My Mother Got Married (5 page)

I got off the bed. “Okay, okay, okay!” I told her. “You win. You
always
win.”

She stood up and looked at me. “You’re the one who’s making it into a battle.” Then she handed me the bag and left.

After a few minutes of sifting through old papers and dirty socks, I found my xylophone. I couldn’t find the little wooden mallet to play it with, but after searching the floor, I found a spoon. I think it was left over from a chocolate pudding I had a few months ago.

I started to play “Three Blind Mice.” Just when I got to “See how they run,” Thomas came back into the room. He dashed over to the closet door and started to sing.

I stopped playing right away.

Thomas finished the song without music. Then he pointed at my xylophone. “I don’t have one of those,” he informed me.

I knew what was coming next.

“Maybe I could have that one.”

I shook my head no.

Without wasting a second, he scurried over to my desk and picked up my globe again. “How ’bout this? Can this be mine now? Can we share it?” He spun it around and around. “I really like this thing.”

I put my head in my hands. I hate sharing. I know it’s not the way you’re supposed to feel, but I do. I don’t think I’m alone, either. I think there are millions of kids all over the world who hate it as much as I do.

Sharing is not normal. If you don’t believe me, just look at any
National Geographic
special. Name one lion who spends an entire day killing a zebra and then calls his friend over and says, “Here, Leo. I just spent ten hours chasing this zebra all over Africa. Help yourself.”

Face it. The only time lions like to share is when they’re already finished eating. And to me, that’s not sharing. That’s full.

Suddenly I stood up and hurried over to the three huge boxes in the middle of the floor. “Thomas,” I said loudly to make sure I had his attention. Then I began touching each box with my finger.

“This box is yours. This box is yours. And this box is yours.”

Before he could say anything, I rushed over to his bed and chest. “These are yours, too, Thomas. This is
your
bed and this is
your
little white chest. And all the stuff in the drawers is yours, too.”

Thomas nodded happily.

“But that’s
all
, okay, Thomas? Everything else in this room is mine.”

I started to point. “The bed over there is mine, and that dresser is mine and all the stuff in the closet is mine, too. And the stuff on my desk and the posters on the wall. It’s all my stuff, Thomas. And I’m not trading it, or sharing it, or mixing it together with your stuff. It’s not even going to be
both
of ours. It’s just going to stay mine.”

Thomas was getting it now. “Oh,” he muttered weakly. Then he gazed longingly over to my globe again. “I really liked that pretty blue world.”

He wasn’t angry. In all the time I’d known him, I’d never really seen Thomas angry. When things weren’t going his way, he just seemed disappointed, and maybe kind of sad, I guess.

I softened a little.

“Okay, okay. I guess you can touch it once in a while,” I conceded. “But only if you really feel you have to. And no spinning it out of control. Those are the globe rules.”

Thomas smiled appreciatively and bobbed his head up and down. “I promise,” he said gratefully.

He started to sit down on my bed. Then he realized his mistake and went to his own bed.

Lydia stuck her head in the door. She was carrying a small carton to her new room down the hall.

“Hi. What’re you guys up to?”

Thomas frowned thoughtfully. “We’re findin’ out what’s ours.”

Lydia came in and plopped down on my bed. “Wow. You’re totally squished in here, aren’t you?” she observed. “Like a couple of sardines.”

I know she didn’t mean to be rubbing it in—about having her own room and all—but I still wasn’t in the mood to talk about it.

I left.

I hurried downstairs and passed through the living room. My mother was flitting from one corner to another trying to figure out where to put Ben’s antique lamp. When she saw me, she raised her eyebrows.

“Closet cleaned?”

I nodded my head and kept on walking. I didn’t stop till I was outside. I climbed up the fence and boosted myself onto the roof. Carefully I made my way toward the chimney. Once I got there, I sat down with my back against the bricks. I didn’t want to spy. I just wanted to be alone.

I can’t explain why, but being on the roof helps calm me down. I feel free up there or something. Like no one can get to me. And even if someone yells at me, it just floats away into space.

After about ten minutes Ben came strolling out back. My mother must have sent him to check on me. It was sort of interesting to watch how he did it. First he walked all the way to the fence and pretended to be looking at the garden. Then, trying to act casual, he slowly raised his eyes toward the roof. I stared down at him. I didn’t smile or wave. I just sat and stared.

Quietly Ben walked back inside.

(five)

D

ON’T ASK me why, but every day Thomas seemed to like me more and more. My mother said I should have felt flattered that he followed me around so much, but I didn’t. It would be like wading through a swamp and coming out with a leech on your leg. You would never really feel proud that you’re the one it picked.

Everywhere I went, Thomas went. Once he even tried to follow me into the bathroom.

“No!” I told him sharply. “Not the bathroom. No.”

I went in alone. When I came out, he was sitting by the door. He stood up and held his nose.

By the end of the second week I thought I would go crazy. One afternoon, just to have some privacy, I shut myself in the laundry room. I was only in there five minutes before Thomas slid open the door. He asked me to spin him around in the dryer.

Even my best friend Martin Oates and I couldn’t play in private. Martin moved into the neighborhood last year from North Carolina. Since then, the two of us have stuck together like glue. My mother says it’s getting hard to tell us apart. This is only funny if you know Martin is black.

Martin is about the coolest kid I’ve ever known. You should hear his accent. It’s real slow and calm, like nobody in the world can rattle him. Also, he walks cooler than anything. Like he owns the street or something.

Thomas liked Martin almost as much as he liked me. Right from the beginning he’d follow him around the house like a shadow. Finally we gave up playing at my house and mostly just hung around the Oateses’. Martin has three sisters, but if they walk in his room, Martin throws a shoe at them, so they pretty much leave us alone.

Not Thomas, though. The few times we tried to play at my house, Thomas was a royal pain in the you-know-where. I’m serious. As soon as he’d find out Martin was coming over, he’d stand by the door to wait.

“He’s coming! He’s coming!” he’d scream as soon as he’d spot him. “It’s that guy, Martin!”

Right after the Russos moved in, Martin came over to play Monopoly. Boy, was Thomas a pain
that
day!

“Hey! What’re you guys gonna do? Can I do it with you guys? Can I? Can I, huh?” he started before Martin was even in the door.

I shook my head. “No. You can’t do it with us, Thomas.”

“We’re playing Monopoly,” Martin explained. “It’s only for ages eight to adult. Look, it says so right here on the box.”

“It’s a law,” I added just for good measure. “You could get arrested if you played.”

Thomas laughed like he didn’t believe me. “Hey! I know what. I can do the dice.”

“Nope. Sorry. Can’t,” I stated clearly.

But even then, Thomas followed us into the room. He scrambled onto his bed and folded his hands on his lap. “I’ll just do this, then.”

I wanted to scream. Why wouldn’t he get the message?

Martin turned his back so Thomas couldn’t see. “Hit him with your shoe,” he advised quietly.

I have to admit I felt like it. If we had been real brothers, I probably would have tackled him and dragged him out of the room. But Thomas didn’t feel like a real brother. He felt more like an uninvited guest. The kind of guest you’re not supposed to clobber or your mother will kill you.

Finally Martin and I decided to try and ignore him. We figured if we didn’t pay any attention to him, maybe he’d get bored and go away.

I don’t mean Monopoly is boring, because it’s not. Monopoly is my favorite game. For a while Martin and I played it almost every day. The best part is when the other guy is almost broke and he lands on your most expensive property and you get to jump up and scream, “
Ha-ha! I’m rich! I’m rich!
” The worst part is when you get into a giant brawl about trading properties and Martin throws the board out your bedroom window. So far that’s only happened to us once.

After the money was handed out, Martin and I chose our playing pieces. As usual, I took the thimble and he took the shoe.

Still sitting on the bed, Thomas craned his neck to see into the box. The next thing I knew, he was on the floor sorting through the rest of the playing pieces. After touching each one, he finally grabbed the little toy iron and the top hat and scurried back to his bed.

I ignored him.

We rolled the dice to see who would go first.

“Two!” bellowed Thomas, who was really stretching his neck to the limit. “You got two, Charrulls!” He held up two fingers for our observation. “This many.”

I ignored him.

Martin rolled.

“Hey! How many’s that, Martin?” squealed Thomas. “That’s a whole bunch, right? You got more than Charrulls. A lot more!”

I ignored him.

Martin started his shoe around the game board. Every time he touched down, Thomas counted out loud.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight! Eight! Martin got eight!”

I ignored him.

Martin had landed on Vermont Avenue. “I’ll buy it,” he said.

“Buy it? Buy what? What’re you going to buy, Martin? Where’s your money? Are you going to use that play money, do you mean?”

This time I couldn’t stop myself. I whipped around and stared at him. “I thought you were just going to sit there,” I snapped.

Puzzled, Thomas looked down at himself. “I
am
, Charrulls. I
am
just sitting here. See?” Quickly he folded his hands again.

“I know, Thomas. But you’re not being quiet. If you sit there you have to be quiet.”

He frowned. “It doesn’t say so on the box.”

“Yes, it does,” I said, picking up the lid. “It’s right here: All children under age eight have to be quiet.”

Martin grabbed the box lid and added, “If they talk, you must call the police.”

Martin and I both started laughing over that one. Thomas laughed too, but I’m still not sure he knew it was a joke. Five-year-olds will believe practically anything.

For the next few minutes things got better. While Martin and I continued around the board buying real estate, Thomas just sat on his bed with his hands folded in his lap. Every once in a while I’d glance in his direction. It was a little bit pathetic, but not that much.

I was just beginning to enjoy myself when the humming started. It was quiet at first. Hardly even noticeable. But it was definitely humming and it was definitely coming from Thomas.

Ignore it, ignore it, I thought to myself. But after only a few seconds, Thomas increased the volume and added words.

“Ironing my pants … ironing my pants … ironing my pants.”

I turned around. He was pretending to iron his jeans with the little iron he had taken from the box. When he saw me looking, he put the little top hat on his head.

“How do you do, sir?” he said, making his voice real deep and tipping the hat in my direction.

Martin started to laugh. I wish he hadn’t, but he did. Suddenly Thomas thought we were all having a good time. Before I knew it, he had scooted off his bed and was into the play money.

“Hey. I got an idea,” he chirped happily as he plopped down. “Let’s pretend that I’m the richest man in the world and that my name is Carl and that this is all my money and”—he paused to stuff some bills into his pocket—“and you guys are real poor and then you come to my house and you say, ‘Carl, could we have some money?’ and then I give you each two blue ones and a green one.”

He stopped and handed Martin and me two fifties and a twenty.

That did it. Without even thinking, I jumped to my feet and ran downstairs. Since it was Saturday, my mother was cleaning the kitchen. She was standing next to the opened refrigerator holding something with mold on it.

“This isn’t fair,” I blurted. “It’s not working. He’s driving me crazy.”

Mom made a face at the moldy thing and put it on the table. “Who?” she asked absentmindedly as she peered into the vegetable bin.

“Who? Who do you think? Thomas the Leech, that’s who. Thomas the Bloodsucking Leech. Martin and I can’t even play a game. He said he’d just sit there and shut up. But he won’t. He counts and hums and sings and …”

Mom pulled out something squishy and ran it over to the sink. I still didn’t have her attention.

I stormed to the phone. “I’m calling the police.”

For the first time, my mother stopped what she was doing and looked at me. She was rolling her eyes, but at least she was looking.

“He likes you, Charles,” she said, offering the same stupid excuse she’d used a hundred times before. “He just wants to be—”

I covered my ears. “No. I don’t care about what he wants. That’s all you ever say. About how much he likes me and how much he wants to be my brother. But I don’t care about that, okay? I’m having him arrested.”

Slowly she sank into the chair behind her and covered her face with her hands. My mother does this sort of thing a lot. Sometimes I think she’s making faces at me under there.

Finally she breathed a big sigh and stood back up. She put the moldy thing back inside the refrigerator.

“Okay,” she said wearily. “I’ll see what I can do. Send him down. Tell him I’ll play a game of Candyland with him.”