“What?” Natalie stops laughing for only one second.
“Polka-dot underwear,” I whisper this part, too, so that Freckle Face Dennis cannot hear, because he is not part of the joke.
“I will. Thank you, Mandy,” Natalie says. “I feel much better now.”
“And no throw up on my dress, right?”
“Nope, I promise,” she says.
We get in line to go to our big Presidential Pageant, and I am happy to stand next to Natalie even though she is not Anya. I do not care anymore that Natalie gets to be George Washington and to wear that big fluffy wig, because I am the narrator, and that is a very important part.
Plus, that wig is white, and white things do not go with polka dots.
. . .
When my classmates and I take the stage, they are all dressed up in costumes to look like their presidents, but I am the only one who gets to wear a brand-new periwinkle dress. I take my seat in the line of chairs across the stage, and I sit in the first one because I get to speak earliest.
Because Mrs. Spangle is right: The narrator is the thread that holds the quilt together.
Mrs. Spangle thanks all the parents for coming, and I do not pay much attention, if I am being honest. Because I want to get to the microphone and do my part right away. Finally I hear the parents applauding, and Mrs. Spangle looks at me so I know it is my turn.
I approach the microphone but do not put my mouth on it, just like Mrs. Spangle said. I take a deep breath, and I begin.
In my grandest, loudest, most expressive voice, I say, “Four score and seven years ago . . .”
The audience smiles huge grins at me, and I see Mom and Dad smiling the biggest. I finish my first part, and Natalie steps up to the microphone behind me.
“Remember to exclaim,” I whisper in her ear as I go back to my seat. And even though Natalie does not let out one “Wahoo!” she is pretty good at being George Washington because she is very serious. And I guess George Washington really was a serious president, so maybe it is a good fit.
Plus, if I were George Washington, I would not have gotten my new periwinkle dress, which is my new favorite dress in the whole world, so the narrator is the perfect part for me. It looks like Mrs. Spangle was right all along, even if she is pretty old (and I will not talk about her being one hundred years old anymore, I’ve decided).
Dennis walks up to the microphone in his Teddy Roosevelt vest and mustache, and he even combed his hair out of his Mohawk. “Nature is the place—” he begins in a loud, booming voice, and his mustache flies off of his lip, flutters through the air, and drops off the stage. Dennis does not keep speaking because he is shocked, I think.
“Nature is the place . . . ,” Mrs. Spangle coaches him from the side of the stage, but Dennis stays silent. He is going to ruin our Presidential Pageant because he has a lost mustache.
Before Mrs. Spangle can tell me not to, I pop up from my seat real fast, run down the steps on the side of the stage, and pick Dennis’s mustache up from the first row. Fast as a cat, I am back on stage by the microphone, and I hand Dennis his mustache.
And he looks pretty surprised, actually.
“Here, Freckle Face,” I whisper, standing far away from the microphone so that no one else will hear.
“Thanks, Mandy,” Dennis answers, and I cannot believe that he called me my real name and not “Polka Dot.” He takes the mustache from my hand and sticks it back on his lip, and he holds it there the whole time as he finishes his Teddy Roosevelt part. The audience gives him a big round of applause when he is finished, even though I am the one who saved his mustache.
Each time I get up to speak, I am better and better, if I do say so myself. But the rest of my class is pretty good too. When our show is over, we stand at the front of the stage and hold hands in a long line. We bow one time and then another, and the audience claps and claps, and I have never been so happy in my life.
“You made a great narrator, Mandy,” Natalie says to me as we walk down the stairs on the side of the stage. And I thank her like I really mean it.
“You were a pretty good George Washington too,” I tell her, and I am not just being polite. “Maybe sometime I could try on your wig?” I think she could let me try it on since I taught her how to not throw up and all.
“You could come over to my house this weekend?” Natalie suggests, and I say this is a good idea. Because I think getting to wear a George Washington wig is worth going over to Natalie’s house.
“Do you like Rainbow Sparkle’s TV show?” I ask her.
“I’ve never seen it.” Natalie looks down at the floor. “My mom doesn’t let me watch TV.”
“That is a tragedy,” I tell her. “Only not really, because—ta-da!—you will come over my house and we will watch Rainbow Sparkle together. Just make sure you bring your wig.” And Natalie grins so much when I say this that I think her face might explode like a bubblegum bubble.
“Maybe you could try on my George Washington wig and my glasses at the same time,” Natalie suggests, and I tell her that this is the best idea I have heard all day.
“Mandy!” I hear someone call behind me in a voice that sounds like Mom’s. But she never, ever calls me “Mandy” so I am super-duper confused.
When I turn around, Mom and Dad almost walk right into me, and they are smiling as big as Natalie.
“You were amazing, Mandy,” Mom says. “The best narrator I’ve ever seen.”
“Hey, you called me ’Mandy’!” I say this with a lot of exclaim because it is the new best thing I’ve heard all day.
“If that’s what you like, that’s your name,” Mom says, and she is being a good listener. First the dress, then the headband, now my name, so I give her a big hug.
“I’m so proud of all your hard work,” Dad says. “That was a lot of speaking you had to do.”
I agree that it was, and my parents take my picture on the stage by the microphone so I can always remember the time that I was the best narrator ever.
“Nice job, Polka Dot,” Dennis says to me, almost like he is a nice person. “Thank you for helping with my mustache.”
“No problem, Freckle Face,” I say, and Dennis does not even stick his tongue out at me then. This might be the first time that I do not think Dennis is horrible.
Anya gives me a squishy hug, because she is wearing a pillow to look round like President Taft, and it is just about the best hug ever. I wave good-bye to Natalie, and she points to her wig and gives me a thumbs-up.
Natalie is maybe not so boring, I think.
“I knew you would make a great narrator, Mandy,” Mrs. Spangle tells me. “No one reads with expression like you.” Mom wants to take my picture with Mrs. Spangle, so my teacher leans down low so I can throw my arm over her shoulders. I smile real wide, because I am in my periwinkle dress and because I am not angry with Mrs. Spangle for not making me George Washington anymore. She may even be one of my favorite people in the world, at least most of the time.
After we leave, Mom and Dad take me to have ice cream all by myself, with no Timmy and no twins. I can barely lick the scoops into my mouth because I am grinning so much.
“Wahoo!” I call out when I am in the middle of my ice-cream cone, because sometimes a “wahoo” is just needed.
“So what was the best part of your day, Mandy?” Mom asks, and I think real hard because it is a very important question.
“I have three,” I finally answer. “My new beautiful periwinkle dress, me being the best narrator ever, and this.”
“The ice cream?” Dad asks.
“No,” I say. “This.” I circle my hand around the three of us because I am glad we are together.
And I am glad Timmy and the twins are not here, but that would not sound nice, so I do not say it out loud.
“Me too,” Mom says.
“And me three,” Dad says. “By the way, I have something for you.” And I cannot believe he spent all this time having a present and not giving it to me.
/>
“Mandy’s very own gummy bears,” Dad says, and he hands me the most gigantic bag of bears I have ever seen. “All for you, as long as you promise not to hide them in your room. Deal?”
“Deal!” I answer, even though I cannot absolutely promise that, because sometimes a gummy bear hiding place is just needed.
“How about,” Mom says, “you do your narrator part for Grandmom and Timmy when we get home? I’m sure they would love to hear it.”
“Only if I get to play all the parts,” I say. “All of them.”
“You got it.” Dad laughs at me. “You still want to be president, huh?”
I nod real fast. Because I want to be in charge like the presidents, of course, but that is not the real reason.
The real reason is that I want to be the first president ever to wear a periwinkle dress, a Rainbow Sparkle headband, and a pair of polka-dot underwear.
Mandy’s Lessons:
1. DON’T WEAR POLKA-DOT UNDERWEAR WITH WHITE PANTS.
2. ALWAYS HAVE A BAG OF GUMMY BEARS AVAILABLE.
3. NEVER SQUEEZE CATERPILLARS LIKE GUMMY BEARS.
4. SUGAR DOES NOT BELONG IN HAIR, EVEN IF GEORGE WASHINGTON DID IT.
5. DON’T SAY YOU CAN DO A CARTWHEEL IF YOU CAN’T.
6. DUMBBELLS ARE HEAVY. AND ALSO DUMB.
7. BABIES HAVE NO SENSE OF HUMOR.
8. IT’S NOT NICE TO TAKE YOUR NEIGHBORS’ KEYS WITHOUT ASKING.
9. TEACHERS DON’T LIKE TO BE CALLED “OLD.”
10. NOT EVERYBODY GETS TO BE PRESIDENT.
READ ON FOR MANDY’S NEXT ADVENTURE!
The Pizza Problem
THE CENTER OF OUR PIZZA pie is missing because Dad is no good at giving directions.
The best part of a pizza slice is the first bite because the point is skinny and it is mouth-size and it never has any crust. Crust is useless because it has no cheese. I always try to make my brother Timmy eat my crust so that he will give me his first bite points. Mom says this is not allowed, but Dad does not because he is no good at giving directions.
Dad is also not a very good babysitter, if I am being honest. If he were, he would have said, Mandy, do not touch the pizza until I come back. Instead, Dad left me alone in the kitchen with the big, steamy pizza pie box, and he ran off to the twins’ room.
One of the twins had started crying, because the twins are always crying, and I knew waiting for Dad to give me a slice could take all night. So I opened the pizza box, lifted the slices one by one, and bit off each delicious point before plopping the rest of the slice back in the box.
It was the best pizza pie I have ever had.
Only Dad does not think so, because when he comes back into the kitchen with a crying twin and sees the center of the pizza missing, his face turns as red as a tomato. He looks over at me slowly, so I cross my arms and stomp my foot and yell, “I had no dinner!” before he can say one word.
Dad turns away from me, digs through the twins’ diaper bag, and walks back toward the twins’ room with a package of wipes in his hand.
“Follow me,” he calls over his shoulder. I keep my arms crossed and drag my heels on the kitchen floor.
“I had no dinner!” I repeat when we get to the twins’ doorway.
“You need to learn to be patient, Mandy,” Dad says. “Even Timmy did not take bites out of all of the pizza slices, and he’s only three. You’re eight—you should know better.” And this makes me angry because I know I am better than Timmy, which is why Timmy is hungry right now and I am not.
“You are a bad babysitter,” I inform Dad. “I am going to tell Mom on you.” Dad laughs, which I think is rude.
“And what are you going to tell her?” Dad asks. He begins changing the diaper of one of the twins, which is smelly and awful, so I hold my nose shut.
“Yow dow nawt ghive guwd dewektons,” I answer.
“What?”
“Yow dow nawt ghive guwd dewektons,” I repeat.
“I can’t understand you when you’re holding your nose,” Dad says.
I whip my hand away from my face and yell, “YOU DO NOT GIVE GOOD DIRECTIONS!” real fast, and I guess I say it pretty loud, because the twin starts to cry again.
“Mandy,” Dad begins in his “This is your warning” voice. “I think you should come here and help me change Samantha’s diaper.”
“No, thank you,” I answer, and I am polite and everything.
“It’s not a choice, Amanda,” Dad says, and I know that he means business. Dad only calls me “Amanda” when I am about to be in trouble, because he knows that I hate it.
I sigh a big puff of breath and shuffle over to the twins’ changing table. I put one hand over my nose and my other hand over the twin’s mouth and say, “Stop crying,” which I think is pretty helpful.
“Mandy, no!” Dad pulls my hand away from the twin. “You can’t cover her mouth like that—she won’t be able to breathe.”
“Then what do you want me to do?” I stomp my foot again. I would like to go up to my room and be in trouble by myself, but I stay put because I do not want to make Dad call me “Amanda” again.
“Here.” Dad fastens the twin’s new diaper and picks her up under the armpits. “Play with Samantha until I finish changing Cody. See if you can get her to stop crying.”
I stare at Dad over the hand that is still covering my nose. I never, ever hold the twins because they are damp and gross and no fun at all. Dad looks back at me, neither of us moving, and the twin continues to howl.
“Amanda,” Dad says, “either you play with Samantha right now or no Rainbow Sparkle TV show for—”
“Fine.” I whip my hand away from my nose and reach out for the twin, because I am not having Rainbow Sparkle taken away from me again. No way! I wrap my arms around the twin like she is a pile of dirty clothes, and I sit on the floor.
“Here is a deal,” I say to her. “You will stop crying right now, and I will tell you the secret about pizza.” I lay the twin on the floor because I do not like damp things in my hands, and she almost starts being quiet.
“See? Your sister likes when you talk to her,” Dad says as he spreads the other twin out on the changing table. But I do not answer him because I do not care what the twins like.
“The secret about pizza is that the points are the best part. The crust is the worst, because there is no cheese, but the best part is the first bite of a slice. And also, the best color in the whole world is periwinkle.” I look up at Dad. “Am I done?” The twin is not crying anymore, so it only seems fair.
“No, now play with Cody while I—”
“Anybody home?” Mom calls from the living room. I dart out of the twins’ room and run to her so I can tattle on Dad. She and Grandmom are piling shopping bags on our couch.
“Abracadabra!” Timmy runs down the stairs and leaps over the last three steps, landing with a thud next to the front door.
“Timmy!” Mom yells as he picks himself up. “What did I tell you about jumping off of the stairs? You’re going to break a bone.”
“Sorry,” Timmy answers, and he tries to climb Grandmom like a jungle gym until she scoops him into her arms. He gives her a slobbery kiss.
“Yuck,” I call.
“Hi, Mandy,” Grandmom greets me as Timmy slinks down her body like a snake.
“Did you get me gummy bears?” I ask. Grandmoms are the best people for giving gummy bears because moms and dads usually say no.
“Not even a hello first?” Grandmom asks. “Come give me some sugar.” Grandmom says to “give her sugar” when she wants a kiss, which is pretty silly, I think. Even if I am the sweetest person in my family, I would be sweeter if I had gummy bears first.
I kiss Grandmom on the lips, and I am not as slobbery as Timmy about it. “How about those bears?” I ask again.
“Not today,” Grandmom says. “Maybe next time.” But next time is not helpful at all when I want gummy bears now.
“Well, how about my fancy-dancy periwinkle sunglasses?” I
ask. I have wanted fancy-dancy periwinkle sunglasses for my whole entire life and still do not have any, so every time Mom and Grandmom go shopping, I ask them to buy me a pair.
“Mandy,” Mom says, “no more B-R-A-T behavior, please.”
“Why are we spelling?” Grandmom whispers to Mom, like she thinks I cannot hear anything.
“Because Timmy is a brat,” I answer.
“Brat!” Timmy repeats, and he looks pretty proud of himself.
Mom rolls her eyes up to the ceiling and looks at Grandmom. “That’s why.” She points to Timmy. “And, Mandy, don’t call your brother a B-R-A-T.”
“But—,” I begin, but Mom interrupts me because she is never a good listener about my problems.
“Help me carry these bags of change into the laundry room, please,” she says, picking up a pillowcase, which clinks and clanks as she swings it back and forth.
“Why do you have bags of change?” I ask.
“Your mom’s taking them to the bank to put them in the magic coin machine for me,” Grandmom explains. “It will turn the coins into dollar bills.”
“It’s magic?” Timmy asks excitedly.
“No, stupid,” I say, even though I am not completely sure.
“Mandy!” Mom yells from the laundry room. “No S-T-U-P-I-D talk either.”
“When you get the dollars, are you going to buy me my fancy-dancy periwinkle sunglasses?” I ask Grandmom.
“We’ll see,” Grandmom answers, which means “no” in grown-up talk. “I think you would enjoy those sunglasses even more if you bought them yourself. Don’t you think?”
“I have no dollars,” I answer, because that is the truth.
“You get an allowance, don’t you?”
“Yes, but that is only two quarters,” I explain. “No dollars.”
“Then save up your quarters until you can take them to the magic coin machine and exchange them for dollars,” Grandmom suggests. “When you have enough, you can buy the fancy-dancy sunglasses yourself.”
“Periwinkle,” I add.
Don't Wear Polka-Dot Underwear with White Pants: (And Other Lessons I've Learned) Page 6
