The Eighth Day

Начало книги

JAX PEDALED HOME from the store and muttered in cadence with the rhythm of his bike wheels: This sucks. This sucks. This sucks.

The groceries were heavy in his overstuffed backpack. But Riley had let the refrigerator go empty again, and if Jax wanted to eat tonight, shopping was up to him.

Riley sucks.

That was something Jax could grumble with enthusiasm. Riley sucks. Riley sucks.

Billy Ramirez was always trying to convince him how lucky he was. “I wish I had as much freedom as you do,” he complained at least once a week.

You mean you wish your parents were dead? Jax never said it out loud, thinking Billy would notice his silence and get the hint.

“Your guardian is so cool.”

Yeah, living with a guy barely out of high school who forgets to pay the electric bill is so cool. Often Jax was tempted to offer a trade: He’d go live with Billy’s parents and Billy could come live with Riley Pendare.

Traffic was steady this late in the afternoon, as people drove home from work. Jax flinched every time an impatient driver veered around him. He missed his old home in Delaware, where they had bike lanes. At the end of the block, Mr. Blum was watering his new sod again. Jax swerved to avoid the spray from his hose—Missed me today, you old fart!—and diverted onto the sidewalk in front of Riley’s house, the smallest one on the street and the one most in need of a paint job. There was an old red Ford F-250 parked out front, so Jax knew who was visiting even before he went inside. This was not good news. He locked his bike to the rain gutter at the side of the house, then slung the heavy backpack off his shoulders and carried it up the front steps.

Читать дальше →