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Dear Nat, A year after Tick and I decided to be brothers and our parents realized we weren’t kidding, they knew that the sleepover routine was going to get old fast if we kept having to remember to bring things like our pajamas and clean socks and comic books and sleeping bags whenever one of us spent the night. So we both began moving in piece by piece—starting with the comic books. That was six years ago, and now Tick has his own bed in my room, his own dresser and desk and DSL port, his own toothbrush in the bathroom, his own half of our closet, and his own bulletin board for his Red Sox scorecards and the picture of his mom that he just put up last week. Meanwhile, I have all of the same things on his side of town, except for my Suzanne Pleshette production stills in place of the Red Sox junk. Whenever I stay over, Nehi sleeps on my bed and not Tick’s. He knows who the real diva is. Our room at Pop’s is definitely the cooler of the two. The green-shingled house is almost a hundred years old and plunked halfway down a hill in the middle of a narrow little neighborhood street. There’s no front yard and only a couple of feet of grass in the back, but inside it’s a whole other century. We’ve got sliding doors and secret panels (well, “secret” if you’re a couple of eight-year-old double agents), a stone fireplace and wooden beams, and a living room that’s big enough for either thirty people or a half-finished diorama of Washington, D.C. But the best part is the original servants’ quarters on the top floor, especially after Pop turned two of them into one big hideout for me and Tick. (Since it’s the same size as my room at home, Tick and I figure that they must have been really little servants.) Once Mom and Dad and Pop discovered they’d each inherited an extra eight-year- old without expecting it, they had dinner together at Bartleby’s and came up with one set of ground rules for both of us, no matter which house we were sleeping at. “We’re sunk,” groaned Tick. “Whose idea was it to let them talk to each other?” “Don’t look at me!” The only difference between their two empires is that Mom and Dad give us thirty minutes after lights out for Galaxy Fighters on the ceiling or View-Master slide shows on the wall, and Pop lets us have forty-five before he tells us to knock it off and go to sleep. These days, I don’t know what we’d do without the extra fifteen minutes. Tonight’s Topics 1. The time Tick’s mother sat with him on the Plum Island beach at night and told him to pick out his favorite star so they could name it “Anthony.” 2. Going to China with Dad someday to see where my great-grandpa was born and wondering if they have Slurpees there yet. 3. An invisible boy who Tick says he’s seen twice at Amory Park and who tells him what pitches to swing on. Either my brother has an overactive imagination or else he needs Ritalin. 4. Why Route 128 is also I-95 South and I-93 North. And how. 5. A hard and bitter peace. 6. Claudette Colbert’s childhood. (Tick’s usually in the bathroom during this one. Some people have no interest in broadening their horizons.) 7. Plots for getting Pop and Lori together. As in really together. (Has Tick thought far enough ahead to figure out that his adviser would be his stepmother? Or should I let him be surprised?) 8. Where the hell I’m going to find a closing act for the talent show since we’re almost out of time and Phyllis didn’t go for the idea of stepping in with Sophie Tucker’s “Red Hot Mama.” 9. Why Rhode Island accents are annoying. But there’s one new addition. Ever since fifth grade, I’ve been a little worried about what would happen if my brother and I grew up and discovered that we liked the same girl. Would we fight over her? Would we stop speaking to each other? Forever?! But now that Andy’s calling me Wonderboy, I’m pretty confident that girls will never be a problem for us as long as we live. “Are you asleep yet?” I whispered, living on the wild side by pushing the edge of our forty-five minute envelope. From the other half of the dark bedroom, Tick yawned. “I’m thinking about Alé’s eyes when she’s trying to be mad at me,” he sighed dreamily. Well, since nobody ever upstages me and gets away with it, I stared up at my own part of the peaked ceiling and sighed right back. “I’m thinking about Andy’s nose when it wrinkles.” “I’m thinking about Alé’s hair.” “I’m thinking about Andy’s smile.” “Alé’s sparkle.” “Andy’s butt.” “Too much information, dude.” Maybe I was wrong. This is more fun than I thought. Love, Aug |
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