OCR Text |
Show Twisters . . . 5 it. That would give her an awesome bellyache." "I never heard of a prune worm." I rolled back onto the sand. I knew Arthur would go home now and look up prune worms. He has books on everything-birds, trees, flowers, insects, amphibians, prunes. "•Bring some Indian crafts ideas when you come,'" Arthur said, mimicking my Aunt Goldie. "So I took my idea. She hated it." "Aw, she was thinking of basket weaving or pottery painting. You know-something regular and Indiany. She'd never even heard of a bull-roarer." "She thought I made it up. It's a toy Indian kids used to make, for crying out loud. It's authentic! If I'd called it a thunderstick instead of a bull-roarer, maybe she'd have-" "I guess you shouldn't have demonstrated it. You know . . . right there in her basement under that electric light bulb . . . " I circled my wrist overhead, winding up like some champeen calf-roper. Then I broke out laughing all over again. Once Arthur got to swinging that bull-roarer around his head, once it started whizzing and roaring like a whirlwind, we couldn't hear anything else. Until the sheared-off light bulb landed on the ping-pong table, that is. "Shut up!" Arthur ordered. I controlled myself. I didn't want big old Arthur to sit on me, the way he does when he gets mad. (He's not gross, you understand, but he could live on his own fat cells for a month if he had to. Of course, he thinks of that as an advantage.) Suddenly the sun, which had slid out for swimming earlier, disappeared behind the clouds again. This time it looked gone for good. |