Antsy Does Time Read Online Free PDF Page B

maybe because I am an Ümlaut?”
    With my brain somewhere between here and Jupiter, I was only now catching on. “So you’re Gunnar’s sister?”
    â€œLast I checked.”
    The concept that Kjersten could be the sister of someone I actually knew had never occurred to me. I suppressed the urge to do another Porky Pig, swallowed, and said, “Can I come in, please?”
    â€œSure thing.” Then she called to Gunnar, letting him know that I was here. I shivered when she said my name again, and hoped she hadn’t seen.
    There was no response from Gunnar—the only thing I heard was a faint, high-pitched banging sound.
    â€œHe’s out back working on that thing, ” Kjersten said. “Just go on through the kitchen and out the back door.”
    I thanked her, tried not to stare at any part of her whatsoever, and went into the house. As I passed through the kitchen I saw their mother—a woman who looked like an older, plumper version of Kjersten.
    â€œHello!” she said when she saw me, looking up from some vegetables she was cleaning in the sink. “You must be a friend of Gunnar’s. Will you stay for dinner?” Her accent was much heavier than I expected it to be, considering Gunnar and Kjersten barely had any accent at all.
    Dinner? I thought. That would mean I’d be at the same dinner table with Kjersten, and the moment I thought that, my own mother’s voice intruded into my head, telling me that I used utensils like an orangutang. Whenever Mom said that, I would respond by telling her that orangutan had no g at the end and then go on shoveling food into my mouth like a lower primate. My eating habits didn’t matter with my last girlfriend, Lexie, on account of she’s blind. She would just get mad when I scraped the fork against my teeth, so as long as I ate quietly, I could be as apelike as I pleased.
    Now, thanks to my own stubbornness, I had no practice in fine dining skills. Kjersten would take one look at the way I held my knife and fork, would burst out laughing, and share the information with whatever higher life-forms she communed with.
    I knew if I dwelt on this much longer, I would either talk myself out of it or my head would explode, so I said, “Sure, I’ll stay for dinner.” I’d deal with the consequences later.
    â€œAntsy, is that you?” Gunnar called from the backyard, where the loud tapping sound was coming from.
    â€œMaybe,” Mrs. Ümlaut said quietly, “you shall get him away from that thing he works on.”
    Gunnar was, indeed, working on a thing. I wondered at first if it was something for our Grapes of Wrath project. It was a stone sculpture. Granite or marble, I guessed. He was tapping away at it with a hammer and chisel. He hadn’t gotten too far, because the block of stone was still pretty square. “Hi, Gunnar,” I said. “I didn’t know you were an artist.”
    â€œNeither did I.”
    He continued his tapping. There were uneven letters toward the edge of the block. G-U-N . He was already working on the second N . I laughed. “You gotta make the sculpture before you sign it, Gunnar.”
    â€œIt’s not that kind of sculpture.”
    It took me a moment more until I got the big picture, and the moment I realized just what Gunnar was doing, I blurted out one of those words my mother smacks me for.
    Gunnar was carving his own tombstone.
    â€œGunnar . . . that’s just . . . wrong .”
    He stood back to admire his work. “Well, the letters aren’t exactly even, but that will add to the overall effect.”
    â€œThat’s not what I mean.”
    He looked at me, read what must have been a pretty unpleasant expression on my face, and said, “You’re just like my parents. You have an unhealthy attitude. Did you know that in ancient Egypt the Pharaohs began planning their own tombs when they were still young?”
    â€œYeah,