Switcharound by Lois Lowry

giggled and waved their arms.
    Then he took on a boxing stance, did some quick shuffling with his feet, and aimed some fake punches at Poochie, who was still shoveling ice cream into his mouth. "Go for it, Champ," he said. Poochie put his spoon down and gave him a halfhearted left jab into the air. "Right, Daddy," he said.
    Herbie turned toward Caroline and J.P.
    "Good night, Dad," they both said quickly in unison, like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

    "Thank you for taking over the batting practice," J.P. said to Caroline. They were out in the yard, sitting by the picnic table, slapping at occasional mosquitoes and watching the coals in the charcoal grill turn white. The babies were in bed, and so was Poochie. Lillian was washing her hair, and Herbie hadn't come back yet from the sporting goods store.
    "You're welcome," Caroline told her brother. "I don't mind, ah, b.p." She giggled. "Actually," she said, "Poochie's getting better. I think I figured out what his problem—"
    J.P. interrupted her. "I don't
care
what his problem is.
My
problem is that I'm not going to survive this summer, Caroline. I may not survive this
week.
Not with that big baseball game on Friday. Caroline, I hate baseball more than anything in the whole world. You remember in that book, Caroline, and then they made a movie of it—
1984
—they chose a special torture for everyone. The guy in the book, his torture was rats, remember? Because he hated rats more than anything in the world. But me, Caroline,
my
special torture would be—my special torture
is—
"
    "Baseball."
    "Right," groaned J.P. "Baseball."
    "Mine is babies," muttered Caroline.
    "I think those babies are cute," J.P. said.
    Caroline took a long deep breath. "Maybe I'm an unnatural person," she said, "but I think those babies are about as cute as—as cute as—" She paused, trying to think of her least favorite thing in the whole world.
    "Tarantulas?" J.P. suggested, trying to be helpful.
    Caroline glared at him. "J.P.," she said in her paleontologist's voice, "tarantulas are actually very fascinating creatures. I would
much
rather have a pet tarantula than a baby."
    "Well,
I'd
rather have a baby than a baseball team," J.P. replied gloomily.
    They were both silent for a moment. Then they heard the car approach, turn into the driveway, and pull to a stop. They heard the car door open and close. They heard their father's booming voice as he headed for the kitchen door.
    "Ta-DA!" called Herbie Tate. "Here he is, folks: the Indestructible, Late, Great, Herbieeeeee TATE!"
    They heard Lillian greet him, laughing.
    "I'm going to do my revenge tomorrow," whispered Caroline to her brother.
    J.P. gave a sudden, sinister laugh. "Guess what," he said. "I already did mine."

10
    Caroline jumped, startled, when she heard the footsteps coming toward the back door. She looked at her watch—only 10:30. Too early for J.P.'s baseball practice to end.
    The babies were still asleep.
    Lillian was at her real estate course.
    And Caroline was feeling guilty, because that morning, alone in the house—except, of course, for Holly and Ivy—she had performed her act of revenge.
    Now it was done. It could never be undone, even if she wanted to undo it, which she didn't.
    But she felt guilty. And there
were
—she listened more carefully—footsteps coming toward the back door.
    The police? The police couldn't
possibly
know what she had done.
    Caroline crept nervously over to the kitchen window. She peered out, laughed in relief, and went
to
the door.
    "Hi," she said to her father.
    Herbie Tate looked surprised to see her. His shoulders were slumped, the way Poochie's were sometimes. He appeared a little confused and finally began to reach halfheartedly for the imaginary pistol with which he usually greeted them. Then he sighed and didn't bother.
    "Hi, Caroline," he said. "I forgot you'd be here. Stupid of me."
    "The babies are asleep," Caroline explained. "After they wake up I'll