Never Wear Red Lipstick on Picture Day: (And Other Lessons I've Learned) (8 page)

Mom comes to pick me up at school, even though I am not really hurt. The nurse called our house to say that I fell down, and because Grandmom was already there, Mom could leave her with Timmy and the twins and come get me by herself. Which is a great thing, except for one small detail. . . .

“Are you okay?” Mom asks when she barges into the nurse's office. “What hurts? Did you scrape anything? Let me see your—
are you wearing lipstick?
”

Uh-oh.

“Yes,” I answer honestly.

“Did you wear that in your picture?”

“Yes.”

“Mandy!” Mom wails, and she doesn't even seem worried anymore that I fell down. “You can't wear red lipstick in your class photos! What will the other parents think?”

“They'll think she looks nice,” Dennis pipes up from the cot behind me.

“That's Dennis,” I say, introducing Mom to him. “We only hate each other sometimes now.”

“Hi, Dennis,” Mom greets him before turning back to me. “So let me guess: You wore the scarf, too?”

“Yes,” I say.

“I thought Mr. Jacks took it.”

“He did, but he gave it back.”

“Why?”

“Because he liked my apology note.”

“Did you wear your sunglasses, too? Please tell me you didn't wear your sunglasses.”

“You ask a lot of questions,” Dennis chimes in again, and I laugh at him because I agree. “You sound just like my mother.”

Mom ignores him. “Mandy, your school picture is supposed to be
nice
,” she complains. “Wearing red lipstick, let alone all of that other nonsense, is not appropriate.”

“It's cherry-red lipstick,” I correct her. “It says so on the tube.”

“Where did you even get that lipstick? Did Grandmom give it to you? Because if she did, I really have to have a talk with—”

“I took it,” I say, “from your bathroom drawer.”

Mom sighs enormously then. “Let's go.” She motions for me to stand. “We'll finish this discussion at home.” She leads me out of the nurse's office, thanking the nurse along the way, and back toward Mrs. Spangle's classroom. Dennis trails behind us.

“Mandy Berr!” Principal Jacks greets me in the hallway. “Are you all recovered?”

I nod my head. “This is my mom.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Berr.” Principal Jacks shakes her hand. “That's quite the daughter you have there.”

“Oh, she's something all right,” Mom says. “I hope you know how sorry I am about the scarf—”

“Make no mention of it. Mandy and I got it all straightened out, didn't we?” He turns to me.

“Yep,” I answer, and I raise my right hand in the air, press my thumb and middle finger together just like Goldilocks—not too hard and not too soft—and
pow!
I snap.

Principal Jacks snaps back at me with a wink. “Maybe you could teach Mr. Riley here the trick I showed you.” He turns to Dennis and pats him on his combed-down Mohawk. “Unless, of course, you already know how to snap.”

Dennis shakes his head back and forth, and he looks pretty sad about it, actually.

“I will show him,” I promise Principal Jacks. “And you remember that Natalie is taking me as her guest when she has lunch with you?”

“I do. I look forward to seeing you both there,” Principal Jacks answers.

“That's very kind of Natalie,” Mom says. “Well, it was nice to meet you,” she adds, turning to ­Principal Jacks.

“Likewise,” he answers. “That's some bold lipstick you're wearing, Mandy. It looks like you've eaten an entire bowl of cherries.” And I smile super wide at Principal Jacks then, because that is exactly what I want to look like.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Mom says to him. “It won't happen again.”

“A little lipstick never hurt anybody,” Principal Jacks tells her. “See you later, Mr. Riley.” He pats Dennis's head again as he departs, and Dennis scurries ahead of Mom and me into our classroom.

“See?” I say to Mom. “Principal Jacks likes my lipstick.”

“Principal Jacks is not your mother,” she answers. “Hand it over.”

“Please, no,” I beg. “Can't I keep it? If I promise to never, ever be ornery again?”

“That's a pretty big promise for you.” She sighs again. “We'll talk about it later. Go grab your book bag.” She points me toward my classroom.

I walk inside carefully, being sure not to slip again, and I go right over to Natalie's desk.

“Can you do me a favor?” I whisper in her ear, digging in my handbag as I do so. “I need you to play hide-and-seek with this.” I hand her the lipstick tube.

“Huh?”

“I need you to hide this for me.”

“Why?”

“My mom wants to take it away, but if I do not have it anymore, she can't,” I explain. “So can you keep it for me?”

“Sure,” Natalie answers. “No problem.”

“If you want, you can wear some yourself,” I offer. “I do not have any sick germs.”

“You won't care that I'm copying you?”

I think about this for a moment, and then I shake my head. “Nah, we can both wear the lipstick. And our fancy-dancy sunglasses. We can be twins. But not twins like the twins at my house, because they are awful.”

This makes Natalie's face break into a big smile. “We can wear them for our lunch with Mr. Jacks,” she suggests.

“Perfect,” I agree. “And I like to call him ­‘Principal Jacks.' Because he is the principal.”

“Principal Jacks,” Natalie repeats. “Got it.”

“Thank you for picking me for the lunch,” I tell her. “That was really nice of you.”

“You're welcome,” Natalie replies. “I didn't really want to win the contest at all. I'm a little afraid of Principal Jacks.”

“He is not so scary,” I say. “I promise. And plus”—I point to the tube in Natalie's hand—“we will have our cherry-red lipstick to protect us.” I take the lipstick back for one minute and spread some across my lips, and then I return it to Natalie. I walk over to the cubbies and get my book bag before returning to the hallway to meet Mom.

“Lipstick?” Mom asks, reaching out her hand.

“I don't have it anymore,” I tell her.

“Mandy,” Mom says in her warning voice. “Don't lie to me.”

“I'm not lying!” I promise. “I don't have it ­anymore—Natalie does.”

“Why?”

“Because she liked it,” I answer. “And you said I should be flattered when someone likes what I'm wearing, remember? So I gave it to her.”

“That was pretty nice of you,” Mom says. “Only, it was
my
lipstick, remember?”

“But you never even wore it,” I remind her. “And red lipstick should always be worn by somebody, because it is beautiful.”

Mom smiles at me a little bit then. “Next time just ask me first. I may have given you the tube to use for Halloween. You're right, I don't really like red lipstick.”

“Well, that's perfect, because I love it,” I say. “You can give me all of your red lipsticks from now on.” I grab Mom's hand, and we walk out the front door of the school together. I click-clack my heels against the sidewalk and feel my glittery scarf blow in the breeze.

“Just a second.” I drop Mom's hand and reach into my pink handbag, and I pull out my fancy-dancy sunglasses and stick them on my nose. “Okay, ready.” I take Mom's hand again and squeeze it tightly as we walk to the parking lot.

Because sometimes, having Mom all to myself is my favorite accessory of all.

Mandy's Lessons:

1. NEVER TRUST A COPYCAT.

2. BE VERY CAREFUL WITH BOYS AND HANDBAGS.

3. CONTESTS ARE ONLY FUN WHEN YOU WIN THEM.

4. YOU CANNOT PLAY HIDE-AND-SEEK IF NO ONE IS LOOKING FOR YOU.

5. THE BEST WAY TO CLEAN UP A MESS IS TO MOVE IT TO ANOTHER ROOM.

6. A NEW OUTFIT IS GOOD, BUT A NEW PAIR OF SHOES IS BETTER.

7. DON'T HIT YOUR PRINCIPAL IN THE HEAD, EVEN BY ACCIDENT.

8. IT IS HARD TO WRITE AN APOLOGY NOTE IF YOU ARE NOT SORRY.

9. BEING SENT TO THE PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE IS NOT ALWAYS A TRAGEDY.

10. NEVER WEAR RED LIPSTICK ON PICTURE DAY.

DON'T MISS MANDY'S NEXT ADVENTURE,

Pizza is the Best Breakfast

(AND OTHER LESSONS I'VE LEARNED) !

IT IS NOT MY FAULT THAT
there is chocolate pudding in Timmy's hair.

Mom says that it
is
my fault, of course. She thinks that just because I pulled the pudding cup away from Timmy, and it squirted on his face when I squeezed it, that this whole chocolate pudding thing is my problem.

But I promise that it is not.

“You said I cannot eat pudding for breakfast,” I tell Mom, still holding the almost-empty ­pudding cup in my hand. She lifts Timmy onto the counter to sit and begins running a wet paper towel down his bangs.

“You can't,” Mom answers.

“But Timmy was,” I point out. “And that is not allowed.”

“You're right, that's not allowed,” Mom says. “But you had no business grabbing the cup away from him like that. You should've just told me.”

“Then you would have called me a tattletale,” I tell her, which I think is a pretty good point.

Mom sighs an enormous gust of breath—so enormous that the tippy-top of Timmy's hair blows a little from her nose wind.

“Timmy should not have been eating pudding for breakfast—do you hear that, Timmy?” Mom lifts his chin up to face her, and he nods, even though he is still licking chocolate from his lips. “But, Mandy, you did not have to intervene. Next time—and there better not be a next time, Timmy—just come get me.”

“So I should tattletale.”

“Mandy,” Mom says with a warning in her voice. “Enough.”

When Mom's back is turned, I stick my longest finger inside the pudding cup and swoop up the last bite. Then I drop the cup onto the counter, because I am not cleaning up a three-year-old's trash. No way!

“Mandy eat pudding,” I hear Timmy call then, and I whirl around on my heel to face him. He is pointing at me as Mom wrings his hair into wet tangles. “Mandy eat pudding too. I saw.”

“Worry about yourself, Timmy,” Mom says. “And, Mandy, throw that pudding cup away for me, please.” I pick the cup back up and stomp toward the trash can, and I wiggle my finger through the pudding one more time, just to swipe up the last of it, before I toss it in the garbage.

“You're welcome, Timmy,” I call, and he does not even say thank you for throwing out his trash, which I think is rude. I am pretty sure that if Timmy had to throw out my trash after I ate pudding for breakfast, I would have had to say thank you, so I stick my tongue out at him.

“Okay, I think it's all out now,” Mom says, and she grunts as she hoists Timmy off the counter. But I think she should have left the pudding in his hair, because then at least the front of it would have been brown like mine. Not that I would like to look like Timmy, but I also do not like that he gets to have blond hair and I do not. At least the pudding would have made things even.

“You're going to be late for your bus, Mand,” Mom says as she rinses her hands in the sink.

“Mandy,” I correct her.

“I know your name, silly,” Mom says. “Mand is just short for Mandy. It's affectionate.”

“I do not like it,” I tell her.

“I thought you didn't like Amanda.”

“I do not like that, either,” I say. “I like Mandy. With a
y
. The
y
is the best part.”

“You have a lot of rules, you know that?” Mom says, and she kisses the top of my head. ­“Skedaddle. Your bus will be here in two minutes. Remember your jacket. And be careful of the twins on your way out, please.”

I trot out of the kitchen and Timmy calls, “Bye, Mandy!” after me, but I do not answer him. The twins are lying on the living room carpet like blobs, looking at mobiles. I hold my nose as I step over them, because one of them always seems to stink like a dirty diaper.

I grab my book bag and open the front door before I remember.

“When is Paige coming?” I call to Mom.

“Tonight,” she yells back.

“But what time?” Paige is my favorite cousin in the whole world, and I haven't seen her since last Christmas, which I think is way too long.

“After dinner. Grandmom is going to pick her up at Uncle Rich's house this afternoon,” Mom tells me.

“And she is going to sleep in my room, right?” I ask. “Like a slumber party?”

“That's the plan,” Mom answers.

“Wahoo!” I open the front door all the way and then slam it behind me, dragging my book bag along the ground as I gallop like a pony toward the bus stop.

Because if there is one thing that puts me in an excellent mood, it is Paige, because Paige is fabulous. That is her favorite word—“fabulous”—which is perfect because that is exactly what she is. Paige looks like a princess with very, very curly hair and real pierced ears, and her lips are so pink that she always looks like she is wearing lipstick, even though she is not. Plus, Paige does not have any brothers or sisters, which is what I would like to have, except that sometimes I like to pretend that Paige is my sister. She would be a much better sister to have than the twin, because even though Paige is already ten years old, she never cares that I am only eight. Because I am her favorite cousin too, just like she is mine.

And favorite cousins are absolutely the best kind to have visit you.

“Psst.”
I lean up against my desk and hiss at Dennis. “
Psst
, Freckle Face.” I tap on the edge of his desk, which is now directly across from mine. He used to be in the row behind me, but Mrs. Spangle moved him next to me last week as a way to make sure that we get along more than we argue with each other.

I do not think this plan is working so well.

“What?” Dennis runs his hand over the top of his Mohawk. We are supposed to be creating maps of our neighborhoods with construction paper, but Dennis doesn't seem to be doing much more than petting his own hair.

Actually, I have always wondered what the top of a Mohawk would feel like, if I am being honest.

“Are you done?” I point to his paper, which looks even worse than the artwork Timmy makes in preschool.

“Yeah.”

“Can I use your glue stick?” I whisper. “Mine ran out.” I screw up the bottom of the stick all the way so Dennis can see that it's empty.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so, Polka Dot,” Dennis says.

“But it's right there.” I point to his glue stick, which is lying next to scraps of multicolored construction paper. “You didn't even put the cap on. It's going to dry up if you don't let me use it.”

“Too bad for you,” Dennis says, and he thumps his head on his desk and pretends to nap. I look toward Mrs. Spangle's desk, and she has her own head buried in her bottom drawer, digging through her handbag. I peer over the side of ­Dennis's desk until I can see his face, and he has his eyes closed, ignoring me.

So I reach very slowly behind his head, and I lift his glue stick with the very tips of my ­fingers. Careful not to create any breeze near his Mohawk, I pull my arm back as gently as ­possible. Success! I pump a silent fist in the air, still clutching ­Dennis's glue stick, and that's when I see Natalie staring at me.

I pull my other hand across my mouth and then stretch my lips tight, as if I had just zipped them closed, and Natalie nods to show that she understands she shouldn't say one thing. Natalie is almost like a real friend ever since she helped me hide Mom's red lipstick on Picture Day. Not like a
best
friend, like Anya is, but she is okay sometimes.

I use Dennis's glue stick to finish putting together my map, and I think about returning it to his desktop before he notices. But Dennis didn't even let me use his glue stick in the first place, so I don't think he deserves to have it back, at least not yet. I grab the cap from where it is resting just above his Mohawk, place it on the stick, and put it in my own desk. Then I place my empty stick behind Dennis's head.

“I like how nicely you've all been working on your maps,” Mrs. Spangle says, standing up from her desk. “Anything you don't have completed can be wrapped up after recess—you'll all have five minutes to finish. Right now, though, let me see whose group is ready to line up for lunch.”

I fold my hands neatly on my desk and sit up super-duper straight, just like Natalie always does. Dennis still has his head resting on his desk, and he is going to ruin it for our whole team. “
Psst
, Freckle Face.” I try to kick him under our desks, but I can't reach. “Wake up.”

“I am up,” Dennis says, but he still does not lift his head, which means Mrs. Spangle is never going to call us to line up first. I stop sitting super-duper straight, since Dennis is wrecking it for our whole group anyway, and instead, I dig through my desk until I find my sticker book. Anya and I, and sometimes Natalie, have been collecting stickers and trading them, but mine are some of the prettiest, I think. My favorite kinds of stickers are filled with gel, and when you press them, the gel spreads out and looks glittery. I even traded most of my Rainbow Sparkle stickers for Anya's gel ones, because that is how much I love them.

“Mandy and Dennis, I'll wait,” Mrs. Spangle says, so I place my sticker book on my lap and fold my hands again on top of my desk. Dennis places his chin on his hands but still doesn't lift his head.

“Sit up!” I whisper-yell at him, and he does, but not even super-duper straight like he is supposed to.

“Okay, Mandy's group,” Mrs. Spangle finally announces. “You can grab your things from the cubbies and get in line.” I stand and hold my sticker book up in Anya's direction to make sure she has hers too, and she nods at me. And then I scramble to grab my lunch box and get in line as quickly as I can so I won't be all the way in the back, because Dennis always likes to be the caboose. And there is no way I want Dennis to ruin my appetite today.

“Why'd you steal Dennis's glue stick?” Natalie asks me when we reach our table in the cafeteria.

“I didn't steal it, I took it,” I explain.

“Isn't that the same thing?”

I think about this for one second. “No, because if I stole it, I can never give it back, like when ­Dennis stole my gummy bears and ate them all. If I took it, I can give it back. I just don't want to yet.”

Natalie nods like this makes sense, and I am a very good explainer, I think.

I whip my sticker book onto the table and open to the center page, which has all my favorite gel stickers in a row. “Aren't they beautiful?” I ask.

“They are,” Natalie agrees. “My mom said she would take me to the teacher store and look for more stickers this weekend.” Teacher stores are one of the best places for getting stickers, because teachers like to buy them almost as much as we do. I have never been to a teacher store, even though I have wanted to go to one my whole entire life. Mom says we do not have to go there because no one in our house is a teacher, but Mom doesn't understand important things like sticker collecting.

“I wonder if Paige has any stickers she would trade,” I begin. “Did I tell you she is coming tonight?”

“Only like a thousand times,” Anya answers. “I know, you're excited.”

“Who's Paige?” Natalie asks.

“Her cousin,” Anya answers for me. “Her
favorite
cousin.” She drags out the word “favorite” as she says it and wiggles her head back and forth.

“Why is she your favorite?” Natalie asks.

“Because she is fabulous. That is Paige's ­favorite word, you know—‘fabulous.' And that's what she is.”