. By leaning against it he could keep the pillow in place while he lit the candle in the lantern.
She was huddled on the floor, completely wrapped up in a ratty old army blanket. Her face was turned away, so he couldn't see it. Her hair was stringy and damp-looking. He wondered if she was naked under the blanket. Probably she was. That would be the joke, wouldn't it? Bryce must think they would jump all over each other if they didn't have any clothes on.
He held his hands over the lantern. They burned but didn't seem to get warm. On the table beside the sandwiches was a deck of playing cards. They were the dirty ones that Arnold Metcalf showed around to his friends. The boy had never seen them up close. He hadn'twanted anyone to know he was interested. Now he didn't want to look at them. The top card had a picture of a man and a woman crumpled together. It had nothing to do with him. It was about as interesting as a picture of a dentist drilling a tooth.
Bryce must be crazy. Arnold Metcalf and Murphy--they were all crazy. Trying to guess what went on in their crazy heads was wearing him out. He retreated to the bed and sat down again, still holding the pillow over his front.
"We're the goats, I guess," he said, hoping she could explain what was happening to them.
"So?"
"So nothing."
She still wouldn't look at him, but he could see who it was now. He couldn't remember her name. She was one of the real dogs. Bryce had classified all the girls into queens, princesses, dogs, and real dogs. Bryce should never have called her a real dog. He should never have called anyone a dog, because it made you think he looked like a dog himself. A big pink bulldog. Still, she shouldn't wear big designer glasses if her eyes were so bad. If you had thick glasses, they became thicker and thicker the bigger they were. His ophthalmologist had told him that.
He was beginning to feel hungry. He wondered if it would be safe to eat the sandwiches, but he decided not to. They might have put dope or something like that in them.
"I thought this was supposed to be a cookout," he...

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Verlag
Farrar, Straus & Giroux Inc
Erscheinungsdatum
1990
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0374425752
ISBN 13 
9780374425753
Einband
Taschenbuch
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