Read Online I Am the Messenger by Markus Zusak - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Markus Zusak
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as usual. The Doorman comes out and asks for some, but I give him a big pat instead.
“You still getting those cards in the mail?” She knew all along of course that I was lying about throwing out the diamonds. No one in their right mind would throw diamonds out, would they? They’re valuable. If anything, they need protecting.
Milla, I think. Sophie. The woman on Edgar Street and her daughter, Angelina .
“No, I’m still on the first one.”
“Do you think there’ll be more?”
I think about it and can’t figure out if I want another one or not. “The first one’s hard enough.” We drink.
I drop in regularly at Milla’s place, and she shows me her photos again and I continue reading from Wuthering Heights . I’m actually starting to like it. The cake got finished a few nights ago, thank God, but the old lady’s as nice as ever. Shaky as hell but nice as ever.
Sophie loses again the next week at athletics, this time in the eight hundred. She doesn’t run the same in those patchy old shoes. She needs something better to even come close to how she runs in the mornings. That’s when she’s true. She’s apart. Almost out of herself.
Early next Saturday morning, I go to her house and knock on the door. Her father answers.
“Can I help you?”
I feel nervous, like I’ve come to convince him to let his daughter go out with me. I’m holding a shoe box in my right hand, and the man looks down at it. Quickly, I lift it and say, “I’ve got a delivery for your daughter Sophie. I hope they’re the right size.”
The shoe box passes between our hands, and the man looks confused.
“Just tell her a guy brought her some new shoes.”
The man looks at me as if I’m heavily intoxicated. “Okay.” He tries his hardest not to mock me. “I will.”
“Thank you.”
I turn around and start walking away, but he brings me back. “Wait,” he calls out.
“Yes, sir?”
He holds the box out, puzzled, lifting it into the conversation.
“I know,” I say.
The box is empty.
I haven’t shaved, and I feel like death warmed up at the track. I didn’t bring the cab in till six this morning and went straight over to Sophie’s place and over to the track. I’ve got a sausage roll for breakfast and some coffee.
She gets called for the fifteen hundred, and she goes barefoot.
I smile at the thought of it.
Barefoot shoes …
“Just don’t let her get stepped on,” I say.
A few minutes later, her father approaches the fence. The race begins.
The other dickhead starts yelling out.
And Sophie gets tripped up on the back straight after a lap.
She falls among the lead group of five, and the rest of them stretch out, up to maybe twenty-five meters in front. When she gets back up, it reminds me of that bit in Chariots of Fire when Eric Liddell falls over and runs past everyone to win.
There are two laps to run, and she’s still well behind.
She gets the first two runners easily, and she’s running like she does in the morning. There’s no strain. The only thing you can see on her is the feeling of freedom and the purest sense that she’s alive. All she needs is the hood and the red pants. Her bare feet carry her past the third one, and soon she’s up alongside her nemesis. She goes past her and holds her with two hundred to go.
Just like the mornings, I think, and people have stopped to watch. They saw her fall and stand and keep going. Now they watch her out in front, beyond everything that’s ever been done on a normal weekend in this town. The discus has stopped, and the high jump. Everything has. All there is is the girl with the sunshine hair and the killer voice breathing and being in front.
The other girl comes at her.
She pushes for the lead.
There’s blood on Sophie’s knees, from the fall, and she also got spiked, I think, but this is how it has to be. The last hundred meters nearly kill her. I can see the pain tightening on her face. Her bare feet bleed on their way across
“You still getting those cards in the mail?” She knew all along of course that I was lying about throwing out the diamonds. No one in their right mind would throw diamonds out, would they? They’re valuable. If anything, they need protecting.
Milla, I think. Sophie. The woman on Edgar Street and her daughter, Angelina .
“No, I’m still on the first one.”
“Do you think there’ll be more?”
I think about it and can’t figure out if I want another one or not. “The first one’s hard enough.” We drink.
I drop in regularly at Milla’s place, and she shows me her photos again and I continue reading from Wuthering Heights . I’m actually starting to like it. The cake got finished a few nights ago, thank God, but the old lady’s as nice as ever. Shaky as hell but nice as ever.
Sophie loses again the next week at athletics, this time in the eight hundred. She doesn’t run the same in those patchy old shoes. She needs something better to even come close to how she runs in the mornings. That’s when she’s true. She’s apart. Almost out of herself.
Early next Saturday morning, I go to her house and knock on the door. Her father answers.
“Can I help you?”
I feel nervous, like I’ve come to convince him to let his daughter go out with me. I’m holding a shoe box in my right hand, and the man looks down at it. Quickly, I lift it and say, “I’ve got a delivery for your daughter Sophie. I hope they’re the right size.”
The shoe box passes between our hands, and the man looks confused.
“Just tell her a guy brought her some new shoes.”
The man looks at me as if I’m heavily intoxicated. “Okay.” He tries his hardest not to mock me. “I will.”
“Thank you.”
I turn around and start walking away, but he brings me back. “Wait,” he calls out.
“Yes, sir?”
He holds the box out, puzzled, lifting it into the conversation.
“I know,” I say.
The box is empty.
I haven’t shaved, and I feel like death warmed up at the track. I didn’t bring the cab in till six this morning and went straight over to Sophie’s place and over to the track. I’ve got a sausage roll for breakfast and some coffee.
She gets called for the fifteen hundred, and she goes barefoot.
I smile at the thought of it.
Barefoot shoes …
“Just don’t let her get stepped on,” I say.
A few minutes later, her father approaches the fence. The race begins.
The other dickhead starts yelling out.
And Sophie gets tripped up on the back straight after a lap.
She falls among the lead group of five, and the rest of them stretch out, up to maybe twenty-five meters in front. When she gets back up, it reminds me of that bit in Chariots of Fire when Eric Liddell falls over and runs past everyone to win.
There are two laps to run, and she’s still well behind.
She gets the first two runners easily, and she’s running like she does in the morning. There’s no strain. The only thing you can see on her is the feeling of freedom and the purest sense that she’s alive. All she needs is the hood and the red pants. Her bare feet carry her past the third one, and soon she’s up alongside her nemesis. She goes past her and holds her with two hundred to go.
Just like the mornings, I think, and people have stopped to watch. They saw her fall and stand and keep going. Now they watch her out in front, beyond everything that’s ever been done on a normal weekend in this town. The discus has stopped, and the high jump. Everything has. All there is is the girl with the sunshine hair and the killer voice breathing and being in front.
The other girl comes at her.
She pushes for the lead.
There’s blood on Sophie’s knees, from the fall, and she also got spiked, I think, but this is how it has to be. The last hundred meters nearly kill her. I can see the pain tightening on her face. Her bare feet bleed on their way across
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