Never Wear Red Lipstick on Picture Day: (And Other Lessons I've Learned) (2 page)

But I might still feel like being mad at Natalie.

“Take your seats quickly so I can hand out your Picture Day reminders,” Mrs. Spangle calls to us. “Remember to tell your parents that if they haven't submitted your order forms yet, we need them by next Wednesday.”

“Wahoo!” I call as I return to my seat. “I love Picture Day.”

“I hate Picture Day,” Dennis calls out, because Dennis is terrible. “You should hate it too, Polka Dot. No one wants a picture of your face.” He says this part in a whisper as he passes me.

“Quiet, Freckle Face,” I answer just as softly, so that Mrs. Spangle cannot hear. “The camera probably can't even see your face through all the freckles.”

“Paper Passers, please come up to my desk to help me hand out the sheets,” Mrs. Spangle says. “Remember, class: Next Wednesday come dressed in your best Picture Day outfits. We all want to look nice for our class photo.”

“So don't wear your polka-dot underwear, Polka Dot,” Dennis whispers to me again, and I see Anya kick him under their desks.

I decide then that I am going to come up with the best, fanciest-danciest Picture Day accessory in the whole world, and I am not going to make one peep about it to Natalie beforehand, or else she might try to copy it.

And then I will give one of my largest Picture Day photos to Mrs. Spangle to keep on her desk, and I will sign the back of it,
To the best ­second-grade teacher in the universe. Love, Mandy—
just to remind her that she should always like me more than she likes Dennis.

Even when we do get on each other's nerves.

CHAPTER
2

The Handbag Caper

“I NEED A NEW ACCESSORY!” I YELL
as I bang through the front door after school.

“Mandy, I thought we talked about not letting that door slam,” Mom answers me. “We can't have special you-and-me time without the twins if you wake them up.” And I do not think they should have to hear so much, but I still place my book bag on the couch without a sound, because I definitely do not want to hear the twins' howls right now.

“I need a new accessory,” I repeat more quietly. “It is very important.”

“What do you mean?”

“Yeah, what do you mean?” Timmy calls up from the floor, and I do not know why he thinks a three-year-old should be part of a grown-up conversation about accessories.

“I cannot wear my fancy-dancy sunglasses anymore,” I state.

“Why not?” Mom asks. “I thought they were your favorite thing ever?”

“Yeah, why not?” Timmy repeats.

“STOP BEING A COPYCAT!” I yell at him. “
That
is why I cannot wear my sunglasses anymore. Because Natalie is a copycat too.”

“Natalie got her own pair of sunglasses?” Mom guesses, and she is a much better listener about my problems when the twins are not around, I think.

“Yes, and she has to wear them over her own glasses, which is not how fancy-dancy sunglasses work,” I tell her.

“You know what they say, Mandy,” Mom begins, “imitation is the greatest form of flattery. Natalie got sunglasses too because she thought you looked so nice in them.”

I shake my head back and forth ferociously. “Fancy-dancy sunglasses were
my
accessory, and now Natalie stole them. It's not fair.”

“You know what kind of attitude that sounds like to me?” Mom asks as she plops down on the couch. “B-R-A-T.”

“Brat!” Timmy calls out, and I stomp my foot in his direction.

“Didn't we fix that B-R-A-T behavior after the whole broken-toe incident? No backtracking, please,” Mom says. “Eight years old is too old to act that way.”

“But this is an
emergency
,” I explain, because “emergency” is the kind of word that gets grown-ups to listen to you. “Picture Day is next week, and I need a new fancy-dancy accessory for my picture.”

“You can't wear sunglasses on Picture Day anyway,” Mom says. “Besides, you already have your periwinkle dress from the Presidential ­Pageant. I think that will make a perfect Picture Day outfit.”

“But I wore that already,” I remind her. “Everybody saw that dress, so now it is boring. And Natalie could copycat it.”

“I'm sure Natalie is not going to wear the same dress as you on Picture Day,” Mom says. “With all the outfits out there in the world, I am positive she'll choose something different.”

“I am not positive,” I answer. “Plus, a dress is not even an accessory. I need an accessory.”

“You have plenty of accessories in your room,” Mom says. “Why don't you try one of them out for a while? Your pastel bangle bracelets or your Rainbow Sparkle headband or—”

“I've worn all of those already,” I repeat, and Mom sighs an enormous breath at me.

“I don't know what to tell you, Mandy,” she replies. “I'm not buying you anything new, so if this accessory business is so important to you, you better problem-solve with what you already have.” I scrunch my lips over to one side of my mouth into a pout. “Now, Timmy has been waiting all day for someone to play hide-and-seek with him, and I think it would be really nice if—”

“No, thank you,” I say, and I turn around quickly and head up the stairs before Mom can make me play with a preschooler.

“Remember,” Mom calls after me, “your dad and I are going to that dinner tonight, so ­Grandmom is babysitting.” I smile at this news when I reach the top of the stairs, because I no longer need Mom to help me get a new accessory for Picture Day.

I will just ask Grandmom for one instead.

“Anybody home?” Grandmom calls when she arrives at our house at dinnertime. Timmy bounds down the stairs loudly to greet her and throws his arms around her knees. “Give me some sugar,” she says to him, and Timmy plants a kiss on her lips.

When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I look around to make sure Mom is not there snooping.

“How's my favorite fancy-schmancy girl?” Grandmom reaches out to hug me, and I hold on to her tightly so that my mouth is close to her ear.

“I need to tell you something,” I whisper.

“Mandy was a brat,” Timmy tattletales, but I ignore him because I do not have much time.

“I need something to wear for Picture Day, please,” I whisper to Grandmom, and I think I spit on her a little bit.

“Ooh, sounds fun,” Grandmom says. “I'll help you pick something out tonight. Is tomorrow ­Picture Day?”

“No, next week,” I say. “And I need something
new
for Picture Day. This is very important.”

“Why is it so important?” Grandmom asks as Timmy tries to scramble up her legs until she picks him up. “You already have plenty of lovely clothes in your closet.”

“Everybody has seen them already,” I explain. “And there are many copycats in my class—well, mostly Natalie—so if I do not wear something brand new, she might wear the same thing. And that would be a tragedy.”

“Oh, good, you're here,” Mom says, coming into the living room, all dressed up in high heels and everything. “The twins are already down for the night, so hopefully, you won't hear much out of them. There's some leftover baked chicken in the refrigerator for these two—”

“Yuck,” I interrupt her.

“You love chicken,” Mom says to me.

“I hate leftovers,” I explain, but Mom begins to smear lipstick across her lips instead of answering me.

“Can I have some?” I ask.

“Lipstick?” Mom grabs me by the chin and plants a wet kiss on my lips. “There, now you're wearing some too,” she says, even though that was not what I had in mind. “Tim, are you ready?”

“Coming.” Dad walks into the room and says good-bye to each of us quickly before they both run out the door.

“So about Picture Day . . . ,” I begin again in my sweetest voice.

“If you're trying to get me to buy you new clothes, that's not going to work,” Grandmom tells me. “Especially after I just got you those sunglasses.”

“But I cannot even wear them anymore because Natalie copycatted—”

“I know, I know, Natalie's a copycat. I think it's time you and Natalie worked out your differences once and for all, don't you?” Grandmom asks, walking toward the kitchen with Timmy trailing behind her.

The front door flies open then, and Mom comes back into the living room. “Forgot my handbag,” she says, and she reaches toward the couch for a small bag, which is the color of a snake. She places her lipstick tube inside and heads back out again. “Love you!” she calls to me over her shoulder, and her snake bag is the last thing I see before she closes the door.

“Come on, Mandy, let's have some dinner,” Grandmom calls from the kitchen.

And I don't even mind so much anymore that dinner is leftovers. Because Mom has just given me a great idea for my new accessory, one that is lying on the floor of my closet. So maybe, just maybe, leftover things are not as bad as I thought.

The next morning I place my fancy-dancy sunglasses on my nightstand sadly, because I do not feel like bringing them to school anymore. Instead, I grab the pink handbag that my cousin, Paige, mailed to me for my birthday. I usually hate pink, and I don't love handbags, either, but if Mom takes her snake bag out for special occasions, I guess handbags are a pretty grown-up accessory. Plus, this handbag has fringe on the side, and it feels almost like feathers when I pet it. And there are many gemstones lining the top of the fringe, and I do love shiny things.

The problem with this handbag, though, is that I do not have anything fun to put inside of it, like lipstick or gum. I walk around my room, and I try to push my stuffed Rainbow Sparkle inside, but she is too big. And then I place my three swirly marbles in it, but they clang together when I walk, so Mrs. Spangle might hear them and take them away.

“Mandy, let's go!” Mom calls from downstairs. “Your cereal is getting soggy.” I reach under my pillow and grab a handful of gummy bears, and I pour them inside my handbag.

The reason I do not love handbags is that it is very, very easy to forget about them. You can put your sunglasses on top of your head and—ta-da!—they are right there, but you always have to think about where your handbag is. I already have to worry about my book bag and my lunch box and now this bag, too—it is very tiring.

When I get to school, I put my handbag in my cubby, because I do not know if Mrs. Spangle thinks it is an outdoor accessory or not. When Mrs. Spangle calls my group to line up for lunch, I place the strap of my bag over my shoulder and run my fingers through the fringe. It is not so bad for a handbag, I guess—it is pretty fancy-dancy, after all, even if it is pink.

I plop my handbag on the cafeteria table next to my lunch box, and the gemstones click against the top of the table.

“Pretty bag,” Anya says to me.

“Yeah,” Natalie agrees.

“Thank you,” I answer proudly. “My cousin, Paige, gave it to me.”

“I think I have one just like it,” Natalie tells me, and my eyes grow wide like pancakes then, because there is no way I am going to let Natalie copycat my handbag, too.

“You cannot bring it to school,” I tell her. “You already stole my fancy-dancy sunglasses.”

“What are you talking about? I didn't steal your sunglasses,” Natalie says. “I got my own pair.”

“That is pretty much the same thing,” I say. “Because now I cannot wear mine anymore.”

“Yes, you can,” Natalie says. “I think it would be fun. Anya could get some too, and then we could be triplets.”

“Twins are not fun, so triplets are even worse,” I say, opening my lunch box. “Oh, blech.” The inside of my box is soggy from a leak in my sandwich bag. There is mayonnaise all over my napkin, and the whole thing feels like a damp twin.