Read Online Antsy Does Time by Neal Shusterman - Free Book Online Page A

looked at our cat, who was now lying on the windowsill in the sun. If he was suffering, he wasn’t showing it. It was actually the rest of us who were suffering, because poor Ichabod was so old he had forgotten the form and function of a litter box, and had begun to improvise, leaving little icha-bits in unlikely places.
    â€œIt’s the way of all things, honey,” Mom said sympathetically. “You remember Mr. Moby—and what about your hamsters?”
    â€œIt’s not the same!” Christina yelled.
    Mr. Moby was Christina’s goldfish. Actually a whole series of goldfish. She named them all Mr. Moby, the same way Sea World named all their star whales “Shamu.” Then she graduated to hamsters, which were cute, cuddly, vicious little things that would devour one another with such regularity you’d think cannibalism was in their job description. But Christina was right—this was different. A cat was more like family. Besides, in my current state of mind, mortality was kind of a sore spot.
    â€œMom,” I said, “couldn’t we just let nature take its course, and let Ichabod go when he’s ready?”
    â€œI’ll clean up if he misses the litter box,” Christina said. “Promise.”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “Maybe she can levitate it out the window.”
    Christina scowled at me. “Maybe you could give Ichabod one of your friend’s extra months.”
    This surprised me—I didn’t even know she knew about that, but I guess word gets around. Fortunately it flew miles over Mom’s head.
    â€œYou know what?” Mom said. “I’m not gonna worry about this anymore. It’s on your head.” Then she poured herself a fresh cup of coffee.
    Â 
 
I went over to Gunnar’s house that afternoon, using our Grapes of Wrath project as a cover story, but what I was really hoping for—and dreading at the same time—was seeing Kjersten. It turns out she had left early for a tennis tournament. I was deeply disappointed, and yet profoundly relieved.
    We were halfway through The Grapes of Wrath and had decided that, for our project, we were going to re-create the dust bowl in Gunnar’s backyard, then arrange for our class to come see it. The dust bowl is what they called the Midwest back in the thirties, when Oklahoma, Kansas, and I think maybe Nebraska dried up and blew away—which has nothing to do with Gone with the Wind , although that movie was made during the same basic time period.
    Mrs. Ümlaut fretted a lot when we told her about our plan. Fretted: that’s a word they used during the dust bowl. (“Fretted,” “reckon,” and “y’all” were very popular in those days.) But since the backyard was mostly crabgrass already going dormant for the winter, she reluctantly agreed to let us kill the whole yard as long as we promised to redo everything in the spring. I couldn’t help but glance at Gunnar when she said that, because what if he wasn’t around in the spring? Then again, maybe this was her way of implying to him that he would be.
    I figured the biggest problem with the dust bowl was Gunnar’s unfinished gravestone smack in the middle of the yard. By now Gunnar had finished his first name and begun working on his middle name, Kolbjörn, which he was worried wouldn’t fit on one line. “I may have to start over on a fresh piece of granite,” he told me. I just nodded. I decided it was best if I didn’t involve myself in tombstone-related issues.
    Before we began murdering helpless vegetation, Gunnar took me up to his room to show me what he had done with the twelve months I had gotten for him. He had three-hole-punched them, and put them in a binder labeled Life. He displayed it proudly, like someone else might display a photo album.
    â€œI consulted with Dr. G yesterday,” Gunnar said. “He says I might make nine