more civilized and resourceful manner.”
Last year, my mother even made a schedule forme and Mick to follow on school mornings so we could all start the day without “confrontation.” It was pretty simple, actually. Mick got the bathroom for twenty minutes while I ate breakfast. Then a timer would go off and we’d switch rooms.
At least we were
supposed
to switch rooms. But every so often, one of us would run late and we’d find ourselves in the same room at the same time. When that happened, we almost always ended up fighting. ’Cause I mean my parents did sort of expect it of us and all. And we really hated to disappoint them.
That’s why—when Mick walked into the kitchen that morning and saw me digging around in the cereal box—he couldn’t wait to get something started.
The first thing he did was try to grab the box away from me. “What’s in there? What’re you looking for? Lemme see,” he said.
I held on as tight as I could and turned my back to him. “No! Get away! Get outta here!” I yelled.
I couldn’t see what he was doing behind me, Couldn’t hear him, either. Which worried me a lot. Because Mick was always at his most dangerous when he was quiet.
Then suddenly, out of nowhere, he camebounding off a kitchen chair and snatched the box right out of my hands.
“Hey! Give that back! I mean it, Mick! That tattoo is mine!”
As soon as I said the word “tattoo,” his eyes opened real wide and he grinned this stupid grin of his. Then he reached right in and pulled it out. No trouble at all.
He dangled it in front of my face. It was one of those ugly skull-and-crossbones pirate tattoos.
I should probably mention that I didn’t really
want
the tattoo. But that wasn’t the point. The point was, I didn’t want
him
to have it. Which I happen to think is a perfectly legitimate reason for fighting.
It just wasn’t fair, that’s all. Mick almost always got to the cereal toys before me. Then he’d hide them in his room and pretend he didn’t know a thing about them. But I know for a fact he had at least five Super Balls and two pairs of 3-D glasses hidden in there somewhere.
“Come on, Mick! I want that tattoo! Hand it over!”
“Say ‘please.’ ”
“Please, okay? Now let me have it!”
He tapped his chin. “Gee, I don’t know, Phoeb. I hate to be picky, but your ‘please’ wasn’t all thatpolite. Why don’t you try it again. Only this time, say ‘Pretty please with sugar on top.’ ”
I swear I could not believe he was doing this to me.
“Pretty please with sugar on top. Now give it!”
But even before I finished, Mick was already shaking his head again. “Nope. Sorry, but it’s still not working for me. Maybe we should try something different this time. How ’bout this?…Try ‘Wee Willie Winkie went to town. Upstairs, downstairs in his nightgown.’ ”
That’s when I jumped on top of him and wrestled him to the ground. (I realize I’m too old to do stuff like that. But I’m not that bad a wrestler and I’m not quite ready to give it up.)
Anyhow, I almost had Mick in a headlock when my father walked in on us. Men who walk around in boxer shorts and socks are deceptively quiet, by the way.
He didn’t yell. Pop almost never yells. Instead, he just folded his arms and gave us one of those “looks” of his. This was the one where he rolls his eyeballs so far back in his head he can see his brain, probably. Then he heaves this huge sigh—like having two children who fight over a press-on tattoo is a hardship too great for any human being to bear.
Trying to save his own skin, Mick jumped right up. “Here, Pop! Quick! Take this! Phoebe wanted it for herself, but I thought you might want to wear it to the office today.”
He tried to press it to my father’s wrist. But it wouldn’t stick to the hair. So he just kept slapping at it.
“Boy, they sure don’t make tattoos like they did when you were a young lad, do they, Pop?”
My father knew Mick was
Last year, my mother even made a schedule forme and Mick to follow on school mornings so we could all start the day without “confrontation.” It was pretty simple, actually. Mick got the bathroom for twenty minutes while I ate breakfast. Then a timer would go off and we’d switch rooms.
At least we were
supposed
to switch rooms. But every so often, one of us would run late and we’d find ourselves in the same room at the same time. When that happened, we almost always ended up fighting. ’Cause I mean my parents did sort of expect it of us and all. And we really hated to disappoint them.
That’s why—when Mick walked into the kitchen that morning and saw me digging around in the cereal box—he couldn’t wait to get something started.
The first thing he did was try to grab the box away from me. “What’s in there? What’re you looking for? Lemme see,” he said.
I held on as tight as I could and turned my back to him. “No! Get away! Get outta here!” I yelled.
I couldn’t see what he was doing behind me, Couldn’t hear him, either. Which worried me a lot. Because Mick was always at his most dangerous when he was quiet.
Then suddenly, out of nowhere, he camebounding off a kitchen chair and snatched the box right out of my hands.
“Hey! Give that back! I mean it, Mick! That tattoo is mine!”
As soon as I said the word “tattoo,” his eyes opened real wide and he grinned this stupid grin of his. Then he reached right in and pulled it out. No trouble at all.
He dangled it in front of my face. It was one of those ugly skull-and-crossbones pirate tattoos.
I should probably mention that I didn’t really
want
the tattoo. But that wasn’t the point. The point was, I didn’t want
him
to have it. Which I happen to think is a perfectly legitimate reason for fighting.
It just wasn’t fair, that’s all. Mick almost always got to the cereal toys before me. Then he’d hide them in his room and pretend he didn’t know a thing about them. But I know for a fact he had at least five Super Balls and two pairs of 3-D glasses hidden in there somewhere.
“Come on, Mick! I want that tattoo! Hand it over!”
“Say ‘please.’ ”
“Please, okay? Now let me have it!”
He tapped his chin. “Gee, I don’t know, Phoeb. I hate to be picky, but your ‘please’ wasn’t all thatpolite. Why don’t you try it again. Only this time, say ‘Pretty please with sugar on top.’ ”
I swear I could not believe he was doing this to me.
“Pretty please with sugar on top. Now give it!”
But even before I finished, Mick was already shaking his head again. “Nope. Sorry, but it’s still not working for me. Maybe we should try something different this time. How ’bout this?…Try ‘Wee Willie Winkie went to town. Upstairs, downstairs in his nightgown.’ ”
That’s when I jumped on top of him and wrestled him to the ground. (I realize I’m too old to do stuff like that. But I’m not that bad a wrestler and I’m not quite ready to give it up.)
Anyhow, I almost had Mick in a headlock when my father walked in on us. Men who walk around in boxer shorts and socks are deceptively quiet, by the way.
He didn’t yell. Pop almost never yells. Instead, he just folded his arms and gave us one of those “looks” of his. This was the one where he rolls his eyeballs so far back in his head he can see his brain, probably. Then he heaves this huge sigh—like having two children who fight over a press-on tattoo is a hardship too great for any human being to bear.
Trying to save his own skin, Mick jumped right up. “Here, Pop! Quick! Take this! Phoebe wanted it for herself, but I thought you might want to wear it to the office today.”
He tried to press it to my father’s wrist. But it wouldn’t stick to the hair. So he just kept slapping at it.
“Boy, they sure don’t make tattoos like they did when you were a young lad, do they, Pop?”
My father knew Mick was
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