It was 14 degrees and a gray fog enveloped everything. He shoved her out the door, mummified in a green ski suit dotted with badges and the fluorescent logos of the sponsors. "Good, today you can show us what you're really made of." "Are you going to drink that milk or not?" her father insisted again.Īlice gulped down three inches of boiling milk, burning her tongue, throat, and stomach. She hated the woolen tights that made her thighs itch, the mittens that kept her from moving her fingers, the helmet that squashed her cheeks, and the big, too tight boots that made her walk like a gorilla. She hated her father staring at her over breakfast, his leg dancing nervously under the table as if to say hurry up, get a move on. She hated getting up at seven-thirty, even during Christmas vacation.
0 kommentar(er)
