Ann Martin - Baby-Sitters Club 021

"Me neither," added Jessi.

"Maybe they would stop me," I said, "if I didn't look like such a nerd." "You don't look like a nerd," said Claud quickly.

"Thanks," I replied, "but yes I do. I wouldn't if I had pierced ears and a better haircut, though. I'd look at least twelve, not nerdy, and adorable." Dawn smiled. "What would you do to your hair?" she asked me.

"I'm not sure. Cut it short, I think, so it wouldn't be such a wild tangle of curls." "I want pierced ears and decent hair, too," spoke up Jessi.

"I want one more hole in my right ear." (That was Claud, of course.) "And I want to get back to business," said Kristy.

And just as she said that, the phone rang. Kristy gave us a look that said, "See? We are here to do business, you guys." But the caller was Stacey McGill, our former treasurer. Claud began shrieking, and begged to speak to her first. Then Dawn, Mary Anne, and even Kristy chatted with her.

Jessi and I grinned. Club meetings are great, especially when something fun like this happens. But part of me was disappointed. I hadn't gotten any suggestions on how to work with the troublesome twins - and I would have to face them again the very next afternoon.

Chapter 8.

Tuesday afternoon. I turned up at the Arnolds' at the regular time. Mrs. Arnold flurried out the door in a blur of jewelry, nail polish, and accessories. I heard the car door slam in the garage, and she was off.

I was sitting on the floor in the living room, the Kid-Kit opened in front of me. I was looking hopefully at the twins.

Marilyn and Carolyn, dressed in blue sailor dresses, red hair ribbons, white tights, and their Mary Janes, took off their bracelets, dangled them rudely in front of me, and dropped them on the floor.

"Good," I said. "Why should today be different from any other day? I think it would confuse me terribly if I could tell you two apart." I don't know what kind of answer I was expecting from them. Maybe no answer. That was just something to say, something rude because the girls were rude and I was feeling cross.

"Poopah-key," said one twin in a voice as cross as mine had been.

I sighed. I deserved that. "Look," I said, rummaging around in the Kid-Kit. "Here's a sticker book. Oh, and Carolyn, I brought you a book about electricity. I borrowed it from Adam. He's one of my brothers." The girls remained standing.

"Do you want to look at the book?" I asked.

I was sure one of the girls was going to reply, "Which one of us is Carolyn?" Instead, the answer was, "Tibbie van carmin." That was a first. The girls usually spoke English in the beginning of the afternoon, or if I asked them a question. This was the first time they had completely ignored me. Well, they weren't ignoring me, but they might as well have been. They were ignoring me in twin talk.

"How about puzzles?" I asked.

"Zoo mat," replied one twin. But at least the girls sat down then.

"Chutes and Ladders?" I tried. "Dominoes?" "Perring du summerflat, tosh?" asked one.

"Du mitter-mott," replied the other.

"Okay. Go ahead. Have fun," I said to the girls. I pulled my copy of Dicey's Song, by Cynthia Voigt, out of my purse, sat on the couch, and began to read. The twins pawed through the Kid-Kit, babbling to each other.

After about ten minutes, one of them stood up and said, "Mallory, can I have an ice-cream sandwich? We have a box of them in our freezer." My first reaction was to say, "Oh, thank goodness you're speaking English again." But I didn't jump in with that answer, which I knew the twins were expecting. Out of the blue a very different kind of answer came to me, and somehow I knew that it was exactly the right thing to try. I didn't have anything to lose, and it might be kind of fun. At any rate, I could give the twins a taste of their own medicine. Fighting fire with fire.

I answered the question in pig Latin. "At's-thay ine-fay ith-way ee-may." Marilyn-or-Carolyn looked stunned. "What?" she said.

"Oh-gay on-hay. I-hay on't-day are-cay." The twins glanced at each other in confusion. The other one spoke up warily. "What are you saying?" she asked.

"I'm-hay aying-say at-thay oo-yay an-cay ave-hay a-hay ack-snay. O-say an-cay our-yay ister-say." "I can't understand you!" cried Marilyn-or-Carolyn in frustration.

I smiled. "Oo-tay ad-bay." "But can I have an ice-cream sandwich?" "Ure-shay. Ine-fay ith-way ee-may." The twin stamped her foot. Was she getting ready to throw a tantrum? I decided I didn't care if she was.

"I want an ice-cream sandwich!" she cried.

"Me too!" cried her twin.

"Ood-gay. Oh-gay on-hay. Ut-whay are-hay oo-yay aiting-way or-fay?" "Talk to us!" demanded the twin.

"I-hay am-hay alking-tay oo-tay oo-yay. Oo-yay ust-jay on't-day understand-hay ee-may." I was speaking as fast as I could, which made the pig Latin sound even odder.

"Talk in English! Talk right!" yelled the foot-stamper.

I gave in. "You two haven't been speaking to me in English," I pointed out.

"Malvern toppit samway," said Marilyn-or-Carolyn.

"Ut's-whay is-thay? Ore-may in-tway alk-tay?" "Are you going to talk like that all afternoon?" asked one of the girls angrily.

"Nope," I replied. "Only as long as you and your sister talk in your language. When you stop, I'll stop." "Maybe we don't want to stop," said Marilyn-or-Carolyn.

"Aybe-may I-hay on't-day either-hay," I answered.

"Okay, okay, okay. We'll stop." "Good," I said. "But now you know how it feels when you leave someone out of a conversation. Or when you're rude to her." The twins scowled but didn't apologize. Finally one said, "What language were you talking in?" "Pig Latin," I told her.

"Pig Latin?" The girls couldn't help smiling.

I nodded. "I could teach it to you. Anyone can learn it. My brothers taught it to me. They talk in it sometimes when they need a private language. Of course," I went on, "you've got a language of your own, so you probably don't need pig Latin." "Oh, yes! Yes, we do!" cried one twin.

And that was when I decided that Claudia was probably right: twin talk wasn't much of a language at all, except for a few words the girls had made up. If it was, they wouldn't be so eager to learn pig Latin.

"I'll teach you pig Latin on two conditions," I said to the twins.

"What?" they replied. Instantly, they were on their guard.

"One, that you put your bracelets on - and on right. I'll just have to trust that you do it right. But I really want to be able to tell you apart. And two, that after I teach you pig Latin, you stop using your own language around me, because I don't like it. Is that a deal?" The twins whispered to each other. Then one said, "If you ask for two things, then we want two things, too. We want to learn pig Latin, and we want the ice-cream sandwiches." "Fair enough," I replied. "Put your bracelets on and follow me into the kitchen." The girls did so. They sat at the table while I took three ice-cream sandwiches out of the freezer. Then I joined them. I passed out the sandwiches. As we were unwrapping them, I said, "Thank you for putting the bracelets back on. I appreciate that." "Do you really want to be able to tell us apart?" asked . . . Marilyn. (Bracelet check.) "We are so tired of looking alike." "Yes. I really do. There must be some difference between you. Something besides the bracelets." "We-ell," said Carolyn slowly, "there is one thing." "Are you going to tell her?" spoke up Marilyn, sounding worried.

Carolyn nodded. "It's all right. She said she really wants to know. . . . Okay?" Marilyn nodded.

"Look very, very closely at our faces," said Carolyn.

"Look at our cheeks," Marilyn added.

I stared and stared. At last I saw a tiny mole on Carolyn's left cheek, under her eye. Marilyn had a mole, too, under her right eye. "The moles?" I asked.

The girls nodded. "It's the only difference between us that's really easy to see," Carolyn told me.