pikapee: переводы

→Blake scoffed. “Hey. It takes a secure man to wear a pink cupcake on his chest.” He reached behind him and started to untie the strings. “Come on in. I’m just closing up, and then we can head back.”

→She pointed at the cupcake on his torso. “Nice apron,” she teased.

→Blake noticed Mac and opened the door. “Hey. You coming?”

→It’s better this way, and you know it, Mackenzie told herself. Boys were a distraction from what really mattered. But that didn’t mean she’d totally forgiven Claire. Claire was supposed to be her best friend, her confidante. Claire should have known better.

→“No!” Mackenzie had gasped, mortified. The only thing worse than Claire liking Blake was Blake knowing Mac liked him. “It’s fine . . . ,” she said haltingly. “You should go for it.”

→“I’ll just tell him no, right? That you like him, so even though I really, really like him, too, it’d be weird if we went out?” Claire went on.

→“Like him, too?” Mackenzie had echoed hollowly, thinking of Blake with his wide, curving lips, his thick, shaggy hair. His pale blue eyes, long-lashed and intense. Mackenzie had liked him forever, yes, but Claire had never mentioned liking him, too. Not ever.

→That was why it’d been such a shock when Claire came to her last year during the orchestra’s trip to Disneyland. “Blake just kissed me,” she’d announced breathlessly. “I didn’t kiss him back, because I know you like him, too.”

→Mac had become friends with Blake in junior high and joined his band, Black Lodge. They practiced weekly, but it was only in sophomore year that Mac realized she liked him as more than a friend . . . though she had no idea what to do with that. She stayed late at band practice, went out of her way to be in his ensembles for chamber music festivals, and at strings camp she’d linger near him every opportunity she got. The only person she confessed her crush to was Claire.

→Then she looked in the window of Cupcake Kingdom. And there he was, wiping off the counter, looking sexy even in a pink-and-white-striped apron. Blake Strustek, the reason for Claire and Mac’s friend-mageddon.

→“Right, I’ll be sure to do that,” Mackenzie mumbled as Claire zoomed off.

→“Anytime!” Claire yelled out the window. “Tell Blake I love him!”

→“Thanks for the ride,” Mackenzie said, opening the door to the backseat and carefully sliding out her cello case. Her parents had promised to buy her a top-quality professional instrument from Germany if she got into Juilliard—she’d need one if she was going to play with professionals—but she loved her current cello. She knew every little scratch and scuff in the glossy maple wood, every weird quirk it had. She’d even given it a name: Moomintroll.

→“Here we are.” Claire pulled over outside Cupcake Kingdom, a popular spot in Beacon Heights, right on the town square. The afternoon rain had slackened, but the pavement was still wet and slick, and the trees and streetlights dripped water to the sidewalk below in arrhythmic patterns. “Have fun at band practice.”

→Now they were both vying to get a spot at Juilliard, though the conservatory had never taken two cellists from the same school before. More than likely, there wouldn’t be room for both. And given everything that had happened with them in the past year, Mackenzie wasn’t sure she wanted there to be.

→Beads of sweat broke out along the back of Mackenzie’s neck. Mac and Claire had met as five-year-olds at a music camp for precocious preschoolers and had been inseparable ever since. Claire was übercompetitive with Mackenzie, always trying to beat her out for first chair or dictating what they did every Friday night, but she was also the only person Mackenzie had anything in common with—even with all the pressure to be perfect at Beacon Heights High, not many people could understand the sacrifices they had to make for music. They shared everything: which boy they had secret crushes on, which music teachers they hated—how, sometimes, they didn’t feel like playing at all.

→EARLY THURSDAY EVENING, MACKENZIE WRIGHT, dressed in a patchwork skirt with her long, unruly blond hair clipped back from her face, sat in the passenger seat of her best friend Claire Coldwell’s car, humming along to Dvořák’s New World Symphony. Mrs. Rabinowitz, their Honors Orchestra conductor, insisted they live, breathe, and sleep the piece until their upcoming concert. Mackenzie absentmindedly moved her fingers along with the melody, as if her cello were right there in front of her rather than tucked in the hatchback of Claire’s blue Ford Escape.

→Mac burst out laughing. “I thought she was going to have a seizure.”

→Blake rolled his eyes. “Taking the day off. She’s probably getting a mani-pedi.”

→“Where’s your sister?” Mac asked as Blake turned the OPEN sign around to CLOSED. His sister, Marion, had opened this shop last year.