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- Марк Мэнсон
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- Тонкое искусство пофигизма
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- Стр. 27/115
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Mr
.
Price
scans
the
contents
organized
on
the
floor
.
Nothing
illicit
or
illegal
,
no
narcotics
,
not
even
anything
against
school
policy
.
He
sighs
and
then
throws
the
coat
and
backpack
on
the
floor
too
.
He
bends
over
and
puts
his
elbows
on
his
knees
,
making
his
face
level
with
mine
.
“
Mark
,
I
’
m
going
to
give
you
one
last
chance
to
be
honest
with
me
.
If
you
are
honest
,
this
will
turn
out
much
better
for
you
.
If
it
turns
out
you
’
re
lying
,
then
it
’
s
going
to
be
much
worse
.
”
As
if
on
cue
,
I
gulp
.
“
Now
tell
me
the
truth
,
”
Mr
.
Price
demands
.
“
Did
you
bring
drugs
to
school
today
?
”
Fighting
back
tears
,
screams
clawing
at
my
throat
,
I
stare
my
tormentor
in
the
face
and
,
in
a
pleading
voice
,
dying
to
be
relieved
of
its
adolescent
horrors
,
I
say
,
“
No
,
I
don
’
t
have
any
drugs
.
I
have
no
idea
what
you
’
re
talking
about
.
”
“
Okay
,
”
he
says
,
signaling
surrender
.
“
I
guess
you
can
collect
your
things
and
go
.
”
He
takes
one
last
,
longing
gaze
at
my
deflated
backpack
,
lying
like
a
broken
promise
there
on
his
office
floor
.
He
casually
puts
one
foot
down
on
the
pack
,
stomping
lightly
,
a
last
-
ditch
effort
.
I
anxiously
wait
for
him
to
get
up
and
leave
so
I
can
get
on
with
my
life
and
forget
this
whole
nightmare
.
But
his
foot
stops
on
something
.
“
What
is
this
?
”
he
asks
,
tapping
with
his
foot
.
“
What
is
what
?
”
I
say
.
