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Show Twisters . , . 6 I watched an army of goose bumps rise on my bare belly and thought about starting home. Squinty-eyed, Arthur was still climbing the stairsteps of a mighty thunderhead with his big toe and I knew he wasn't through brooding about what had happened that morning. "If she makes us do rain dances, I am quitting," he said, "Oh, you know my Aunt Goldie. She's such a flake! She forgets half of what she says. Now that everybody wants to make bull-roarers and nobody wants to decorate pots and stuff, I bet she'll give up on Indian crafts." Goldie, who teaches at the Riverside Dance Studio, happens to be my mom's younger sister. Because she's divorced and has a hard time supporting herself, I get stuck having to enroll in her personal fulfillment classes every summer, "It's the least we can do," Mom says, laying out her case each spring when Aunt Goldie drops off her hundreds of flyers for me to deliver, (On my own time. Without pay.) So far, she's taught Arthur and me how to play hackeysack, tennis, backgammon and boring bridge. Last summer we took boys' ballet in her basement while a class of mothers upstairs did aerobic dancing. When Aunt Goldie twisted her knee demonstrating an exercise position for us, she substituted Dungeons and Dragons for the remainder of our ballet lessons. That suited Arthur and me just fine. "Let's go," I said suddenly, beginning to shiver. Though the day had been warm and muggy, the weather was changing fast, Arthur sat up and reached for his jeans, I did the same. Little groups along the beach were breaking up, too. Mothers were |