It's an Aardvark-Eat-Turtle World Read Free Page A

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
    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?”
    â€œSure.” 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.”
    â€œThank 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.”
    â€œWait,” 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.
    â€œNow don’t say yes unless you really want to do it,” she says.
    I continue to wait.
    â€œIt’s just that I had trouble going