It's an Aardvark-Eat-Turtle World by Paula Danziger Read Free Book Online Page A

prosecution.
    â€œU h-oh,” I say after reading the form that the flight attendant has given each passenger.
    Phoebe looks up. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œI think the present Mindy bought to give ourhosts costs more than the amount allowed. I’m in deep trouble. It’ll be either taken or taxed. I could end up in jail. What should I do?”
    â€œI’ll ask Mom and Duane.”
    â€œNot too loudly,” I whisper.
    Phoebe leans across the aisle to consult with them.
    Duane listens to her and then says, “Just say that it’s under the limit. Rosie doesn’t look like she’d be smuggling drugs or anything, even if she is from Woodstock.”
    Phoebe turns to me and crosses her eyes.
    Duane’s so obnoxious that he makes my step-mother look like an angel.
    As for the lying—it’s easy for him to say to do that. He won’t have to spend his formative teenage years languishing in prison.
    I hide my face behind the paper and read the rest of the form. I am not to bring animals, birds, dairy products, plants, or soil into Canada. I check under my nails to make sure that there’s no Woodstock dirt.
    I do wish that Mindy had told me how much the present cost. I know it’s a beautiful glass paperweight from Clouds, the Woodstock store that’s like an artgallery. It was already gift wrapped when she brought it home.
    Being arrested would be a real down in terms of my trip. It might come in handy, though, for those stupid assignments about “how I spent my summer vacation.”
    We’re sitting in the first-class section, which is definitely a first for me.
    The seats are larger and the service is great.
    Mindy would definitely think it’s an extravagance.
    It’s becoming clear how different it is for Phoebe to live in both places.
    Mrs. Carson leans over and talks to us during the flight. Her husband reads
The Wall Street Journal
and doesn’t say a word. Something tells me that if he knew the words “slug slime” he would use the phrase to describe Phoebe and me. He’s probably too proper. He’d probably refer to us as “people pollution.”
    One hour and twenty minutes after the plane takes off, it lands. It took almost less time to get to a foreign country than it did to go from Woodstock to the airport.
    After getting off the plane, we go down a long halland arrive at this area where people are lined up waiting to go up to counters to talk to customs officials.
    The signs explaining what to do are written in English and French.
    I get in line behind the Carsons.
    They get through quickly.
    I hope to see them again.
    I step up to the counter and try to look innocent.
    The customs guy asks me if I have anything to declare.
    I think of Butterfly McQueen’s line from
Gone With the Wind
, “I do declare, Miss Scarlett . . .” But decide not to say it.
    I’m not sure this guy’s got a sense of humor.
    I just say, “A little present.” After all, the paperweight
is
tiny.
    He lets me go through.
    If there’s a heaven, I hope that God didn’t see me lying. I’d hate to be kept out for a paperweight.
    We’ve actually arrived in Canada.
    As we go out the doors into another area, I hear someone yell, “Duane, over here.”
    â€œHello, Michael.” Duane nods to his brother.
    It’s obvious that his brother was going to hug Duane but ends up nodding too.
    Phoebe’s absolutely right about Duane.
    Introductions are made.
    Mr. and Mrs. Carson hug us, saying that we should call them by their first names, Michael and Bev. They seem like nice people, sort of Woodstocky . . . casual and caring.
    They’re at least ten to fifteen years younger than Duane, more the age of Phoebe’s and my parents.
    We go out to the parking lot, then crowd into their car.
    I’m actually in a foreign country.
    As the car pulls out of the lot, I wonder why Duane’s an