My Mother Got Married Read Online Free PDF Page B

floor and let out a loud groan.
    “I was afraid of this,” she grumbled, turning to me. “This closet has got to be cleaned out, Charlie. Ben is going to build some more shelves. But for right now, we need to stack Thomas’s toys and games on the floor in there.”
    I gave her a blank stare. Of all the chores in the entire universe, cleaning out my closet is the one I hate most. Besides, it didn’t have to be done today, did it? Today was bad enough without adding the worst chore in the universe.
    “ Now , Charles. Today ,” she ordered, as if she had read my mind. “I want to get as much of this stuff put away as we can.”
    I continued to stare. What was wrong with her anyway? Couldn’t she see what had happened to my big, spacious room? Wasn’t that enough for her?
    She folded her arms and squinted at me. “Charllllie,” she said, as if lengthening my name would get me going. “The closet. ”
    It made me mad. It really did.
    “I can’t,” I said smugly. “There’s a hand living in there.”
    It was the wrong thing to say. Mom glared at me a minute more, then stormed out of the room. A second later she was back with a box of giant plastic trash bags. She opened the first one so I could see how much it would hold. Then she disappeared into the closet and began filling it with the stuff on the floor.
    I could hear it. Stuff I hadn’t seen for years was being deposited in the bags for the garbage. That’s where she would put it, too. My mother can be a very unreasonable person.
    Just then I heard my xylophone crash to the bottom of the bag. It made me wince. I’ve always liked that xylophone. I realize it’s a baby instrument, but I can still play “Three Blind Mice” and something else.
    I got off the bed. “Okay, okay, okay!” I told her. “You win. You always win.”
    She stood up and looked at me. “You’re the one who’s making it into a battle.” Then she handed me the bag and left.
    After a few minutes of sifting through old papers and dirty socks, I found my xylophone. I couldn’t find the little wooden mallet to play it with, but after searching the floor, I found a spoon. I think it was left over from a chocolate pudding I had a few months ago.
    I started to play “Three Blind Mice.” Just when I got to “See how they run,” Thomas came back into the room. He dashed over to the closet door and started to sing.
    I stopped playing right away.
    Thomas finished the song without music. Then he pointed at my xylophone. “I don’t have one of those,” he informed me.
    I knew what was coming next.
    “Maybe I could have that one.”
    I shook my head no.
    Without wasting a second, he scurried over to my desk and picked up my globe again. “How ’bout this? Can this be mine now? Can we share it?” He spun it around and around. “I really like this thing.”
    I put my head in my hands. I hate sharing. I know it’s not the way you’re supposed to feel, but I do. I don’t think I’m alone, either. I think there are millions of kids all over the world who hate it as much as I do.
    Sharing is not normal. If you don’t believe me, just look at any National Geographic special. Name one lion who spends an entire day killing a zebra and then calls his friend over and says, “Here, Leo. I just spent ten hours chasing this zebra all over Africa. Help yourself.”
    Face it. The only time lions like to share is when they’re already finished eating. And to me, that’s not sharing. That’s full.
    Suddenly I stood up and hurried over to the three huge boxes in the middle of the floor. “Thomas,” I said loudly to make sure I had his attention. Then I began touching each box with my finger.
    “This box is yours. This box is yours. And this box is yours.”
    Before he could say anything, I rushed over to his bed and chest. “These are yours, too, Thomas. This is your bed and this is your little white chest. And all the stuff in the drawers is yours, too.”
    Thomas nodded happily.
    “But