It's an Aardvark-Eat-Turtle World Read online

  I look at Phoebe and her chocolate-yogurt-smeared face and am glad that we’ve been best friends since we met last year, when she moved to Woodstock full-time.

  I look at the turtle grave and wonder whether it was excited about going to its new house.

  If what happened to the turtle is an omen about what it’ll be like going to our new house, I’m going to be shell-shocked.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Whose bright idea was it to move both of our households into our new home on the same day?” Jim, Phoebe’s father, asks. He sits down on a rolled-up carpet.

  “Yours,” Phoebe says. “It was definitely not my idea.”

  “Three hair dryers. Four clock radios. Sixteen boxes of books. Two sets of silverware. Assorted dishes and glasses. Three stereos. Hundreds of albums and tapes.” He puts his head in his hands. “And we’ve only just begun to unpack.

  “It seemed like such a good idea at the time.” He shakes his head. “This way no one feels like he or she was here first. We all start out equal, together, one family.”

  “One tired family.” I pretend to faint.

  Mindy goes over to Jim and gives him a neck and shoulder massage.

  I start to unpack another box because I don’t want to look.

  I wish they wouldn’t touch each other in front of me.

  Mindy says, “Maybe we should have a garage sale or put some of this stuff into storage and take it out if the other breaks or wears out.”

  “I think we should hold on to everything for a while, just in case this doesn’t work out and we have to split up.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  There’s silence for a few minutes—a very loud silence.

  “I’m sorry.” I bite my fingernail. “I never should have said that.”

  It means so much to me that we’re a real family. I even had to give up my cat, Fig Newton, and my dog, Salamander, because Jim’s allergic. That’s how much I care.

  Finally Jim says, “On our first night together as a family, let’s not talk about breaking up already. I want us to be a family.”

  He looks hurt.

  I want to cry. “Jim, I want this to work out, more than anything. I just get scared sometimes that the things I really want won’t last.”

  Jim comes over and hugs me. “Honey, I know that it’s hard to be certain of any relationships. But I really want this to work and will do my best.”

  “Me too.” Mindy looks determined.

  “I’m willing to try,” Phoebe says.

  “I’ve got an idea. Let’s make up our own ceremony to commemorate the beginning of our lives together.” Jim claps his hands.

  He just loves to turn events into special occasions.

  We all look at him, waiting for elaboration.

  “We’ve done enough work for tonight. Why don’t we all go back to the old house, take a swim, and have the ceremony there.” He jumps up.

  “Jim, there’s so much to do,” Mindy says. “Don’t you think we should be practical?”

  He sits down again.

  Mindy starts to laugh. “I don’t believe that I just said that we should be practical. That sounded like something my mother would have said. Unpacking all of these boxes must have temporarily deranged me.”

  “Actually it’s been a very moving experience for me,” I tell everyone.

  They all groan, and then Jim says, “Okay, let’s all go over to the pool.”

  “I don’t know where my swimsuit is.” I stare at the mess around us.

  “We could always go skinny dipping,” Jim kids.

  My mother smiles and nods.

  “NO!” Phoebe and I both yell at the same time.

  Sometimes parents can be so embarrassing.

  “Let’s all just go over there in what we’re wearing and jump into the pool that way.” Jim’s not going to give up on his idea.

  We all decide to go for it.

  Just before we leave, Mindy says, “Listen, everyone. If we’re really going to have the ceremony, let’s have it here . . . not at the other place where there are old memories. This is the time for us to make new memories.”

  I understand. The place where Phoebe and her father used to live was the place that her parents bought before their divorce. Her father got it in the settlement and her mother got the New York City apartment.

  Jim puts his arm around Mindy and kisses her.

  I tie my shoelace so I don’t have to watch.

  “Honey, I’m sorry. Would you rather we didn’t go to the other house at all?” he asks.

  She kisses him back.

  I tie my other shoelace.

  I hope they don’t kiss again. I’ve run out of feet.

  Mindy says, “It’s hot tonight. It’s the last time we can use the pool before the new tenants move in. Of course I want to go swimming. I’d just like to have the ceremony here, not there.”

  “Okay, then let’s all hold hands right this very instant.” Jim grabs Mindy’s hand, then Phoebe’s, then mine. Our hands are all mashed together. It’s a good thing that he’s got such big hands so we all fit.

  “This is so sudden,” I say. “It’s like we’re eloping. I’ve always wanted a big formal wedding.”

  “For your own, your very own, you can do that. For this one, we’ll be much less formal.” Jim grins.

  What an understatement. He and Mindy are wearing cut-off jeans. He’s got one of his political T-shirts on, the one that says A WOMAN’S PLACE IS IN THE HOUSE . . . AND IN THE SENATE. That was a present from Mindy. His ex-wife used to give him shirts with alligators on them.

  Mindy’s got her long blond hair piled up on top of her head. She’s wearing one of Jim’s shirts that he uses when he’s oil painting.

  I’m wearing one of my favorite outfits—a thrift-store Hawaiian shirt, an old pair of gym shorts, and a beaded headband.

  Phoebe’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt that used to belong to her boyfriend, Dave.

  We’re definitely not going to make the cover of Bride with our outfits.

  “We should all say something. I’ll start.” Jim looks a little nervous. “I just want everyone to know that I love you all very much . . . all in special ways, separately. And I love us together and will do my best to honor our commitment to be a family.”

  Mindy nods. “Me too. And we’ll all work together to honor the originality and creativity in each of us.”

  That makes sense. With Mindy trying to write a children’s book and Jim trying to earn a living as an artist, that’s a very important part of our lives.

  Phoebe kind of clears her throat and doesn’t say anything for a minute. Finally she says, “I just want to be the best daughter that I can be . . . and the best sister to my best friend.”

  I can feel my tears starting. I feel like a real nerd until I look around and see that I’m not the only one crying. “I want us to live with love . . . and understanding . . . and I don’t know what else to say. Isn’t there supposed to be someone else here to say ‘I now pronounce you man and wife’ . . . or husband and woman . . . or man and woman . . . and kids . . . or something like that?”

  No one is quite sure of what comes next.

  Then Mindy says, “Jim. Mindy. Phoebe. Rosie. Listed alphabetically—equally. We are now pronounced a family.”

  We all hug and kiss.

  It flashes into my head that some people might think this whole thing is kind of weird.

  But I don’t care.

  The old way didn’t work.

  Maybe this one will.

  I certainly hope so.

  CHAPTER 5

  The room looks like a cyclone hit it. We got back too late from swimming to try to get it together.

  Normally, I’m a very neat person. Since I was about four years old, I’ve been straightening up after Mindy, who believes in “creative disorder.”

  Actually the room looks like it was hit by two twisters—dueling cyclones.

  The walls and ceiling are the o
nly areas not cluttered by clothes or boxes.

  We have, however, already hung up our favorite posters, so the walls are not spotless.

  Phoebe’s put up one of my least favorite posters—the one with the upside-down possum with its tail attached to a tree limb. It says “Hang in there.” She’s also hung up one of my favorites, the Sierra Club picture of a beautiful forest. My father, who loves baseball and is always making up statistics for life, would probably say that Phoebe’s batting .500 in P.O.W. (Posters on Wall).

  On my side of the room, I’ve put up what Mindy calls “an antique poster.” There’s a flower on it and the saying “War is not healthy for children and other living things.” Next to the poster I’ve put up a picture of my father, taken when he was playing in a jazz concert in New York City.

  Phoebe’s still asleep. She’s one of those people who like to wake up at around noon and stay up all night. I, however, am a morning person, up and cheerful at practically the crack of dawn.

  The phone rings.

  It’s not anywhere in sight.

  Leaning over, I look under my bed for the phone. It doesn’t seem to be there. Leaning farther forward, I lose my balance, do a flip, and fall out of my bed.

  My gym teacher would give the manuever an A+, except that as I fell my foot hit Phoebe’s bed. Also her hand, which is hanging off the bed.

  The phone stops ringing.

  I’m lying in a pile of clothes, wondering whether a search party is going to have to be sent out to find me in the clutter.

  Phoebe’s eyes open. She leans over. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure.” I get up, making sure that nothing’s damaged.

  Phoebe stretches. “I heard the phone and then I felt your foot hit me. Have you invented a new alarm clock?”

  I check under her bed for the phone. “It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, not a new family ritual.”

  “Thank goodness,” Phoebe says. “Listen, do you think that was Dave calling me?”

  She crawls out of bed. “Where’s the phone?”

  She looks in the closet.

  I point to her corner of the room. “Look under that pile of clothes.”

  The Snoopy phone is under a down vest.

  Dropping the vest back on the floor, Phoebe asks, “Think it’s too early to call Dave? His father has a fit if I call too early on weekends.”

  “Wait,” I say, although I really have no idea of what the rules are. Phoebe’s the expert in the dating department. “If that was Dave, he’ll try again.”

  Phoebe steps over her clothes. “Rosie, I have a BIG favor to ask.”

  The last time she had a BIG favor for me was when we had to pull eighteen frogs and two kamikaze mice out of her swimming pool.

  I wait to hear what it is.

  “Now don’t say yes unless you really want to do it,” she says.

  I continue to wait.

  “It’s just that I had trouble going to sleep last night,” she says. “I think it was because my bed is so close to the window. Would you mind if we moved our beds around? Be honest. It’ll be okay if you don’t want to change. I can get used to it.”

  I laugh. “I was just trying to be nice letting you have the place where you can look out at the universe. That’s where I really wanted to be.”

  She smiles. “And I was trying to be nice and let you have the snugly closed-in part of the room.”

  We talk about trading beds, try each other’s out, and decide to keep our own.

  As we move our beds around, Phoebe says, “What if neither of us had said anything and then in fifty years we finally discussed it and found out that we’d always hated where our beds are? I’m glad I mentioned it.”

  We change our posters around.

  Then Phoebe flops back into bed.

  I begin to unpack my boxes. Out of them come some clothes, my old sticker collection, and treasures found at flea markets: two beaded bags, a stained-glass jewelry box, an old copy of Bound for Glory, by Woody Guthrie—a real early folk singer whose music I love. I also unpack the books that my grandmother on my father’s side gave me. Roots. Books by Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, James Baldwin, Sharon Bell Mathis, Rosa Guy, and John Steptoe. Poetry by Countee Cullen and Langston Hughes. Lots of other novels. My grandmother told me never to lose track of the black part of my heritage, not that I ever would.

  Phoebe says, “I’m going to call Dave now.”

  The phone rings like magic, as if Dave knew to call.

  Phoebe picks up the phone, listens for a minute, and then crosses her eyes and puts a finger to her head as if it were a gun.

  It’s obviously not magic, at least not the kind that Phoebe wanted.

  It’s got to be her mother from that reaction. That’s sort of like going to pull a rabbit out of a hat and coming up with slug slime.

  All the kids we hang around with call things we don’t like slug slime. That’s because there was an invasion of them this summer—these disgusting, fat, snotlike creatures, oozing their way through gardens.

  Anyway, it’s Slug Slime City for Phoebe when she has to deal with her mother.

  I try not to listen, but it’s hard not to.

  Phoebe’s pretending to pull a knife out of her heart.

  It’s a good thing the phone doesn’t have a TV screen attached.

  Phoebe’s shaking her head. “Aw, Mom. Do I really have to go to Canada with you and Duane? Can’t I stay in Woodstock? . . . It’ll be the last week before school starts . . . . I know I promised, but it’s going to be so BORing there, not knowing anyone.”

  Phoebe pretends to hang herself with the telephone cord. “I know they have kids, but what if I don’t like them? . . . What if they don’t like me?”

  She sighs. “I know—I didn’t have to ride the Divorce Express every weekend because I promised to spend this time with you to make up for it. But we’re just getting settled here and I want to stay.”

  Phoebe looks at me, crosses her eyes again, and acts as if she’s gagging herself.

  I pretend to hold up a barf bag.

  Finally Phoebe sighs and says, “Okay, Mom. I know I’m whining. I give in. I’ll go. What kind of clothes should I bring . . . or should we just plan to shop there?”

  Sometimes I think that Phoebe is in training for the Olympics marathon in shopping . . . and that her mother is her coach. It’s lucky her mother and stepfather have so much money. I once gave her a button that says “Born to Shop.”

  Phoebe hangs up the phone. “Five days with my mother and Duane the Drip, Plastic Pop, the Slug Slime Stepfather.”

  I say, “Look at the bright side. Canada should be a great experience. I’d love to go someplace new.”

  Phoebe shrugs.

  The phone rings.

  This time it is Dave.

  They make plans to go to Opus 40 to hear the concert.

  Phoebe’s always had boyfriends. Moving here, she almost immediately started going with Dave. I, who have lived here for years, am going to Opus 40 with the Little Nerdlet.

  I go out to use the bathroom, the only one in the house. There’s already someone in it. As I cross my legs, I think about the place where Jim and Phoebe used to live. It had two bathrooms in the house and one in the pool cabana, and that was just for the two of them.

  Now there are four people living in a house with only one bathroom.

  Maybe we should assign each person certain days when they have to limit their liquid intake.

  It would have been so nice to live in the other place, except Jim’s getting a lot of rent money and he needs it now that he’s trying to make it as a full-time artist.

  Mindy also felt that it was important to start life in the new place together and also not have the bedrooms too close to each other.

  “Too close,” hah. I know what that means—too close for Mindy and Jim to have sex in their room if it’s right next to Phoebe’s and mine.

  I don’t see why they couldn’t just cool it. Make out quietly or som
ething. Anyway, they’re getting old. Sex shouldn’t be so important to middle-aged people.

  I knock on the bathroom door. “Whoever’s in there, please hurry up. I’ve got to get in.”

  The door opens. Mindy’s there in a bathrobe, with a towel wrapped around her head. Jim is also in there with a large bath towel wrapped around his body.

  They act as if there is nothing unusual about the situation. As they walk out, each of them kisses me on the forehead.

  I rush into the bathroom, saying nothing.

  I’m not sure why I get so weird when I think about Jim and Mindy “doing it.”

  When I was much younger, I used to ask my mother about all sorts of things that confused me. If I really couldn’t understand something even after she explained it, she would tell me to put it in a file called “Life’s Little Mysteries—to be solved, maybe, at a later time.”

  I guess that the whole question about why I’m so weird in this situation belongs in that file. I’d put it right under the one about “If five pounds of feathers were dropped on your head from the top of the Empire State Building, would it feel any different from five pounds of steel?”

  I’ve never understood that one either.

  CHAPTER 6

  After leaving the bathroom, I stand in the hall of our new house, getting used to it.

  There’s still the smell of fresh paint, but underneath that is the sort of musty wonderful aroma that most old Woodstock houses have.

  In the background I can hear the wind chimes that Mindy put on the porch.

  I feel good in this house, I think as I reenter the bedroom.

  Phoebe sees me and starts jumping up and down. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  I guess. “You’ve hired Professional Maid and Maintenance to clean up our room.”

  “No, better than that,” she says. “This is great news. My mother’s invited you to go to Canada with us. Remember how you said it would be fun to go? I called Mom back and told her how much happier I’d be if you came along. She said we’d take you as an early Christmas present.”

  “But it’s August and anyway, why should they give me a present?” I sit down on the bed.

  “An early present for me.” She sits down on my bed. “Please come, Rosie. I’ll be your best friend.”