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Show Twisters . . . 14 voice next, "Don't tell me that Darlington kid's here again!" I poked Arthur, who smiled happily. He knows how much my dad loves to tease. However, Dad wasn't teasing a few minutes later when he raised me up off the floor by one arm. "Is that your brand new racing bike standing out there in the weather?" he asked me, nose to nose. He let me drop to the floor from that great height, but the quiz continued, "You boys know what baseball-size hail can do to a bicycle?" He marched on to the bathroom as Arthur and I got up, exchanging eyebrows, "No . . . what?" Arthur had to ask. "Ever see what a meat mallet does to a tough steak?" I hate it when people answer questions with questions, but he got his point across. "That bad, huh?" Arthur muttered as we went on outside to put my bike in the garage. Arthur's bike was already so hashed we left it on the grass where it was. Later, during supper, with my baby brother fussing and spitting applesauce all over, I remembered how nice and peaceful meals were six months ago. Even our cat Minerva couldn't be in the house at mealtimes any more, since we caught her licking egg off the baby's face. The worst part was, any good news I'd saved for suppertime seemed to rank second to whatever cutesy sound Ryan was experimenting with at the time. "Blug," Ryan would say, bubbling and drooling. Every time, Dad's head would swivel like a machine-away from me and toward him. And the |