this year, on Friday, the week before Bobby’s eighth birthday, mother took me aside. “Why can’t you get along with your little brother? What has he ever done to you?” “Nothing,” I confessed.
Mother clicked her tongue. Everyone likes your brother. He’s so sweet.”Bobby’s a regular mint chocolate bar,
“Then why haven’t you ever bought him something special?” Mother demanded. She would make a good prosecutor.
“You always said it’s the spirit that counts,” He” liked the baseball.”
Mother folded her hands in front of her. “Which you then used and lost.”
“You treat him like he’s an enemy. Don’t you love your brother?” Mother asked.
“Of course I do,” I lied. (But really, how can I love a little angel who makes me feel mean and selfish and bad?)
“Then show your love,” Mother said. “I tried to weasel out of it. “I can’t afford the official Willie Mays baseball glove.”
“No, I mean something he wants even more. I’ve talked it over with your father, and he’s agreed that Bobby is now old enough to have a pet,” Mother said.
She went to a cabinet and took out a big paper bag.plastic tray. . Part of the bottom of the tray rose up into an island in the center. A plastic palm tree grew from the island’s middle.