Ik was in de stad van bibliotheek #4 toen ik besloot (natuurlijk) de boekenwinkel te bekijken die naast de bibliotheek stond, en toen zag ik dit boek. Het klonk behoorlijk spannend, en precies een boek wat ik leuk zou vinden. Toch hem eerst niet meegenomen, maar later toch weer de boekenwinkel ingehopst en hem toch meegenomen. 😀 Wat wel voor mooie blikken zorgde, want ik was, terwijl ik naar de kassa liep, hem aan het lezen. De cassiere moest wel lachen, en vroeg of ik hem al uit had voordat ik hem kon afrekenen.
Even though there were still a few things that I didn’t entirely like (like Trigger, though now with the ending, he did make a perfect villain so I got to give points for that), and I still had one question (where is Reed??), but in overall I just can’t give this book less than 5+ stars. I have been having troubles with reading stuff lately, and this one just grabbed me and held me. I couldn’t stop reading (even if at times I really had to).
“The nice thing about sitting smack-dab on the street corner is that we’ve got the parking spaces all down the left side of the building. Customers pull in and they don’t have to leave their car to get food. We serve anywhere from twenty to fifty cars a night.” She smiled shyly.
“They don’t take up tables in the dining area and there’s no cleanup. Best of both worlds. Can you start tonight, Stella?”
“Quick,” I said. “We don’t have long. The sugar rush from dessert is about to kick in.”
Everyone laughed but I wasn’t trying to be funny. I’d learned to dread sugar. American food seemed to be laden with it, even the healthy stuff. Like “raisin bran” — each raisin came in a crystallized winter coat of silvery refined sugar. One moment the kids would be okay — I could get them sitting quietly in the rec hall, painting or whatever. Then they’d have a snack and suddenly it was like being in a Roy Lichtenstein painting — all KABAAM and WALLOP, as they ricocheted off the walls, running about and fighting with each other.
“You really are, categorically, the most American guy in the universe,” I said. “Next you’ll be telling me you were Prom King. And you drive a red pick-up truck.”
Don’t be sick on the children… Don’t be sick on the children…
Their little heads bobbed beneath me in the queue to get on the aeroplane. My stomach lurched again and I grabbed it. If I clutched at my guts hard enough, hopefully they’d not empty themselves over the excitable heads of the kids in front.
I couldn’t be certain, but vomming over innocent kiddlywinks could possible jeopardize my acceptance onto a long-haul flight.
Why had I done that last shot last night? Why, please? Why? WHY!?