Never Wear Red Lipstick on Picture Day: (And Other Lessons I've Learned) (7 page)

I nod my head up and down quickly.

“Okay, then,” Principal Jacks continues. “Which hand do you write with? That will be the easier hand to learn on.”

I lift my right hand in the air. “I know I use my thumb and my middle finger,” I tell him. “But I can't get them to make the sound.”

“That's because no one taught you the trick,” Principal Jacks says. “The trick is that when you place your middle finger on your thumb, you have to place the whole top part—not just the fingertip by the nail. Let me see.” I hold out my right hand to show him. “Perfect. And instead of placing your middle finger square on the top part of your thumb, you need to slide it a ­millimeter or two higher. Almost like it is touching your thumbnail.” Principal Jacks holds out his hand to show me, and I copy what he is doing.

“Then, when you're ready and your fingers are squeezed just tightly enough together—like Goldilocks, not too hard and not too soft—you bring your middle finger down toward your palm as quickly as you can and—”
Pow!
He snaps. “You try.”

I raise my right hand in the air, place my ­middle finger on my thumb, and then pull it to the top so that it is almost touching the nail. I take a big breath, concentrate very hard, make a little wish, and then—

Pow!

“I DID IT!” I call out to Principal Jacks, and if he weren't sitting behind his desk right now, I swear I would throw my arms around his neck. “You are the best snapping teacher ever!”

“Nice job, Mandy Berr,” Principal Jacks says. “Now, remember, snapping is only for special snappy occasions, so you need to keep it under wraps when you're in school, or else you may wear your fingers out.”

“I will,” I say. “And I will smile widely in my Picture Day photo too. I promise.”

“Good,” Principal Jacks says. “Now you better skedaddle back to Mrs. Spangle before she thinks you got lost.”

So I turn around and trot out of Principal Jacks's office, click-clacking on the floor with my glittery scarf around my neck, and I am pretty sure I have never smiled more widely in my life.

CHAPTER
10

Principal Pals

PICTURE DAY IS PRETTY MUCH THE LONGEST
day ever, because Mrs. Spangle's class does not get to have our photos taken until the very last hour of the day. I think this is bad scheduling, because I would like to go first. Plus, now I have to keep my Picture Day outfit perfect all day, including during recess, and that is a very long time to be neat.

Finally, Mrs. Spangle says that it is time. As the rest of my class scurries into line, I dart over to my cubby and pull my pink handbag off of the top shelf. Then, at the last moment, I take my glittery scarf, too, and I walk on my tiptoes to the end of the line. Anya leaves her own place in line to come stand next to me.

“Are you wearing all of that stuff in the picture?” she asks me.

“They're accessories, and I don't know yet,” I answer. “Can you hold this for a second?” I hand her my scarf and dig into my handbag for Mom's lipstick. I wish I had remembered to find a small mirror to stick in my bag too, so I could see as I put it on my lips, but I have practiced enough times by now that I should be good at it.

I swipe the lipstick across my bottom lip—one way and then the other—and then I move to my top lip, being careful to create a mountain on each side, with a dip in the middle.

“How does it look?” I ask Anya.

“Excellent,” Anya says. “Do you want me to put your scarf on you?”

“Yes, please,” I say, and Anya drapes the scarf over my neck. I place my handbag on my shoulder and stare at my fancy-dancy sunglasses for a moment.

“I shouldn't put the sunglasses on my head, right?” I ask.

“Nah, that would be too much,” Anya replies. “You're good like this.” Anya is wearing new cowgirl boots with gemstones running up the sides, and I like them a lot, because they also have heels that click-clack on the ground while we walk.

My class's line weaves its way through the hallways and into the cafeteria, where all of the camera equipment has been set up on the stage.

“Welcome,” the photographer greets us, and he is wearing a scarf around his neck that is the color of many butterflies. And I would kind of like to wear it myself, if I am being honest.

“We're going to start with your class shot,” he tells us. “Follow your teacher up to the stage, and we'll assemble you according to height.”

I raise my hand, and when Mrs. Spangle spots me, I gesture for her to come over.

“Yes, Mandy?” she asks when she reaches me.

“I would like my shoes to show in the picture,” I whisper to her. “They're the best part of my outfit.”

“Are you wearing lipstick?”

“Yes?” I answer like it is a question because I am not sure why Mrs. Spangle is asking.

“Does your mom know you have lipstick on for the picture?”

“No,” I reply honestly. “But it's her lipstick, so she should not mind.”

“Are you sure?”

I nod my head up and down, even though I am not positive that Mom will not mind. But it is
my
picture, so I think I should get to wear lipstick if I want to.

“Okay, then,” Mrs. Spangle says.

“Now, about my shoes . . .”

“You have to sit where the photographer tells you,” Mrs. Spangle says. “You'll look pretty no matter what, don't worry.” She pats me on the shoulder.

“You there in the purple.” The photographer points at me. “Let's have you sit on this chair here on the end.”

“It's periwinkle,” I tell him.

“Even better,” he says. “Right there on the end.” He points to the row of chairs, which the tallest kids in my class are all standing behind. I sit there obediently and glance at Mrs. Spangle, who nods her head at me.

“You with the bow tie”—he points to ­Dennis—“right there next to Miss Periwinkle.”

“Her name is Polka Dot,” Dennis says, and he shuffles his feet over to the chair next to me and plops down. He plops down so hard that the chair scrapes against the floor and out of the line.

“Dennis,” Mrs. Spangle says with a warning in her voice, “fix that chair, please. And, Mandy, put your purse underneath you. You don't need it for the picture.”

I raise my hand and gesture for Mrs. ­Spangle to walk over to me again. I wiggle my finger until she leans down close to my face, and then I whisper in her ear, “Do I have to sit next to Dennis?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Spangle answers, and it is in her “I mean business” voice, so I do not argue with her.

“Try not to break the camera, Polka Dot,” Dennis whispers to me, and I notice then that part of my dress is caught between our chairs. I pull it out carefully.

“Don't wrinkle my periwinkle, Freckle Face,” I tell him.

“Wrinkle my periwinkle,” he repeats. “That sounds funny.”

“I know,” I say. “I like it too.”

The photographer assembles the rest of our class in three rows—some standing, some sitting in chairs, and some sitting cross-legged on the floor. He leads Mrs. Spangle to the back row next to the standers, and she is posing right behind my head, so I look up and grin at her. Then I cross my feet at my ankles, just like the photographer asks, and stick them out as far as I can, my toes pointed, so that my shoes will be in the picture.

“What a fine-looking group of second graders,” a voice booms out from the cafeteria door, and ­Principal Jacks appears. “Thank you for being so patient today—I know it's hard to be the last group.”

“Okay, on the count of three,” the photo­grapher begins, “say ‘Fluffernutter!' One . . . two . . .”

“FLUFFERNUTTER!” my class calls out, and the photographer snaps the picture with a click.

“One more,” he announces, “and then we'll move on to your individual shots. One . . . two . . .”

“FLUFFERNUTTER!” we call again, and I smile my widest smile, because I am in my periwinkle dress and my click-clack shoes and my glittery scarf and, best of all, my cherry-red lipstick. So it does not even matter that I am sitting next to Dennis, because I have a lot going on.

“Looks great, guys,” the photographer says.

“If I could just interrupt you for one second,” Principal Jacks states, coming onto the stage. “I want to announce the results of our raffle drawing, because the first contest winner is from Mrs. Spangle's class. This person will have lunch with me this Friday and will also get to choose one buddy to accompany her to the lunch.”

“Her?” Dennis calls out. “So it's a girl?” He says the word “girl” like it is a disease, and I hope he gets in trouble for it.

“It is indeed, Mr. Riley,” Principal Jacks answers him. “And I hope you are happy for your winning classmate and remember what we discussed.” He gives Dennis a very serious look with his owl eyes. “Where is Natalie Abel?”

Natalie, who is sitting cross-legged on the floor, raises her hand shyly.

“Congratulations, Natalie!” Principal Jacks exclaims. “You displayed excellent cafeteria behavior all week. As a reward, you get to choose one buddy to join you for lunch, so think about who you would like that to—”

“I choose Mandy,” Natalie interrupts him, and I have never been so shocked in my life.

“Very good.” Principal Jacks nods. “I look forward to dining with you. Now go take some stupendous pictures.” He turns and walks out the cafeteria door while Natalie looks over her shoulder at me. I give her an enormous smile and a thumbs-up, and Natalie mouths,
I like your lipstick
.

Thank you
, I mouth back with no sound, and Natalie grins at me.

“Okay, let's get you all lined up for your individual shots,” the photographer announces. “Let's start with Miss Periwinkle here on the end.” He points to me.

“Wahoo!” I leap up from my seat and reach down to grab my handbag. Then I take of f ­running in the direction of the giant blue screen with the camera set out in front of it.

“Mandy, no run—”

SPLAT!

Suddenly, my hands and knees feel cold against the floor, and my scarf falls completely over my head so it is covering my hair like a blanket. I lift my chin and see my handbag lying far out in front of me.

“Mandy, are you okay?” I hear voices behind me, and I feel someone tap my arm and try to help me up. I turn around expecting to see Anya or Mrs. Spangle or even Natalie, but instead, I come face-to-face with a splattering of freckles. Dennis's freckles.

“You all right, Polka Dot?” Dennis whispers to me. I raise myself onto my knees, and Dennis boosts me up by the elbow.

“Why are you helping me?” I ask.

Dennis shrugs. “It was either that or step on you,” which is a very Dennis way to answer.

“Well, thanks,” I say, and Mrs. Spangle appears over my shoulder. “Are you okay? What happened? You know you're not supposed to run indoors.”

“I just got excited,” I answer. “And I slipped in my new shoes.” This is probably why Mom kept telling me to go scrape the bottoms on the sidewalk outside—so they would not be so slippery.

“I think you should go get checked out by the nurse,” Mrs. Spangle says. “You fell pretty hard.”

“But my picture!” I exclaim. “I need my picture taken first.”

“Fine,” Mrs. Spangle answers. “Picture first—Dennis, you too—then Dennis will escort you to the nurse.”

I look at Dennis, but he only nods very seriously, and I am not sure what has gotten into him.

I walk over to the blue screen—slowly this time—and climb onto the stool. I drop my handbag by my feet, right by my perfect shoes, and I smile my widest grin toward the camera. The ­photographer adjusts my glittery scarf, and the light flashes in my eyes.

“All set,” he says, and I wait for Dennis to be finished with his own picture before we begin walking to the nurse's office.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” I ask. “What do you want?”

“Can't I just be nice once in a while?”

“You are usually not,” I say.

Dennis laughs at this. “Principal Jacks said I had to start treating people like I want to be treated, so . . .” Dennis trails off.

“Is that why he keeps saying to remember what you talked about with him?” I ask. “Is that what he said when you stole my gummy bears?”

Dennis nods his head without speaking.

“So you want me to be nice to you?”

“Only sometimes, I guess,” Dennis answers. “Or else it's no fun.”

I think about this for a moment. It
would
be pretty boring if I had to be nice to Dennis all the time.

“Here is a deal,” I begin. “We don't have to be that nice to each other. Just if it's like an emergency or something.”

“So I still get to call you ‘Polka Dot'?” Dennis asks. “After all, you do call me ‘Freckle Face,' so I'd say we're even.”

“Okay, fine,” I answer. “How many Band-Aids do you think the nurse will give me?”

“Try to get a whole box full,” Dennis answers, and I nod because that sounds like a good plan. “By the way, why did Natalie pick you to go to lunch with her?”

“Because I'm fun,” I answer him, and this ­comment makes Dennis laugh again.

“I guess you are, Polka Dot,” he says.