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Patricia McCormick: Cut

Здесь есть возможность читать онлайн «Patricia McCormick: Cut» весь текст электронной книги совершенно бесплатно (целиком полную версию). В некоторых случаях присутствует краткое содержание. Город: New York, год выпуска: 2002, ISBN: 978-0439324595, издательство: Push, категория: Современная проза / на английском языке. Описание произведения, (предисловие) а так же отзывы посетителей доступны на портале. Библиотека «Либ Кат» — LibCat.ru создана для любителей полистать хорошую книжку и предлагает широкий выбор жанров:

любовные романы фантастика и фэнтези приключения детективы и триллеры эротика документальные научные юмористические анекдоты о бизнесе проза детские сказки о религиии новинки православные старинные про компьютеры программирование на английском домоводство поэзия

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Patricia McCormick Cut

Cut: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

Предлагаем к чтению аннотацию, описание, краткое содержание или предисловие (зависит от того, что написал сам автор книги «Cut»). Если вы не нашли необходимую информацию о книге — напишите в комментариях, мы постараемся отыскать её.

An astonishing PUSH novel about pain, release, and recovery from an amazing new author. Fifteen-year-old Callie isn’t speaking to anybody, not even to her therapist at Sea Pines, the “residential treatment facility” where her parents and doctor sent her after discovering that she cuts herself. As her story unfolds, Callie reluctantly become involved with the other “guests” at Sea Pines — finding her voice and confronting the trauma that triggered her behavior.

Patricia McCormick: другие книги автора


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Cut — читать онлайн бесплатно полную книгу (весь текст) целиком

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There’s scattered squirming. Tiffany rolls her eyes. Tara, who’s so weak from not eating that she dozes off a lot during Group, leans her head against the wall; her eyes droop shut.

“It was terrible,” Debbie says. “Not for me. But poor Becca.” She gives Becca’s thin shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Wait till I tell you what—”

Tiffany sighs and her enormous chest rises and falls. “Not for you, Debbie? Then how come I saw you at the nurses’ desk last night begging for an escort to the vending machine?”

Debbie turns red.

“How come you’re always so willing to talk about everyone else’s problems?” Tiffany says. “What about yours? What happened at your visit, Debbie?”

Debbie regards her. “Nothing really.”

“Really?” Sydney says, not unkindly.

“Really,” says Debbie.

“That’s crap,” says Tiffany. Little drops of spit fly out of her mouth.

For Debbie this is a swear. She hates it when people swear. The temperature goes up to about 110 degrees.

“Debbie,” Claire says gravely, “how do you feel about what Tiffany’s saying?”

Debbie shrugs. “I don’t care.”

Sydney points a shaky finger in Debbie’s direction. “You do so,” she says. “You’re pissed. Why don’t you admit it, Debbie?”

Everyone waits.

“Well, I’d rather that she didn’t swear.” Debbie addresses this comment to Claire.

“Why don’t you look at me?” Tiffany says. “Why don’t you say, ‘Tiffany, I don’t like it when you say crap. Could you please watch your goddamn mouth?’”

Tara giggles. Sydney tries not to.

Debbie’s mouth stretches into a tight smile, then her chin starts to quiver; I wipe my palms on my jeans.

“I know you all hate me because I’m not like the rest of you,” she says. The effort of trying not to cry is making her face very red.

“I don’t hate you,” Becca says, craning her neck up toward Debbie.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I want to graduate,” Debbie says. “I don’t want to just sit around here listening to people complain about their rotten childhoods.”

Tiffany lifts her palms to the ceiling, charade for “I give up.”

“Anyone else care to comment?” Claire says.

I hold very still. Claire’s a hawk for body language. Biting your nails means you want to talk. Leaning forward means you want to talk. Leaning back means you want to talk.  I don’t move.

Sydney clears her throat. “I don’t care if we talk about my visit,” she says.

People exhale.

“My mom kept spritzing her mouth with Bianca but she’d had a couple of pops before she got here. My dad kept checking his watch and making calls on his cell phone and my sister sat there doing her math homework.”

The formula for converting Fahrenheit into Celsius enters my head uninvited. I try to calculate what 110 degrees Fahrenheit equals in Celsius.

“For my family…” Sydney taps the end of a pen, flicking an imaginary ash off the end of her imaginary cigarette. “…that’s quality time.”

People laugh, a little too hard.

“How did you feel when they were here?” Claire says.

“Fine.” The smile on Sydney’s face wilts slightly. “I mean, it’s just like home.”

This is a joke. No one laughs. Sydney surveys the group.

“Look. I have a strategy. Why expect anything? If you don’t expect anything, you don’t get disappointed.”

Tara raises her hand. “Were you?”

Sydney doesn’t understand. “Was I what?”

“Disappointed?”

Sydney still looks lost.

“I mean, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” Tara says. “But a minute ago you accused Debbie of pretending not to be pissed. Well, I think maybe you’re pissed. At your mom and your dad and your sister.” Tara sinks back in her chair; she gets tired just talking.

“I’m not mad at my sister,” Sydney says. “It’s not her fault. I mean, how would you like to spend your Saturday afternoon with a bunch of freaks?” She claps a hand over her mouth. “No offense or anything. I mean, we spend all our time with freaks, but that’s different. We are freaks.”

A couple of people laugh.

Sydney goes on. “I don’t care about my mom. I mean, what do you expect? That she’d wait till she got out of here for happy hour? Yeah, right. But my dad…”

I unfold and refold my arms across my chest. Bad move. Claire notices. Luckily, Sydney keeps talking.

“I don’t know. He’s not very good at stuff like this…” Sydney wrings the hem of her sweater; her hands are really shaking now. She laughs, sort of. Then, with no warning, she’s crying. “I’m not pissed,” she says. “It’s…I’m just… I don’t know, disappointed.”

I squeeze my arms to my chest and feel embarrassed for Sydney, the way I used to in grade school when someone wet their pants. I hate Group. People always end up saying things that make them look pathetic.

“At least they came,” says Tiffany. “My dad didn’t even show.”

Something else comes into my mind uninvited. It’s an image of a dad walking up the sidewalk on visiting day, his hands stuffed in his jacket, his head tucked down against the wind. I tap on the window in the reception room. He glances up and I see that he has glasses and a red face and he’s not my dad at all; he’s someone else’s dad. I go back to memorizing the cars in the parking lot.

“How do you feel about that?” Claire says to Tiffany.

“Screw him. That’s how I feel.”

I cross and recross my arms.

Claire pounces. “Callie.”

At the sound of my name the heat closes in on me. I squint my eyes like I’m trying to make out something totally fascinating in the parking lot and think Brown, white, white, blue, beige. I lose my place and have to start again.

“Callie?” Claire’s not giving up. “Do you want to tell us about your visit yesterday?”

There’s a fly caught between the window and the screen. He seems sort of surprised each time he bangs into the glass. But he just staggers away, then rams into the glass again.

“Callie?”

I pull a curtain of hair down in front of my eyes and wait. After a while, someone from the other side of the circle starts talking. I can’t really make out what she’s saying, though. All I hear is the zzzzzt-zzzzzt of the fly banging into the window.

There’s a burst of chatter as everyone files out of Group. I hang behind the other girls, then go down the hall and check out the chalkboard next to the attendants’ desk. On the board is a list of everyone’s names and the treatments they go for after Group. Tiffany goes to Anger Management. Tara goes to Relaxation Therapy. Sydney and Tiffany also go to the infirmary for urine tests—to make sure they aren’t taking anything. Becca, Tara, and Debbie go too—to make sure they are taking things: vitamins and food supplements for Tara and Becca, heart medicine for Becca, Prozac for Debbie. After that, Debbie goes to an exercise room where a trainer puts her on the treadmill. Tara and Becca get taken on a slow walk around the grounds to make sure they don’t get on the treadmill.

There’s nothing on the board next to my name. I don’t get taken anywhere.

I duck around the corner before anyone can see me checking the board, because the other day I overheard Debbie, who spends a lot of time hanging around the attendants’ desk, telling Becca that the people at Sick Minds were still trying to figure out what to do with me.

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