Paper Towns is one of John Green's most famous works. Most readers of the book are inclined to believe that it will be most interesting for teenagers. It is noteworthy that the plot of the book is not hackneyed, it is difficult to find works with similar heroes, similar situations.

In the center of the story is a teenager Q, almost a high school graduate and his neighbor Margot. She is very popular at school, beautiful, the boy is in love with her. When they were children, they were friends and often played together. Having matured, the guy became more calm, cautious, and Margot was still the same mischievous girl who loves adventure, who is not worried about any prohibitions.

One night, Margo climbed into Q's window and invited him to participate in the punishment of her offenders. It was a real adventure for the guy. Everything goes well, and the night ends at the very top of the tallest building in the city. Young people are talking, the girl says the phrase that everything here is paper, not real: people, houses, city.

In the morning, Q discovers that the girl has disappeared. Margo left him messages that will help him find a secret place in one of the cities of Florida. The teenager thinks this is the place where he can see her, but it turns out that Margot is not there. However, together with his friends, he discovers the traces that she inadvertently left. Having found the girl, friends see that Margo is not at all the person she pretended to be...

The book has intrigue, mystery, love - everything that is so interesting to every teenager. The advantage of the book is that with its title and Margo's phrase about paper cities, it makes you think about whether everything around is paper, not real, not the way we see it? The theme of illusory love is important. After all, the way you see a person, imagine him, does not mean that he is such in reality. You can draw an image that you will love and idolize all your life, but does it make sense if in reality everything is completely different.

On our website you can download the book "Paper Towns" by John Green for free and without registration in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format, read the book online or buy the book in the online store.

John Green

Paper cities

Thanks to Julie Strauss-Gabel, without whom none of this would have been possible.

Then we went outside and saw that she had already lit a candle; I really liked the face that she carved from a pumpkin: from afar it seemed that sparks sparkled in her eyes.

"Halloween", Katrina Vandenberg, from the collection "Atlas".

It is said that a friend cannot destroy a friend.

What do they know about it?

From a song by the Mountain Goats.

My opinion is this: some kind of miracle happens to every person in life. Well, that is, of course, it is unlikely that I will be struck by lightning or I will receive a Nobel Prize, or I will become a dictator of a small people living on some island in the Pacific Ocean, or I will catch an incurable ear cancer in the final stage, or I will suddenly ignite spontaneously. But, if you look at all these extraordinary phenomena together, most likely, at least something unlikely happens to everyone. For example, I could get caught in a rain of frogs. Or land on Mars. Marry the Queen of England, or hang out alone at sea for several months, being on the verge of life and death. But something else happened to me. Among all the many residents of Florida, it was I who happened to be the neighbor of Margo Roth Spiegelman.

Jefferson Park, where I live, used to be a Navy base. But then it was no longer needed, and the land was returned to the ownership of the municipality of Orlando, Florida, and a huge residential area was built on the site of the base, because that's how free land is now used. And in the end, my parents and Margo's parents bought houses in the neighborhood as soon as the construction of the first objects was completed. Margot and I were two years old at the time.

Even before Jefferson Park became Pleasantville, even before it became a Navy base, it really belonged to a certain Jefferson, or rather, Dr. Jefferson Jefferson. In honor of Dr. Jefferson Jefferson in Orlando, an entire school was named, there is also a large charitable organization named after him, but the most interesting thing is that Dr. Jefferson Jefferson was not any "doctor": unbelievable, but true. He sold orange juice all his life. And then he suddenly became rich and became a man of influence. And then he went to court and changed his name: "Jefferson" put in the middle, and as the first name he wrote down the word "doctor." And try to answer.

So, Margot and I were nine. Our parents were friends, so we sometimes played together with her, driving bikes past dead-end streets into Jefferson Park itself - the main attraction of our area.

When I was told that Margo was coming soon, I was always terribly worried, because I considered her the most divine of God's creatures in the entire history of mankind. That very morning, she was wearing white shorts and a pink t-shirt with a green dragon that had flames of orange sequins coming out of its mouth. Now it's hard to explain why this T-shirt seemed so amazing to me that day.

Margot rode the bike standing up, with her straight arms clinging to the steering wheel and hanging over it with her whole body, purple sneakers sparkled. It was in March, but the heat was already standing, like in a steam room. The sky was clear, but there was a sour taste in the air, which indicated that a storm might break out in a while.

I thought I was an inventor at the time, and when Margot and I dropped our bikes and went to the playground, I began to tell her that I was developing a "ringolator", that is, a giant cannon that could shoot large colored stones, launching them circling around the Earth, so that we have here become like on Saturn. (I still think it would be cool, but making a cannon that will launch rocks into Earth orbit turns out to be quite difficult.)

I often visited this park and knew every corner of it well, so that pretty soon I felt that something strange had happened to this world, although I did not immediately notice what exactly changed in him.

Quentin, - quietly and calmly said Margo.

She was pointing her finger somewhere. It was then that I saw what not this way.

A few steps ahead of us was an oak tree. Fat, knobby, terribly old. He has always been here. To the right was the platform. She didn't show up today either. But there, leaning against a tree trunk, sat a man in a gray suit. He didn't move. Here I saw him for the first time. There was a pool of blood around him. Blood flowed from his mouth, although the trickle was almost dry. The man opened his mouth in a strange way. Flies sat quietly on his pale forehead.

I took two steps back. I remember that for some reason it seemed to me that if I suddenly made any sudden movement, he might wake up and attack me. Is it a zombie then? At that age I already knew that they did not exist, but this dead man really looked like it could come alive at any moment.

And while I was taking these two steps back, Margot just as slowly and carefully stepped forward.

His eyes are open, she stated.

We must return home, - I answered.

I thought they were dying eyes closed- She did not let up.

Margon needs to go home and tell her parents.

She took another step forward. If she stretched out her hand now, she could touch his leg.

What do you think happened to him? she asked. Maybe drugs or something.

I did not want to leave Margot alone with the corpse, which at any moment could come to life and rush at her, but I was also not in a position to stay there and discuss the circumstances of his death in the smallest detail. I plucked up the courage to step forward and grabbed her arm.

Margonadoid go home now!

Okay, fine, she agreed.

We ran to the bikes, I was breathless, as if from delight, only it was not delight. We sat down, and I let Margo go first, because I burst into tears myself and did not want her to see it. The soles of her purple sneakers were stained with blood. His blood. This dead man.

And then we went home. My parents called 911, sirens wailed in the distance, I asked permission to look at the cars, my mother refused. Then I went to sleep.

My mom and dad are psychotherapists, so I, by definition, have no psychological problems. When I woke up, my mother and I had a long conversation about the lifespan of a person, that death is also part of life cycle, but at the age of nine, I don’t have to think much about this phase, in general, I felt better. To be honest, I never got into this topic. This says a lot, because, in principle, I know how to drive.

These are the facts: I came across a dead man. A cute little nine-year-old boy, that is, me, and my even smaller and much cuter girlfriend found a dead man in the park who was bleeding in his mouth, and when we rushed home, my girlfriend's cute little sneakers were in this very blood of his. Very dramatic, of course, and all the cases, but so what? I didn't know him. Every damn day people I don't know die. If every misfortune that occurs in this world brought me to a nervous breakdown, I would have already gone crazy.

At nine in the evening I went to my room, about to go to bed - according to the schedule. Mom tucked my blanket in, said she loved me, I told her “see you tomorrow”, she also told me “see you tomorrow”, turned off the light and closed the door so that only a small gap remained.

Turning on my side, I saw Margot Roth Spiegelman: she was standing in the street, literally pressing her nose to the window. I got up, opened it, now we were separated only by a mosquito net, because of which it seemed that her face was a small dot.

I've done my research," she said in a serious tone.

Although the mesh made it difficult to see it properly, I still saw in Margot's hands a small notebook and a pencil with dents from the teeth near the eraser.

She looked at her notes.

Mrs. Feldman of Jefferson Court said his name was Robert Joyner. And that he lived on Jefferson Road in an apartment in a house with a grocery store. I went there and found a bunch of policemen, one of them asked, what, from the school newspaper, I answered that we don’t have our own newspaper at school, and he said that if I'm not a journalist, he can answer my questions. It turned out that Robert Joyner was thirty-six years old. He is a lawyer. They didn't let me into his apartment, but I went to his neighbor named Juanita Alvarez on the pretext that I wanted to borrow a glass of sugar from her, and she said that this Robert Joyner shot himself with a pistol. I asked why, and it turned out that his wife wanted to divorce him, and this made him very upset.

John Green

Paper cities

Thanks to Julie Strauss-Gabel, without whom none of this would have been possible.

Then we went outside and saw that she had already lit a candle; I really liked the face that she carved from a pumpkin: from afar it seemed that sparks sparkled in her eyes.

"Halloween", Katrina Vandenberg, from the collection "Atlas".

It is said that a friend cannot destroy a friend.

What do they know about it?

From a song by the Mountain Goats.

My opinion is this: some kind of miracle happens to every person in life. Well, that is, of course, it is unlikely that I will be struck by lightning or I will receive a Nobel Prize, or I will become a dictator of a small people living on some island in the Pacific Ocean, or I will catch an incurable ear cancer in the final stage, or I will suddenly ignite spontaneously. But, if you look at all these extraordinary phenomena together, most likely, at least something unlikely happens to everyone. For example, I could get caught in a rain of frogs. Or land on Mars. Marry the Queen of England, or hang out alone at sea for several months, being on the verge of life and death. But something else happened to me. Among all the many residents of Florida, it was I who happened to be the neighbor of Margo Roth Spiegelman.

Jefferson Park, where I live, used to be a Navy base. But then it was no longer needed, and the land was returned to the ownership of the municipality of Orlando, Florida, and a huge residential area was built on the site of the base, because that's how free land is now used. And in the end, my parents and Margo's parents bought houses in the neighborhood as soon as the construction of the first objects was completed. Margot and I were two years old at the time.

Even before Jefferson Park became Pleasantville, even before it became a Navy base, it really belonged to a certain Jefferson, or rather, Dr. Jefferson Jefferson. In honor of Dr. Jefferson Jefferson in Orlando, an entire school was named, there is also a large charitable organization named after him, but the most interesting thing is that Dr. Jefferson Jefferson was not any "doctor": unbelievable, but true. He sold orange juice all his life. And then he suddenly became rich and became a man of influence. And then he went to court and changed his name: "Jefferson" put in the middle, and as the first name he wrote down the word "doctor." And try to answer.

So, Margot and I were nine. Our parents were friends, so we sometimes played together with her, driving bikes past dead-end streets into Jefferson Park itself - the main attraction of our area.

When I was told that Margo was coming soon, I was always terribly worried, because I considered her the most divine of God's creatures in the entire history of mankind. That very morning, she was wearing white shorts and a pink t-shirt with a green dragon that had flames of orange sequins coming out of its mouth. Now it's hard to explain why this T-shirt seemed so amazing to me that day.

Margot rode the bike standing up, with her straight arms clinging to the steering wheel and hanging over it with her whole body, purple sneakers sparkled. It was in March, but the heat was already standing, like in a steam room. The sky was clear, but there was a sour taste in the air, which indicated that a storm might break out in a while.

I thought I was an inventor at the time, and when Margot and I dropped our bikes and went to the playground, I began to tell her that I was developing a "ringolator", that is, a giant cannon that could shoot large colored stones, launching them circling around the Earth, so that we have here become like on Saturn. (I still think it would be cool, but making a cannon that will launch rocks into Earth orbit turns out to be quite difficult.)

I often visited this park and knew every corner of it well, so that pretty soon I felt that something strange had happened to this world, although I did not immediately notice what exactly changed in him.

Quentin, - quietly and calmly said Margo.

She was pointing her finger somewhere. It was then that I saw what not this way.

A few steps ahead of us was an oak tree. Fat, knobby, terribly old. He has always been here. To the right was the platform. She didn't show up today either. But there, leaning against a tree trunk, sat a man in a gray suit. He didn't move. Here I saw him for the first time. There was a pool of blood around him. Blood flowed from his mouth, although the trickle was almost dry. The man opened his mouth in a strange way. Flies sat quietly on his pale forehead.

I took two steps back. I remember that for some reason it seemed to me that if I suddenly made any sudden movement, he might wake up and attack me. Is it a zombie then? At that age I already knew that they did not exist, but this dead man really looked like it could come alive at any moment.

And while I was taking these two steps back, Margot just as slowly and carefully stepped forward.

His eyes are open, she stated.

We must return home, - I answered.

I thought they were dying with their eyes closed, - she did not let up.

Margon needs to go home and tell her parents.

She took another step forward. If she stretched out her hand now, she could touch his leg.

What do you think happened to him? she asked. Maybe drugs or something.

I did not want to leave Margot alone with the corpse, which at any moment could come to life and rush at her, but I was also not in a position to stay there and discuss the circumstances of his death in the smallest detail. I plucked up the courage to step forward and grabbed her arm.

Margonadoid go home now!

Okay, fine, she agreed.

We ran to the bikes, I was breathless, as if from delight, only it was not delight. We sat down, and I let Margo go first, because I burst into tears myself and did not want her to see it. The soles of her purple sneakers were stained with blood. His blood. This dead man.

And then we went home. My parents called 911, sirens wailed in the distance, I asked permission to look at the cars, my mother refused. Then I went to sleep.

My mom and dad are psychotherapists, so I, by definition, have no psychological problems. When I woke up, my mother and I had a long conversation about the lifespan of a person, that death is also part of the life cycle, but at the age of nine I don’t have to think much about this phase, in general, I felt better. To be honest, I never got into this topic. This says a lot, because, in principle, I know how to drive.

These are the facts: I came across a dead man. A cute little nine-year-old boy, that is, me, and my even smaller and much cuter girlfriend found a dead man in the park who was bleeding in his mouth, and when we rushed home, my girlfriend's cute little sneakers were in this very blood of his. Very dramatic, of course, and all the cases, but so what? I didn't know him. Every damn day people I don't know die. If every misfortune that occurs in this world brought me to a nervous breakdown, I would have already gone crazy.

At nine in the evening I went to my room, about to go to bed - according to the schedule. Mom tucked my blanket in, said she loved me, I told her “see you tomorrow”, she also told me “see you tomorrow”, turned off the light and closed the door so that only a small gap remained.

Turning on my side, I saw Margot Roth Spiegelman: she was standing in the street, literally pressing her nose to the window. I got up, opened it, now we were separated only by a mosquito net, because of which it seemed that her face was a small dot.

I've done my research," she said in a serious tone.

Although the mesh made it difficult to see it properly, I still saw in Margot's hands a small notebook and a pencil with dents from the teeth near the eraser.

She looked at her notes.

Mrs. Feldman of Jefferson Court said his name was Robert Joyner. And that he lived on Jefferson Road in an apartment in a house with a grocery store. I went there and found a bunch of policemen, one of them asked, what, from the school newspaper, I answered that we don’t have our own newspaper at school, and he said that if I'm not a journalist, he can answer my questions. It turned out that Robert Joyner was thirty-six years old. He is a lawyer. They didn't let me into his apartment, but I went to his neighbor named Juanita Alvarez on the pretext that I wanted to borrow a glass of sugar from her, and she said that this Robert Joyner shot himself with a pistol. I asked why, and it turned out that his wife wanted to divorce him, and this made him very upset.

This was the end of Margo's story, and I stood and silently looked at her: her face, gray from the moonlight, was broken by the window grid into a thousand tiny dots. Her large round eyes darted from me to the notebook and back.

Many get divorced without committing suicide,” I commented.

- I know, she answered excitedly. - I just same Juanita Alvarez said. And she answered ... - Margot turned the page. - ... that Mr. Joyner was not an easy man. I asked what it meant, and she simply offered to pray for him and ordered me to bring sugar to my mother, I told her: “Forget sugar” - and left.

I said nothing again. I wanted her to keep talking - in her quiet voice there was the excitement of a person approaching the solution of some important question, and this gave me the feeling that something very important was happening.

It seems to me that maybe I understand why he did it, - Margot finally said.

He probably lost all the threads in his soul,” she explained.

thinking what this can be answered, I pressed the latch and took out the net that separated us from the window. I put it on the floor, but Margot didn't let me say anything. She, practically burying her face in me, ordered: “Close the window,” and I obeyed. I thought she was going to leave, but she stayed and kept looking at me. I waved at her and smiled, but it seemed to me that she was looking at something behind me, at something so terrible that the blood drained from her face, and I was so frightened that I did not dare to turn and look, what is there. But behind me, of course, there was nothing of the kind - except, perhaps, that dead man.

I stopped waving. Margo and I looked at each other through the glass, our faces were on the same level. I don't remember how it all ended - I went to bed or she left. This memory has no end to me. We just stand and look at each other for an eternity.

Margot loved all sorts of riddles. Later I often thought that maybe that was why she herself became a mystery girl.

Part one

The longest day of my life was in no hurry to start: I woke up late, took a very long shower, so I had to have breakfast that Wednesday at 7:17 in my mother's minivan.

I usually drive to school with my best friend Ben Starling, but he came out on time that day so he couldn't pick me up. “Arrive on time” for us meant “half an hour before the call.” The first thirty minutes of the school day was the most significant point in the schedule of our social life: we gathered at the back door to the rehearsal room and talked. Many of my friends played in the school band, so almost everyone free time we hung out within twenty feet of their rehearsal room. But I myself did not play, because a bear stepped on my ear, crushing it so that sometimes I can even be mistaken for a deaf person. I was twenty minutes late, which meant I would arrive ten minutes before the first lesson.

On the way, Mom started talking about school, exams, and graduation.

I'm not interested in prom, I reminded her as she rounded the corner.

I kept a bowl of cereal with dynamic g-forces in mind. I already had experience.

I think it won't hurt anything if you go there with a girl with whom you just friendly relations. You can invite Cassie Zadkins.

Yes I could invite Cassie Zadkins - she's just great, and sweet, and nice, only she was unlucky with her last name.

It's not just that I don't like the idea of ​​going to prom. I also don't like those people who like the idea of ​​going to prom," I explained, even though that wasn't really true. Ben, for example, was just delusional about this graduation.

Mom drove up to the school, and on the speed bump I held the plate, which, however, was already almost empty. I looked at the seniors parking lot. Margo Roth Spiegelman's silver Honda stood in its usual place. Mom drove into a dead end at the rehearsal room and kissed me on the cheek. Ben and the rest of my friends stood in a semicircle.

I walked towards them, and the semicircle received me, becoming a little larger. They were talking about my ex, Susie Cheng. She played the cello, and now she decided to make a splash by dating a baseball player named Teddy Mack. I didn't even know if it was her real name or nickname. But anyway, Susie decided to go to prom with him, with this Teddy Mack. Another blow of fate.

Hey, - called Ben, who was standing opposite me.

He shook his head and turned around. I followed him. He entered the rehearsal room. My best friend Ben was small and dark, and by that time he had already begun to mature, but he had not yet matured. We have been friends with him since the fifth grade - from the very moment we both finally acknowledged the fact that we didn’t give up on anyone else as a “best friend”. Plus, he tried really hard to be good, and I liked that - for the most part.

Well, how are you? I asked. No one could hear us from there.

Radar is going to prom,” he announced grimly.

This is another one of our best friends. We called him Radar because he looked like the little bespectacled Radar from the old TV show, except that, firstly, Radar was not black in that show, and secondly, after a while our Radar stretched six inches and began to wear contact lenses, so I suspect that, and this is the third, he didn’t like that dude from the TV show at all, but, fourthly, since there were only three and a half weeks left in school, we were not going to invent another nickname for him.

With this Angela? I asked.

Radar never spoke about his personal life, which, however, did not prevent us from constantly making our own assumptions about this.

Did I tell you about my grand plan? Invite one of the younger ones? Of those who do not know my "bloody history"?

I nodded.

So, Ben continued. - Today, some cute bunny from the ninth grade came up to me and asked: “Are you the same bloody Ben?” I began to explain to her that it was because of a kidney infection, but she giggled and ran away. So that plan is out.

In tenth grade, Ben was taken to the hospital because he had a kidney infection, but Becca Errington, Margot's best friend, spread the rumor that he supposedly had blood in his urine because he jerked off all the time. Despite the fact that from a medical point of view this is complete nonsense, Ben still feels the consequences of this story.

It sucks, I sympathized.

Ben began to fill me in on his new plan to find himself a prom date, but I was only half listening as Margo Roth Spiegelman spotted in the crowd gathering in the hallway. She was standing at her locker - and next to her boyfriend, Jace. She was wearing a white knee-length skirt and a top with some kind of blue pattern. I looked at her collarbones. She was laughing at something like crazy - bent over, her mouth wide open, and wrinkles lay at the corners of her eyes. But it seemed to me that it was not Jace who made her laugh, because she was looking not at him, but somewhere in the distance, at a row of lockers. I followed her gaze and saw Becca Errington hanging from a baseball player like a garland on a Christmas tree. I smiled at Margot, even though I knew she couldn't see me anyway.

Old man, you still have to make up your mind. Forget Jace. God, she's unrealistically sweet bunny.

We walked down the corridor, and I kept throwing furtive glances at her, as if taking a photograph: it was a series of pictures called "Perfection is motionless, and mere mortals scurry past it." As we got closer, I thought maybe she wasn't laughing at all, maybe she was surprised by something, or something was given to her, or something like that. Margot just couldn't seem to close her mouth.

Yes, I replied to Ben, still not listening to him, because I was too busy: I tried not to miss anything, but at the same time I didn’t want anyone to notice that I was staring at her.

It's not even that she's very beautiful. Margo is simply a goddess in the literal sense of the word. We passed her, the crowd thickened between us, and I could hardly see her. I was never able to talk to her and find out what made her laugh, surprised. Ben shook his head: he had long understood that I couldn't take my eyes off this girl, and he was already used to it.

No, honestly, she's cool, of course, but not so. You know who's really sexy?

Who? I asked.

Lacey,” Ben replied, referring to Margot’s other best friend. - And your mom too. Forgive me, of course, but when I saw her kissing you on the cheek today, I thought: "Lord, what a pity that I'm not in his place," I tell you honestly. And further: "What a pity that the cheeks are not located on the penis."

I elbowed him in the ribs, although I was still thinking about Margo, since she was the legend who lived next door to me. Margot Roth Spiegelman - all six syllables of her name were almost always pronounced with a touch of dreaminess. Margot Roth Spiegelman - stories of her epic adventures shook the entire school like an earthquake. An old man who lived in a dilapidated house in Hot Coffee, Mississippi, taught Margot how to play the guitar. Margot Roth Spiegelman traveled with the circus for three days - they thought she could perform beautifully on the trapeze. In St. Louis, Margot Roth Spiegelman had a cup of herbal tea backstage with the Millionaires while they sipped whiskey themselves. Margot Roth Spiegelman got into that concert by lying to the bouncers that she was the bassist's girlfriend: don't you recognize me, yeah guys, stop joking, I'm Margot Roth Spiegelman, and if you ask the bassist himself, he, as soon as he sees me, he will say that I am his girlfriend, or that he really wants me to become one; the bouncer obeyed, and the bassist really said: “Yes, this is my girl, let her go to the concert,” and then, after the performance, he wanted to hook up with her, but she rejected the bassist from the Millionaires.

When someone told about the adventures of Margot, the story would certainly end with a question: "Damn, can you believe this?" Often it was impossible to believe, but then it always turned out that this was really true.

And then Ben and I reached our lockers. Radar was standing there, hammering something into a handheld.

So you're going to prom," I said.

He looked up at me and then looked back at the screen.

John Green

Paper cities

Thanks to Julie Strauss-Gabel, without whom none of this would have been possible.

Then we went outside and saw that she had already lit a candle; I really liked the face that she carved from a pumpkin: from afar it seemed that sparks sparkled in her eyes.

- "Halloween", Katrina Vandenberg, from the collection "Atlas".

It is said that a friend cannot destroy a friend.

What do they know about it?

- From a song by the Mountain Goats.

My opinion is this: Some kind of miracle happens to every person in life. Well, that is, of course, it is unlikely that I will be struck by lightning or I will receive a Nobel Prize, or I will become a dictator of a small people living on some island in the Pacific Ocean, or I will catch an incurable ear cancer in the final stage, or I will suddenly ignite spontaneously. But, if you look at all these extraordinary phenomena together, most likely, at least something unlikely happens to everyone. For example, I could get caught in a rain of frogs. Or land on Mars. Marry the Queen of England, or hang out alone at sea for several months, being on the verge of life and death. But something else happened to me. Among all the many residents of Florida, it was I who happened to be the neighbor of Margo Roth Spiegelman.

Jefferson Park, where I live, used to be a Navy base. But then it was no longer needed, and the land was returned to the ownership of the municipality of Orlando, Florida, and a huge residential area was built on the site of the base, because that's how free land is now used. And in the end, my parents and Margo's parents bought houses in the neighborhood as soon as the construction of the first objects was completed. Margot and I were two years old at the time.

Even before Jefferson Park became Pleasantville, even before it became a Navy base, it really belonged to a certain Jefferson, or rather, Dr. Jefferson Jefferson. In honor of Dr. Jefferson Jefferson in Orlando, an entire school was named, there is also a large charitable organization named after him, but the most interesting thing is that Dr. Jefferson Jefferson was not any "doctor": unbelievable, but true. He sold orange juice all his life. And then he suddenly became rich and became a man of influence. And then he went to court and changed his name: "Jefferson" put in the middle, and as the first name he wrote down the word "doctor." And try to answer.

So, Margot and I were nine. Our parents were friends, so sometimes she and I played together, racing bikes past dead-end streets into Jefferson Park itself, the main attraction of our area.

When I was told that Margo was coming soon, I was always terribly worried, because I considered her the most divine of God's creatures in the entire history of mankind. That very morning, she was wearing white shorts and a pink t-shirt with a green dragon that had flames of orange sequins coming out of its mouth. Now it's hard to explain why this T-shirt seemed so amazing to me that day.

Margot rode the bike standing up, with her straight arms clinging to the steering wheel and hanging over it with her whole body, purple sneakers sparkled. It was in March, but the heat was already standing, like in a steam room. The sky was clear, but there was a sour taste in the air, which indicated that a storm might break out in a while.

I thought I was an inventor at the time, and when Margot and I dropped our bikes and went to the playground, I began to tell her that I was developing a "ringolator", that is, a giant cannon that could shoot large colored stones, launching them circling around the Earth, so that we have here become like on Saturn. (I still think it would be cool, but making a cannon that will launch rocks into Earth orbit turns out to be quite difficult.)

I often visited this park and knew every corner of it well, so that pretty soon I felt that something strange had happened to this world, although I did not immediately notice what exactly changed in him.

“Quentin,” Margot said softly and calmly.

She was pointing her finger somewhere. It was then that I saw what not this way.

A few steps ahead of us was an oak tree. Fat, knobby, terribly old. He has always been here. To the right was the platform. She didn't show up today either. But there, leaning against a tree trunk, sat a man in a gray suit. He didn't move. Here I saw him for the first time. There was a pool of blood around him. Blood flowed from his mouth, although the trickle was almost dry. The man opened his mouth in a strange way. Flies sat quietly on his pale forehead.

I took two steps back. I remember that for some reason it seemed to me that if I suddenly made any sudden movement, he might wake up and attack me. Is it a zombie then? At that age I already knew that they did not exist, but this dead man really looked like it could come alive at any moment.

And while I was taking these two steps back, Margot just as slowly and carefully stepped forward.

“His eyes are open,” she stated.

“We have to go home,” I replied.

“I thought they were dying with their eyes closed,” she persisted.

“Margon needs to go home and tell her parents.

She took another step forward. If she stretched out her hand now, she could touch his leg.

- What do you think happened to him? she asked. Maybe drugs or something.

I did not want to leave Margot alone with the corpse, which at any moment could come to life and rush at her, but I was also not in a position to stay there and discuss the circumstances of his death in the smallest detail. I plucked up the courage to step forward and grabbed her arm.

- Margonadoid go home now!

“Okay, fine,” she agreed.

We ran to the bikes, I was breathless, as if from delight, only it was not delight. We sat down, and I let Margo go first, because I burst into tears myself and did not want her to see it. The soles of her purple sneakers were stained with blood. His blood. This dead man.

And then we went home. My parents called 911, sirens wailed in the distance, I asked permission to look at the cars, my mother refused. Then I went to sleep.

My mom and dad are psychotherapists, so I, by definition, have no psychological problems. When I woke up, my mother and I had a long conversation about the duration of a person’s life, that death is also part of the life cycle, but at the age of nine I don’t have to think much about this phase, in general, I felt better. To be honest, I never got into this topic. This says a lot, because, in principle, I know how to drive.

These are the facts: I came across a dead man. A cute little nine-year-old boy, that is, me, and my even smaller and much cuter girlfriend found a dead man in the park who was bleeding in his mouth, and when we rushed home, my girlfriend's cute little sneakers were in this very blood of his. Very dramatic, of course, and all the cases, but so what? I didn't know him. Every damn day people I don't know die. If every misfortune that occurs in this world brought me to a nervous breakdown, I would have already gone crazy.

At nine in the evening I went to my room, about to go to bed - according to the schedule. Mom tucked my blanket in, said she loved me, I told her “see you tomorrow”, she also told me “see you tomorrow”, turned off the light and closed the door so that only a small gap remained.

Turning on my side, I saw Margot Roth Spiegelman: she was standing in the street, literally pressing her nose to the window. I got up, opened it, now we were separated only by a mosquito net, because of which it seemed that her face was a small dot.

"I've done my research," she said in a serious tone.

Although the mesh made it difficult to see it properly, I still saw in Margot's hands a small notebook and a pencil with dents from the teeth near the eraser.

She looked at her notes.

“Mrs. Feldman of Jefferson Court said his name was Robert Joyner. And that he lived on Jefferson Road in an apartment at a grocery store. I went there and found a bunch of policemen, one of them asked me what, from the school newspaper, I answered that we don’t have our own newspaper at school, and he said that if I’m not a journalist, then he can answer my questions. It turned out that Robert Joyner was thirty-six years old. He is a lawyer. They didn't let me into his apartment, but I went to his neighbor named Juanita Alvarez on the pretext that I wanted to borrow a glass of sugar from her, and she said that this Robert Joyner shot himself with a pistol. I asked why, and it turned out that his wife wanted to divorce him, and this made him very upset.

This was the end of Margo's story, and I stood and silently looked at her: her face, gray from the moonlight, was broken by the window grid into a thousand tiny dots. Her large round eyes darted from me to the notebook and back.

“Many people get divorced without committing suicide,” I commented.

– I know, she answered excitedly. - I'm just same Juanita Alvarez said. And she said…” Margot turned the page. - ... that Mr. Joyner was not an easy man. I asked what it meant, and she simply offered to pray for him and ordered to bring sugar to my mother, I told her: “Forget about sugar” - and left.

I said nothing again. I wanted her to keep talking - in her quiet voice there was the excitement of a person approaching the solution of some important question, and from this I got the feeling that something very important was happening.

“I think I might understand why he did it,” Margo said at last.

- Why?

“He must have lost all the threads in his soul,” she explained.

thinking what this can be answered, I pressed the latch and took out the net that separated us from the window. I put it on the floor, but Margot didn't let me say anything. She, practically burying her face in me, ordered: “Close the window,” and I obeyed. I thought she was going to leave, but she stayed and kept looking at me. I waved at her and smiled, but it seemed to me that she was looking at something behind me, at something so terrible that the blood drained from her face, and I was so frightened that I did not dare to turn and look, what is there. But behind me, of course, there was nothing of the kind - except, perhaps, that dead man.

I stopped waving. Margo and I looked at each other through the glass, our faces were on the same level. I don't remember how it all ended - I went to bed or she left. This memory has no end to me. We just stand and look at each other for an eternity.

Margot loved all sorts of riddles. Later I often thought that maybe that was why she herself became a mystery girl.

Part one

1

The most mine day of my life I was in no hurry to start: I woke up late, took a very long shower, so I had to have breakfast that Wednesday at 7:17 in my mother's minivan.

I usually drive to school with my best friend Ben Starling, but he came out on time that day so he couldn't pick me up. “Arrive on time” for us meant “half an hour before the call.” The first thirty minutes of the school day was the most significant point in the schedule of our social life: we gathered at the back door to the rehearsal room and talked. Many of my friends played in the school band, so we spent most of our free time within a twenty-foot radius of their rehearsal room. But I myself did not play, because a bear stepped on my ear, crushing it so that sometimes I can even be mistaken for a deaf person. I was twenty minutes late, which meant I would arrive ten minutes before the first lesson.

On the way, Mom started talking about school, exams, and graduation.

“I'm not interested in prom,” I reminded her as she rounded the corner.

I kept a bowl of cereal with dynamic g-forces in mind. I already had experience.

“I think it won’t be a big deal if you go there with a girl with whom you just have friendly relations. You can invite Cassie Zadkins.

Yes I could invite Cassie Zadkins - she's just great, and sweet, and pleasant, only she was not lucky with her last name.

“It's not just that I don't like the idea of ​​going to prom. I also don't like people who like the idea of ​​going to prom,” I explained, even though that wasn't really true. Ben, for example, was just delusional about this graduation.

Mom drove up to the school, and on the speed bump I held the plate, which, however, was already almost empty. I looked at the seniors parking lot. Margo Roth Spiegelman's silver Honda stood in its usual place. Mom drove into a dead end at the rehearsal room and kissed me on the cheek. Ben and the rest of my friends stood in a semicircle.

I walked towards them, and the semicircle received me, becoming a little larger. They were talking about my ex, Susie Cheng. She played the cello, and now she decided to make a splash by dating a baseball player named Teddy Mack. I didn't even know if it was her real name or nickname. But anyway, Susie decided to go to prom with him, with this Teddy Mack. Another blow of fate.

“Hey,” Ben called from across from me.

He shook his head and turned around. I followed him. He entered the rehearsal room. My best friend Ben was small and dark, and by that time he had already begun to mature, but he had not yet matured. He and I have been friends since the fifth grade - from the very moment we both finally acknowledged the fact that we didn’t give up on anyone else as a “best friend”. Plus, he tried really hard to be good, and I liked that—for the most part.

- Well, how are you? I asked. No one could hear us from there.

“Radar is going to prom,” he announced grimly.

This is another one of our best friends. We called him Radar because he looked like the little bespectacled Radar from the old TV show, except that, firstly, Radar was not black in that show, and secondly, after a while our Radar stretched six inches and started wearing contact lenses, so I suspect that, thirdly, he didn’t like that dude from the TV show at all, but, fourthly, since there were only three and a half weeks left in school, invent another nickname for him we didn't intend to.

- With this Angela? I asked.

Radar never spoke about his personal life, which, however, did not prevent us from constantly making our own assumptions about this.

Did I tell you about my grand plan? Invite one of the younger ones? Of those who do not know my "bloody history"?

I nodded.

“So,” Ben continued. “Today, some cute bunny from the ninth grade came up to me and asked: “Are you that same bloody Ben?” I began to explain to her that it was because of a kidney infection, but she giggled and ran away. So that plan is out.

In tenth grade, Ben was taken to the hospital because he had a kidney infection, but Becca Errington, Margot's best friend, spread the rumor that he supposedly had blood in his urine because he jerked off all the time. Despite the fact that from a medical point of view this is complete nonsense, Ben still feels the consequences of this story.

“Sucks,” I sympathized.

Ben began to fill me in on his new plan to find himself a prom date, but I was only half listening as Margo Roth Spiegelman spotted in the crowd gathering in the hallway. She was standing at her locker with her boyfriend, Jace, next to her. She was wearing a white knee-length skirt and a top with some kind of blue pattern. I looked at her collarbones. She was laughing at something like crazy - bent over, her mouth wide open, and wrinkles lay at the corners of her eyes. But it seemed to me that it was not Jace who made her laugh, because she was looking not at him, but somewhere in the distance, at a row of lockers. I followed her gaze and saw Becca Errington hanging from a baseball player like a garland on a Christmas tree. I smiled at Margot, even though I knew she couldn't see me anyway.

“Old man, you still have to make up your mind. Forget Jace. God, she's unrealistically sweet bunny.

We walked down the corridor, and I kept throwing furtive glances at her, as if taking a photograph: it was a series of pictures called "Perfection is motionless, and mere mortals scurry past it." As we got closer, I thought maybe she wasn't laughing at all, maybe she was surprised by something, or something was given to her, or something like that. Margot just couldn't seem to close her mouth.

“Yes,” I replied to Ben, still not listening to him, because I was too busy: I tried not to miss anything, but at the same time I did not want anyone to notice that I was staring at her.

It's not even that she's very beautiful. Margo is simply a goddess in the literal sense of the word. We passed her, the crowd thickened between us, and I could hardly see her. I was never able to talk to her and find out what made her laugh, surprised. Ben shook his head: he had long understood that I couldn't take my eyes off this girl, and he was already used to it.

- No, honestly, she's cool, of course, but not so. You know who's really sexy?

- Who? I asked.

"Lacey," Ben replied, referring to Margo's other best friend. “And your mom too. Forgive me, of course, but when I saw her kissing you on the cheek today, I thought: “ Lord, what a pity that I'm not in his place, " I tell you honestly. And further: "What a pity that the cheeks are not located on the penis."

I elbowed him in the ribs, although I was still thinking about Margo, since she was the legend who lived next door to me. Margot Roth Spiegelman - all six syllables of her name were almost always pronounced with a touch of dreaminess. Margo Roth Spiegelman - stories of her epic adventures shook the entire school like an earthquake. An old man who lived in a dilapidated house in Hot Coffee, Mississippi, taught Margot how to play the guitar. Margot Roth Spiegelman traveled with the circus for three days - they thought she could perform beautifully on the trapeze. In St. Louis, Margot Roth Spiegelman had a cup of herbal tea backstage with the Millionaires while they sipped whiskey themselves. Margot Roth Spiegelman got into that concert by lying to the bouncers that she was the bassist's girlfriend: don't you recognize me, yeah, guys, stop joking, I'm Margot Roth Spiegelman, and if you ask the bassist himself, he, as soon as he sees me, he will say that I am his girlfriend, or that he really wants me to become one; the bouncer obeyed, and the bassist really said: “Yes, this is my girl, let her go to the concert,” and then, after the performance, he wanted to hook up with her, but she rejected the bassist from the Millionaires.

When someone told about the adventures of Margot, the story would certainly end with a question: "Damn, can you believe this?" Often it was impossible to believe, but then it always turned out that this was really true.

And then Ben and I reached our lockers. Radar was standing there, hammering something into a handheld.

“So you’re going to prom,” I said.

He looked up at me and then looked back at the screen.

“I am restoring a corrupted Multipedia article about the former Prime Minister of France. Last night, someone deleted everything that was there, writing instead: "Jacques Chirac is a fag", which is neither factually nor from the point of view of the English language.

Radar is the editor-in-chief of a network directory founded by him called Multipedia, articles in which ordinary users can also write. He devotes himself to this project without a trace. Another reason why his decision to go to prom really surprised me.

“So you’re going to prom,” I repeated.

“I'm sorry,” he said, continuing to stare at the handheld.

Everyone knew perfectly well that I didn’t want to go to graduation. This event did not attract me at all - neither slow dances, nor fast dances, nor dresses, and how I was not attracted by the prospect of renting a dress tuxedo! It seemed to me that this was a sure way to catch some terrible infection from its previous carrier, and I had absolutely no desire to become the world's first virgin with pubic lice.

“Man,” Ben said to Radar, “even ninth grade bunnies know about my bloody past.

Radar lowered his handheld and nodded sympathetically.

“So,” Ben continued, “I have two options: either hire someone for money on a special site, or fly to Missouri and steal some kind of bunny that grew up on village bread.

I tried to explain to Ben that "bunny" is sexism and disgusting, and not cool retro, as he thinks, but Ben still didn't refuse this word. He also called his mother a bunny. Apparently it can't be fixed.

“I'll ask Angela if she can recommend anyone,” Radar replied. “Although finding a date for your prom will be harder than turning lead into gold.”

Yes, it will be hard. Heavier than osmium-iridium, I added.

Radar banged his fist twice on the locker door in approval, and then came up with another option:

“Ben, finding a date for your prom is so difficult that the United States government sees no way to resolve this issue through negotiations and considers it necessary to start military action.

While I was trying to think of something else on this subject, all three of us suddenly noticed at the same time that a container of anabolic steroids in the form of a human being known as Chuck Parson was purposefully heading our way. Chuck didn't even think about playing sports - it would distract him from the main goal of his life: he was going to earn himself a criminal record for murder.

“Hey you morons,” he began.

“Hi, Chuck,” I replied with all the friendliness I could manage at the time.

Chuck hasn't bothered us in a big way for almost two years - someone in the tough camp has issued a decree that we should be left alone. So it was strange that he spoke to us at all.

Paper Towns John Green

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Title: Paper cities

About Paper Towns by John Green

Where is the line where a teenager becomes an adult? Does the teenager feel that he has already crossed this line? You can try to find answers to these questions in John Green's novel "Paper Towns", written in the style of a young adult.

Quentin (Q) Jacobsen is the most ordinary teenager on the verge of final exams. Next door to the guy lives the girl Margo Roth Spiegelman. Quentin and Margo have known each other since childhood, and since childhood, Q has strong feelings for the girl. Years go by and their circle of friends, and outlook on life begin to change, but this does not affect the feelings of Q. The turning point comes when, one evening, Margot enters Quentin's room through the window and asks for help in taking revenge on her enemies, namely her boyfriend and close friend, who were caught in a relationship. Q can't refuse the man he's in love with. The next day, our hero finds out that the girl has disappeared, but not without a trace. She leaves Quentin little clues that should lead him to her. Q and three other friends go looking for Margot, finding more and more clues.

Although the book is written in the style of a young adult, it touches on topics that will not leave indifferent not only teenagers, but also adults: money, social inequality, the thirst for self-realization. The main characters, Q and Margo, do not want to obey social stereotypes, norms and rules. Each of them is dissatisfied with his life and struggles with it in his own way.
Margo tries to get out of her routine with inappropriate behavior and constant running away from home. Quentin, on the contrary, delves into dreams of a stable, if not bright, future. Dreams of going to college, then finding a stable job and generally trying to be a "nice guy".

The title of the book is, of course, not without reason. Margo herself explains to Q in the book that people burn their dreams of the future in the oven to warm their present now, and she does not intend to do the same. The girl shares her views with him, but will it affect him? Will he understand what she means and how it will affect his life?

The novel "Paper Towns" is the fifth in the list best books according to the New York Times, and in 2009 he was awarded the Edgar Poe Prize. He certainly deserves attention.

On our site about books lifeinbooks.net you can download for free without registration or read online book"Paper Towns" by John Green in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and a real pleasure to read. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find last news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For beginner writers there is a separate section with useful tips and recommendations interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at literary skills.