It's an Aardvark-Eat-Turtle World (3 page)

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.

T
he 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 only 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 something. 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.

A
fter 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.”

“You already are,” I tell her.

She smiles. “I'll be your best best best best friend.”

I grin.

She begs some more.

I think about it.

The Little Nerdlet's family will be away on vacation so I won't miss work.

I was just planning to hang out with my friends, which would have been great, since I've spent so much time baby-sitting.

Canada—my first foreign country . . . airplanes, which I love . . . new people . . . it sounds exciting.

“Yes.” I clap my hands. “I'd love to go.”

Phoebe claps her hands too. “We're going to Canada.”

“I hope that Mindy says yes.” I pick up a pair of shorts and fold it.

“Of course she will,” Phoebe says. “Are you kidding? It'll give her a chance to be alone with my father.”

Phoebe doesn't sound as if she's overjoyed by the prospect.

“Let's go find them.” Phoebe grabs my hand and pulls me out of the room.

We find Jim and Mindy in the living room, fully dressed and hanging pictures.

They love the idea.

I can tell by the way they're smiling at each other that Phoebe was right.

“What about spending money?” Mindy asks.

“I can use some of my baby-sitting money,” I offer.

Mindy nods. “Great.”

Phoebe and I jump up and down and hug each other.

Then we hug Mindy.

Then we hug Jim.

The doorbell rings.

It's Dave, Phoebe's boyfriend.

He joins in the hugging.

With everyone hugging, there's one point where Phoebe and Dave are together and so are Mindy and Jim.

I start to unpack another box and wonder what's keeping Prince Charming. Here I am, fourteen years old, and there's no romance in sight.

Is it because I'm part black?

Is it because I'm part white?

Is it because I'm part ugly?

Perhaps the Prince has lost the directions to my new house and doesn't know where to find me.

Jim puts everyone back to work. “Let's get some of these pictures on the wall.”

Phoebe and Dave look at each other, like they'd rather be doing something else—like going somewhere private in his car to make out. She says that they do that a lot.