Pizza Is the Best Breakfast (3 page)

“My pajamas are pink,” Paige interrupts me, pulling a pink pair of leggings and a huge pink sweatshirt out of her bag. “And they're fabulous.” She stands up and changes into them right in front of me, in her underwear and everything, as
if she really were my sister. I pop off of my bed and over to my dresser, and I root around in my pajama drawer. Maybe Mom saved some of my old pink nightgowns that I told her to throw out because I do not wear pink things. I dig all the way to the bottom of the drawer, and I find blue and purple and yellow and red and green pajamas, but nothing pink.

“I don't have any pink pajamas.” I turn around to face Paige. “Can't you wear something else?”

“These are all I brought,” she says. “But don't worry, it's not a big deal.”

“Well, what should I wear?” I ask her. “You can pick.”

Paige shrugs. “It really doesn't matter to me,” and I do not understand why she does not care, because I think it is a very important question. I choose my nightgown with palm trees on it and throw it on top of my bed, then
I step onto Paige's mattress to start bouncing.

“So did you bring any of your Rainbow Sparkle stuff with you?” I ask her.

“I don't really like Rainbow Sparkle anymore,” Paige says. “And can you stop bouncing on my bed? It's making me nauseous.”

“But it's like a trampoline,” I explain, still bouncing. “And why don't you like Rainbow Sparkle anymore? She is my favorite cartoon cat ever.”

“I watch other stuff now,” Paige says, and she runs her fingers through her hair, turning the waves round and round into loose curls.

“Do you want to play hairdresser?” I ask her. “I will do your hair, and then you can do mine, and then—”

“Nah,” Paige interrupts me again. “I don't really like other people touching my hair.” And this is terrible news, because I would definitely
like to see what Paige's curls feel like. But before I can answer her, Timmy bursts through my bedroom door, even though there is a sign on it with a big X through his name and everything.

“Come on, Paige!” he says, padding into my room in his fire-truck pajamas to grab Paige's hand. Paige reaches out and takes it.

“Oh, so I told Timmy I would sleep in his room tonight,” Paige turns over her shoulder to tell me as Timmy drags her toward the door. “Good night, Manda. We can pretend to be twins tomorrow.”

Paige and Timmy disappear from my room, and I am left all by myself standing on the mattress, which doesn't even feel much like a trampoline anymore. And I didn't even get to tell Paige that we could never be twins, and not just because I don't like twins.

We could never be twins because Paige has
wavy blond hair and I have straight brown hair, and Paige hates Rainbow Sparkle and I love her, and Paige left me for Timmy, when I was supposed to be her favorite cousin.

And also, I saw Paige's underwear, and it's not even polka dot.

I WAKE UP SUPER-DUPER EARLY
on Saturday morning, and Timmy's bedroom door is closed, which makes me happy, because I do not feel like seeing his or Paige's face yet. I pad down the stairs and into the living room. All of the lights in the house are still off because no one is awake but me, and it is kind of spooky, like a haunted house. I feel a shiver run down my back, and I scurry through the living room quickly, just in case a ghost is chasing me in the dark. When I
reach the kitchen, I turn on each and every light so it won't be so scary in here.

“You can't get me now, ghosts,” I say out loud, because even though I am not a fraidy cat, I am still a little bit scared of ghosts, if I am being honest. That is because every Halloween, our neighbors, the Packles, turn their entire front porch into a ghost town, and I am never sure where the ghosts go for the rest of the year. Our house is right next door, after all—they might get confused and move in here.

I asked Anya once if she thought there were any ghosts from the Packles' trespassing in my house, and she said probably not, but I like to keep the lights on downstairs just in case. Because everyone knows that ghosts hate bright things.

I slide my feet across the kitchen floor to the refrigerator, and I open the door and peer in. Milk
and apples and baby tomatoes are right in front of me, but that is not what I would like for breakfast. I glance all around the refrigerator until I spot them: the chocolate pudding cups hiding on the top shelf. Mom must have moved them yesterday so that Timmy wouldn't be able to reach them anymore, but I am much taller than Timmy, so if I stand on the bottom shelf, I can touch a cup with my fingertips. I step onto the shelf, gripping the edge with my toes, and I stretch my arm as far back as it will go toward the top right corner of the refrigerator. My fingertips tickle the pudding containers, and I scrape my nails against one trying to drag it closer to me.

“And what do you think you're doing?” Dad's voice comes from behind me, and I am so startled that I almost fall backward out of the refrigerator. I hold on to the side of the door to steady myself and then whip around. Dad is
standing there holding a twin, and he is smiling in the corners of his mouth, so I am pretty sure I'm not in trouble.

“Getting breakfast,” I tell him honestly, and I do not mention that I thought he was a ghost, because that will make me sound like a fraidy cat. I also do not say that I was going to eat pudding for breakfast, because Dad doesn't need to know all of my business.

“If you can wait for everyone else to wake up, I was planning on making pancakes. In fact, if you entertain Cody for a bit, I can get started on them now, and you can have the very first pancake,” Dad says.

“The first pancake is the worst,” I say, because that is the truth. The first pancake of the batch is always burned and lumpy because the pan is not warmed up yet. Pancake breakfasts are the one and only time that I let Timmy be first at anything,
because he does not know the problem with first pancakes yet.

“Fine, the second pancake,” Dad says. “What do you say?”

I think about this idea very carefully, because my stomach is grumbly and growly, so I would definitely like to eat pancakes soon. But I also do not want to hold the twin, because the twins are always damp and crying and no fun at all.

“Do I have to hold the twin?” I ask.

“Cody,” Dad says. “They do have names, you know, Mandy. And no, I can put him in his chair, but you need to keep him occupied.”

“Fine.” I nod my head. Dad straps the twin into his baby seat on the kitchen table, and I sit down across from him. I cross my arms and lean all the way back, just to make sure none of the twin's drool can reach me.

“Here is a secret,” I say. “The first pancake of
the batch is always the worst. It is burned and it is lumpy and it is best to make Timmy eat it. Also, the best kinds of gummy bears are the red ones, but if you ever touch my gummy bears, you will be in major trouble. And the best bite of a pizza slice is the first one, right on the tip of the triangle, because it has the most cheese, so you should always give those bites to me. Oh, and the best color is periwinkle.” The twin stares back at me as I tell him all of these important things, and he is being quiet for once. This twin has brown eyes that look a little bit like mine and tufts of brown hair growing out of his head.

He might not be too bad-looking if he weren't so damp all the time.

“I am out of things to say.” I turn around in my seat and face Dad, and he has pulled all of the ingredients to make pancakes out onto the counter.

“I find that hard to believe,” Dad tells me. “Pretend you're talking to Anya. Cody just likes the sound of your voice.”

I squish my eyebrows together and think about what I would say to Anya, and then I begin. “Paige is a big traitor. She slept in Timmy's room instead of mine, and that should not be allowed. Because she is supposed to be
my
favorite cousin.”

“Is that true?” Dad interrupts my conversation with the twin, and I nod my head.

“She did not even lie down for one second on the bouncy mattress,” I tell him.

“I bet she was just trying to be fair to Timmy,” Dad says. “I'm sure she'll sleep in your room tonight.”

“I do not even want her to,” I say. “I want Anya to sleep over instead.” And I pause for a moment because that is the best idea I have ever had. “Can Anya come over?”

“You'll have to ask your mother,” Dad says. “But I don't think you should have a sleepover. There are already enough people in this house this weekend. Maybe Anya can come just for a playdate.” Dad pours the first ladle of pancake batter into the frying pan, and it begins to wheeze and hiss.

And I almost hope Paige wakes up soon, because I know just the pancake that I will offer her for breakfast.

*  *  *

Mom says it is okay for Anya to come over and play, so I call her as soon as it is late enough and ask her if she would like to. Her mom drops her off at my house right after breakfast, and I run out the front door to greet her before she is all the way to our stoop.

“Let's go, let's go, hurry!” I grab her by the wrist and pull her into my house and up the stairs.

“Where are we going so fast?” Anya asks, but I do not answer her until we are all the way in my room with the door closed.

“We are playing by ourselves,” I explain to her. “No Timmy, no twins, and no Paige.”

“I thought you loved Paige,” Anya says.

“Not anymore,” I say. “She slept in Timmy's room last night instead of mine, and then she talked to the twins all during breakfast, and she didn't even say thank you when I gave her the first pancake.”

“Blech, but the first pancake is the worst,” Anya says, and this is why she is my favorite person in the world, at least most of the time: because Anya understands all of the rules about pancakes and pizza and gummy bears.

“That is why I gave it to her,” I say. “Because she is the worst. But she did not even notice because she was too busy playing This Little Piggy on the
twins' feet. And everyone knows the twins' feet are gross.”

“All feet are gross,” Anya agrees. “Unless you have painted toenails, then they're okay.” And my eyes grow wide then, because Anya has given me another great idea.

“We should paint our nails,” I tell her. “And paint them all the same color, like we are sisters.”

Anya nods her head up and down ferociously until her wispy curls are almost covering her eyes. Anya's hair is a little bit wavy too, but it has more curls than Paige's, and because I like Anya better than Paige right now, I think hers is prettier.

I kneel on the floor and then place my entire head under my bed until I find what I'm looking for: three bottles of nail polish that Mom doesn't know are missing from her bathroom. I line the bottles up in front of Anya.

“You pick the color,” I say, and Anya looks at them each very carefully.

“This one.” She points to a dark purple color that looks almost like a plum, and I am so glad that she did not pick the pink polish that I could hug her.

“That's what I would have picked too,” I tell her. “Because it is the closest one to periwinkle. Do you want to do my feet, and I'll paint yours?”

“Definitely,” Anya says, and she pulls off her shoes and socks and spreads her ten toes out in front of me.

“One second.” I leap up from the floor and pull my entire comforter off of my bed. I toss it on top of the bouncy mattress in a heap, and then I pull my gummy bear bag out from under my pillow. “This mattress will help make a good Magic Mountain Wonderland.”

I sit on the side of the mountain, and Anya
scoots over toward the mattress and then throws her behind right in the middle of the comforter. The whole heap collapses, and it doesn't really look like a mountain anymore, but Anya and I are giggling too much about it to care. She lifts her right foot into my face so that her big toe is under my nostrils.

“I am ready for my beauty treatment,” she says.

“Then get your stinky toes out of my nose,” I say, batting at her foot like it is a fly, which makes Anya laugh more.

“Hey, that rhymed,” Anya tells me. “Stinky toes up your nose, stinky toes up your nose.” And now we are laughing so loudly that we don't even hear when my bedroom door opens and Paige waltzes in, without knocking or anything.

“Hi.” She walks right up to Anya. “I'm Manda's cousin, Paige.”

Anya glances at me with a question in her eyes.
“I'm Anya,
Mandy's
best friend,” Anya answers her, and she says the
y
part of my name super-duper loud.

“What are you two up to?” Paige asks.

“Doing our nails,” Anya answers her. “We're painting all of our finger and toenails the same color—all forty of them. Sister nails.”

“Ooh, can I join you?” Paige asks, and she starts to sit down on top of Magic Mountain Wonderland. Anya looks at me out of the corner of her eye, waiting for me to answer.