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

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 telephonecord. “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