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matching set. Brown and white checked pants. And a tan shirt with a brown hippopotamus sewn on the pocket.
    â€œThat’s cute,” Molly said.
    â€œThat’s sick,” Whitaker said. “It’s for babies.”
    Mr. Murphy tried to hide a smile as he spoke. “Couldn’t we find something a little less . . . nice? ”
    After wearing out four clerks, Whitaker was the not-so-proud owner of two new pairs of green jeans (in honor of Frogman), eight pairs each of T-shirts and socks, and a gray hooded sweatshirt.
    Molly wasn’t nearly as much trouble. She and her mother had quite similar tastes in clothing. So she ended up with the frilliest and laciest items Mrs. Murphy could find. It was certain: Molly would be a shoo-in for the title of best-dressed kid at The-Cow-Jumped-over-the-Moon Nursery School.

CHAPTER 5
Pimple and Squash
    â€œL ET’S GO OUT A DIFFERENT WAY —not the same way we came in,” Mrs. Murphy said, wanting to avoid meeting Rosco again.
    As sometimes happens between parents, Mr. Murphy knew exactly what Mrs. Murphy was thinking and agreed immediately.
    So the four of them rambled through the mall, surrounded by trees in large ceramic pots and elaborate water fountains. Massive basins of tile caught the sprayed water on its downward tumble. Artificial flowers and real goldfish made their homes in the swirling water.
    Whitaker knelt down beside one of the water basins and snatched a goldfish. Just as he was about to place it gently in his bulging pocket, Mr. Murphy grabbed his hand and pried it open above the pool. The fish fell back into the water.
    â€œWhy did you do that?” Whitaker asked.
    â€œBecause it didn’t belong to you,” Mr. Murphy answered.
    â€œCould we find out who it belongs to, then, so I can ask them if I can have it?”
    Mr. Murphy simply sighed and said something about “kids,” in a muffled voice. Whitaker knew that that meant no.
    They passed a cookie shop, a candy store, a video arcade, and a pet shop. Each was well worth stopping at as far as Molly and Whitaker were concerned. They begged and cajoled. Wheedled and coaxed.
    â€œJust one cookie?” Molly asked.
    â€œIf you let me play Astro Confusion, I won’t shoot my cornflakes around the kitchen anymore,” Whitaker bargained.
    â€œMy lollipop’s got fuzz on it from when I dropped it. Can I get a new one?”
    â€œDad, we really could use a watchdog. Don’t you think?”
    â€œMommy, lookit the kitties!”
    â€œMaybe they have frogs! Can I get one?” Whitaker remembered to add, “Please?”
    â€œPretty please with sugar on top?” Molly said, trying to surpass her brother.
    â€œ. . . and spaghetti sauce and hot fudge and frogs and . . .”
    Figuring that giving in a little would be better in the long run, Mr. and Mrs. Murphy sped Whitaker and Molly through the shops faster than water slides down a greased mountain. They did, however, end up with two chocolate chip cookies, a bag of lemon drops, two quarters worth of Astro Confusion , and—best of all—two free snails from the pet shop, their grand-opening special (they were out of frogs).
    And as if that wasn’t enough, when they reached the Zebra, there were two balloons tied to the coat hanger that functioned as a makeshift antenna. One was green and the other was blue.
    â€œI get the green one,” Whitaker said.
    Molly didn’t argue.
    At home, Whitaker and Molly—balloons in hand—sat down in the middle of the living room floor. The snails, two small grayish-green lumps, sat between them.
    â€œI’m the oldest, so I get the biggest one,” Whitaker said.
    Molly didn’t argue.
    Whitaker named his snail Squash because his shell was dented, as if someone had stepped on him. Molly called hers Pimple because he had a tiny bump on the middle of his shell. And then they had a race.
    Whitaker and Molly lined