Never Wear Red Lipstick on Picture Day: (And Other Lessons I've Learned) (6 page)

CHAPTER
9

Snaptastic

I ARRIVE AT SCHOOL THE NEXT MORNING
with my insides feeling fluttery.

I am afraid to bring my apology note to Principal Jacks, because what if he is still mad at me? It is very bad to have the principal mad at you, I think, so I have a jumpy feeling in my stomach. If I could, I would never go near Principal Jacks's office again, which is a shame, because usually, I really like to be assigned the Class Messenger from our chart of classroom jobs. I like ­bringing the attendance sheet to the office and the lunch order to the cafeteria, because those are very important tasks. But from now on, when Mrs. Spangle tells me it is my turn to be Class ­Messenger for the week, I am going to say,
No, thank you
.

“Psst, Anya,” I whisper when we are putting our book bags away in the cubbies. “Can you do me a favor?”

“What is it?” she asks.

“I need you to bring this note to Principal Jacks's office,” I tell her. “Please.”

“Why me?”

“Because you're my best friend,” I say.

“Yes, I know,” Anya says. “But why don't you want to go yourself? You love to go to the office.”

“Not anymore.” I shake my head back and forth sadly. “Principal Jacks doesn't like me because of the scarf thing.”

“Okay,” Anya says, and she reaches out and takes the note from me. “What should I tell Mrs. Spangle?”

“Tell her you have to drop a note off in the office,” I say. “From your mom.”

“My mom writes in cursive.” Anya points to the name on the envelope. “And she would write ‘Mr. Jacks,' not ‘Principal Jacks.' ”

“Don't show Mrs. Spangle the envelope,” I say. “Just tell her you have to drop it off.”

Anya walks over to Mrs. Spangle's desk, and I watch her hold up the blank side of the envelope. Mrs. Spangle nods her head, and Anya turns and winks at me.

She heads toward the classroom door, where she waves me over to meet her. I tiptoe to the door quickly.

“What should I say when I get to the office?” she asks.

“Tell Mrs. Gradey you have a note for Principal Jacks.”

“Got it.” Anya walks out the classroom door. “I'm on it!” she calls over her shoulder.

“Thank you!” I whisper-yell back, making sure that Mrs. Spangle cannot hear me.

“What're you two doing?” Dennis appears behind me.

“Mind your own beeswax,” I tell him.

“You're not even going to call me ‘Freckle Face' first?” Dennis calls after me as I walk to my desk.

“Leave her alone, Dennis,” a voice says from behind me, and I turn to see what Anya is doing back from the office so soon.

Only the voice is not coming from Anya at all—it is coming from Natalie! Natalie is defending me, which is usually only Anya's job.

And even Dennis seems pretty shocked by this, because he clamps his mouth shut immediately and does not say one more word.

“Hey, thanks,” I say to Natalie when we are back at our desks.

“No problem,” Natalie says. “Dennis is terrible.”

“He really is,” I agree, and I sit down at my desk and think for a moment about the note Mom made me send to Principal Jacks. Maybe, since Natalie is sticking up for me now, I should apologize to her, too, just this once. I turn to face her. “I'm sorry I was mean about your sunglasses. I really like them.”

“Thank you,” Natalie says. “I really like yours, too. That's why I got mine. Because they looked so nice on you.”

“That's because fancy-dancy sunglasses make everyone look like a movie star,” I tell her.

Our classroom door opens then, and Anya walks through with no envelope in her hands. She nods her head at me silently, and I nod back. And this is why it is very useful to have your favorite person in the world be in the same class: because she will understand when she needs to drop off letters to the principal's office for you.

But when that person is missing, it's not a bad idea to have a backup favorite person, too, I guess. Someone who will defend you to the most ­terrible person in the class.

Someone like Natalie.

The next morning I am feeling jumpy again, but this time it is more because I am excited than nervous. I am excited because it is PICTURE DAY, and I love Picture Day.

Plus, I have my new shoes to wear, and I cannot wait to show them off.

“Mom,” I call down the steps as soon as I open my bedroom door. “I need help.”

“With what?” Mom calls back.

“My Picture Day outfit.”

I hear Mom climbing the steps. “You need me to help you get dressed? You usually hate when I try to help you.”

“This is not a normal outfit,” I explain. “I cannot get the periwinkle wrinkled.” And I like the way “periwinkle wrinkled” sounds, so I say it again. Three times in a row.

“Okay, that's enough of that,” Mom says with a smile. “Let's see what we've got here.” She opens my closet and lifts the perfect periwinkle dress from the Presidential Pageant off of the pole. It is still covered in plastic from the dry cleaner, and I like that it has been kept so pretty. Mom breaks the plastic and pulls the dress out, and it is just as fabulous as I remember.

“Nightgown off,” she says to me, so I strip down to my underwear and lift my arms over my head, waiting. Mom rolls the dress up and is about to drape it over my head when I stop her.

“Wait!” My arms fly down to my sides, and I skip over to my dresser. “I need my lucky underwear.” I pull my favorite polka-dot pair out of the drawer and change into them, and Mom seems to think this is funny.

“You're really going all out for Picture Day, aren't you?” she asks.

“It is a very important day,” I explain, and Mom pulls the dress all the way over my head, straightens out the shoulders, zips me up and buttons me in, and then ties the ribbon in the back for me. I reach under my bed and take out the shoe box with my new shoes, and Mom helps me place them on my feet, like I am Cinderella. Then she runs a brush all the way through my hair, until it falls into waves down my back, just like the ocean.

“All set!” Mom calls when she is finished. “You look pretty perfect to me.” I click-clack over to my mirror and examine myself.

“Almost,” I decide. “But I need a few more things first.”

“Wahhh,” a twin starts crying from downstairs, and I roll my eyes way up to the ceiling, because the twins really know how to ruin a good time.

“Come downstairs when you're done,” Mom tells me. “I want to take a few Picture Day photos of my own.” When Mom is gone, I retrieve my ­fancy-dancy sunglasses off of the shelf above my bed, and I stick them inside my pink handbag. I look over my shoulder to make sure no one is snooping, and then I reach under my mattress and take out Mom's cherry-red lipstick. I stick the lipstick in my bag too, and then I bounce down the stairs and click-clack into the kitchen.

And when Mom takes my first photo of the day, I place my hands on my hips, stick my right foot out to show off my shoe, and smile like I mean it, because I do.

“Mandy, Mr. Jacks would like to see you” is the first thing I hear when I walk into my classroom, and it makes my day go from wonderful to terrible immediately.

“Oooh . . . ,” Dennis says in a singsong voice. “Polka Dot's in trouble.”

“Dennis, that's a warning,” Mrs. Spangle scolds him. Dennis's Mohawk is combed down into a poof against the top of his head, and he is wearing a bow tie and everything. If “Freckle Face” weren't already such a great namecall for him, I'd come up with a new one right away, because he looks pretty silly right now.

I scurry up to Mrs. Spangle's desk so that we can talk in private.

“Why does Principal Jacks need to see me?” I whisper.

“I'm not sure,” she says. “There was just a note in my mailbox this morning asking to send you down to his office when you arrived.” Mrs. ­Spangle raises her eyebrows at me. “Did something happen that I should know about?”

I swallow loudly. “Well, there was this scarf . . . ,” I begin.

“Uh-huh . . .”

“And I kind of accidentally hit him with it, but it was an accident, I promise, because I was trying to hit Dennis, and then Principal Jacks took my scarf away, and I wasn't going to tell you because I didn't want
you
to be mad at me too, but I sent him a note and I said I was sorry and—”

“Okay, okay,” Mrs. Spangle interrupts me. “Best to just go see what he wants. And, Mandy? I don't want you to be afraid to tell me things. I'm here to help you.”

“Okay,” I say quietly, and I turn on my click-clack heel and head out the classroom door, walking as slowly as possible in the direction of the office.

The second I arrive at the window by Mrs. Gradey's desk, she calls out to me. “Oh, Mandy Berr! Mr. Jacks is expecting you,” she says. “You can head right in.”

I shuffle my feet on the floor in the direction of Principal Jacks's office. “My, don't you look all dolled up and lovely for Picture Day today,” Mrs. Gradey calls after me. But I am too fluttery about where I am headed to do anything but give her the very smallest of smiles.

“Mandy Berr!” Principal Jacks's voice booms out even before I reach his doorway. “Just the second grader I wanted to see. Come on in.”

I walk in carefully, and my knees feel like I can hardly bend them. I've never been called to the principal's office before—never because the principal asked to see me. That only happens to really bad kids. I'm more of a get-my-initials-on-the-board-a-couple-times-a-week type of kid. But never this.

“Well, you look spiffy today,” Principal Jacks says when he sees me. “Is that a special outfit for Picture Day?”

I nod my head silently, and I am pretty sure I have never been so quiet in my life.

“I wanted to thank you for the note you sent me,” Principal Jacks continues. “That was very nice of you to apologize. It takes a big person to admit when she's made a mistake.”

I nod my head again, because I do not usually like to admit such things.

“And I wanted to give this back to you.” ­Principal Jacks reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out my glittery scarf. “I assume you know not to throw it in anyone's face anymore, correct?”

“Correct,” I answer. “Thank you very much, Principal Jacks.”

Principal Jacks smiles at me then, and his owl eyes crinkle on the sides. “Are you going to wear the scarf for Picture Day? It sure is nice.”

“I think I will,” I answer him. “Along with some other accessories.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Principal Jacks says. “Make sure you smile widely.”

“I will,” I answer him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Can you teach me how to snap?” I ask. “You know, your fingers. Like you did in Mrs. ­Spangle's room. Everyone knows how to snap but me, and I have always wanted to know how.”

“Absolutely,” Principal Jacks answers. “I've taught many kids to snap over the years, and you look like you're coordinated enough. Are you?”