A Cast is the Perfect Accessory

by Allison Gutknecht; Stevie Lewis

  Contents

  1. THE PIZZA PROBLEM

  2. BUDDY BLUES

  3. BECOMING FAMOUS

  4. HAVE A NICE TRIP?

  5. JUNGLE JAM

  6. JUMP, JUMP, SPLAT!

  7. FOLLOWING THE LEADER

  8. BAD MOOD BERR

  9. BATHROOM BUDDIES

  10. BROKEN BONES

  "Don’t Miss Mandy’s First Adventure" Excerpt

  About Allison Gutknecht and Stevie Lewis

  For Babci,

  WHO UNDERSTOOD THE VALUE OF WISHING OVER PENNIES

  Special thanks to

  ALYSON HELLER FOR HER LIMITLESS ENTHUSIASM AND BUSHELS OF FANCY-DANCY IDEAS, AND TO CHARLIE OLSEN FOR HIS CONTINUAL SUPPORT AND GUIDANCE OF BOTH MANDY AND ME. ENDLESS APPRECIATION TO THE TEAMS AT ALADDIN AND INKWELL FOR HELPING TO PERFECT THE POLKA DOTS.

  CHAPTER 1

  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 then, 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 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.

&nbs
p; “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.

  “What?”

  “You forgot ‘periwinkle.’ They are fancy-dancy periwinkle sunglasses,” I explain.

  “Right,” Grandmom answers, and she pats me on the head like I am a dog. “Now come help your mother with these bags.”

  I sling a pillowcase over my shoulder, and it is very heavy. I lug it slowly to the laundry room.

  “Right there on the floor, next to the others,” Mom instructs, pointing. I dump the pillowcase on the floor with a crash, and this noise makes the twins start crying again.

  “Mandy, be careful!” Mom calls from the kitchen, and I stick my tongue out because she is not here to see. I hear Grandmom and Dad in the twins’ room trying to make them stop crying, so I sit on the floor of the laundry room because I do not want to talk to the twins again. I place my hands in one of the pillowcases and lift a humongous handful of coins in the air. I release them and let them sprinkle back into the pile, tinkling like raindrops.

  There must be thousands and millions of coins in these bags—more than enough to buy my fancy-dancy periwinkle sunglasses.

  “Tim, what happened to this pizza?” I hear Mom yell from the kitchen, and then I remember that I forgot to tell on Dad for being no good at giving directions.

  “Ask Mandy,” Dad calls back, so I leap to my feet real fast to close the laundry room door. I do not feel like talking about pizza points right now. Not when I have to figure out how to collect enough coins to buy my very own pair of fancy-dancy periwinkle sunglasses.

  And maybe my own pizza, too.

  CHAPTER 2

  Buddy Blues

  MRS. SPANGLE IS MUCH BETTER AT giving directions than Dad, but she is best at making up classroom rules. We have a list of eight rules hanging next to the board, and I think that is way too many. Mrs. Spangle’s newest rule is “No rocking on two chair legs,” and it is not one of my favorites.

  Sometimes it is necessary to rock my chair back on two legs because it is the only way I can talk to Anya. Anya is my favorite person in the world, at least most of the time, but her desk is behind me, so she is very hard to reach. I told Mrs. Spangle that I would not need to rock my chair back on two legs if she would just let Anya sit next to me, but she said, “Absolutely not.”

  Instead, I have to sit next to Natalie all marking period. Natalie is not as boring as she used to be, but she is still not very fun, either. Natalie never rocks her chair on two legs or calls out or breaks any of Mrs. Spangle’s rules.

  Luckily, though, Natalie is missing from school today, so I have a lot of room to spread out my things.

  “Psst,” I whisper to Anya, but she does not answer. I look over my shoulder to make sure Mrs. Spangle is not watching, then I lean my chair back on two legs so I can reach Anya’s shoulder. “Psst, Anya.” I pull gently on the end of one of her wispy blond curls.

  “What?” Anya is busy with her seatwork because she is not as fast as me. Mrs. Spangle says that if we finish our seatwork early, we should do some silent reading at our desk. But I am always finished early, so I get very tired of being quiet.

  “Natalie’s missing,” I tell her.

  “She’s probably sick,” Anya guesses, but she keeps working on her seatwork instead of paying good attention to me, which I think is rude.

  “Maybe she’s getting new glasses,” I whisper. “Maybe she’ll get a better color than those dull black—”

  “Mandy!” Mrs. Spangle’s voice startles me, and the front two legs of my chair fall back on the ground with a crash. Her red porcupine hair is wild as she whips her hand toward the CLASSROOM RULES sign and points to number eight.

  “What does this say?” she asks. But I do not answer because Mrs. Spangle already knows that I am an excellent reader.

  “We’re waiting, Mandy,” she continues. “Remind us all of our new classroom rule, please.” I pinch my mouth together and do not say one word.

  “Mandy . . .” Mrs. Spangle says my name slowly. “I’m going to count to three before you lose recess for the day. One . . .”

  But before Mrs. Spangle can count any higher, our classroom door opens, and Natalie walks in with the school nurse behind her.

  And Natalie is not boring at all right now because her right arm is wrapped in a cast. A cast! A real-life cast! I have always wanted to wear a cast—a pretty periwinkle one that I could draw pictures of Rainbow Sparkle all over. But Mom says I can only get one if I break a bone, and I am not very clumsy, I think.

  “What happened to your arm?” Dennis calls out to Natalie, and Mrs. Spangle does not even yell at him for breaking rule number four.

  “I broke my wrist,” Natalie answers, and she sounds pretty sad about it actually. And this is ridiculous, because if I broke my wrist, I would be the happiest I have ever been in my life. I would use a sling with glitter all over it so that everyone would know right away that I had a cast, and they would ask me how I broke a bone. And then I would get to tell them a fantastic story about what happened, which is really the best part of having a cast.

  “When did you break it?”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “How long do you have to wear the cast?”

  My class calls out questions to Natalie one right after another, and Mrs. Spangle does not even say anything about them not raising their hands (but she also forgets to give me a warning about the chair legs, so this is not a total tragedy).

  “That’s enough, everyone,” Mrs. Spangle says. “Natalie, let’s get you a classroom buddy to help you get settled, okay?” Natalie nods her head shyly and looks down at her cast. And I slouch way down in my seat so that Mrs. Spangle can’t see me, because I am absolutely positive that I do not want to be Natalie’s buddy. Natalie is very bossy, and she will think she is in charge of me, and I always like to be the one in charge.

  Mrs. Spangle glances across the room to Natalie’s desk, and I slide so far down in my chair that my bottom almost falls off it.

  “Mandy”—Mrs. Spangle’s eyes land on me anyway—“since you sit right next to Natalie, how about if you be her buddy for the week?” And I know that even though Mrs. Spangle is asking me a question, I am not allowed to say no, because she says it in her “I’m not asking, I’m telling” voice.

  I look from Mrs. Spangle to Natalie and back again, and I do not say one word.

  “Ahem.” Mrs. Spangle c
lears her throat at me. “Let’s get a move on, Mandy. Help Natalie put away her book bag, please.”

  I sigh very loudly then, but I pull myself up from my slouch and walk over to Natalie. I take her book bag from the nurse’s hands, and we walk to the cubbies.

  “Take out my homework folder,” Natalie whispers.

  “Please,” I remind her, because that is one of Mrs. Spangle’s rules that I am good at: “Be polite.”

  “Please,” Natalie says. “And put my lunch box on the top shelf.”

  I give Natalie my “You are driving me bananas” face and tap my toe against the ground, waiting.

  “Please,” Natalie finally adds. So I pull her lunch box out of her bag and hand it to her.

  “You can put it on the shelf yourself,” I tell her. “You have one perfectly good arm.”

  “Can you please just do it for me?” Natalie asks. “I’m sore.” So I squint my eyes at her and throw her lunch box onto the top shelf of her cubby.

  “How did you break your wrist?” I ask.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Natalie responds, which is not a good answer.

  I drop her book bag on the ground and cross my arms. “Tell me,” I demand. “I will not tell anyone else. I pinky swear.” But I do not hold out my pinky to shake with Natalie, because I might have to tell Anya the story. Plus, Natalie’s good pinky is covered by the cast.

  Natalie shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she repeats.

  “But if I am your buddy, then I should get to know the—”

  “Mandy, Natalie, let’s go,” Mrs. Spangle calls, interrupting me. I take out Natalie’s homework folder, shove the bag into her cubby, and hand the folder over to her roughly.

  “You can carry this yourself,” I say, and I return to my seat in a huff and a puff. Natalie follows me, and when she cannot pull out her chair herself, Mrs. Spangle makes me do it for her.

  The minute she sits down, Natalie says, “Mandy, take your stuff off my desk,” so I roll my eyes all the way up to the ceiling and slide my pencil box and markers and seatwork and silent reading book back onto my own desktop. “And rip the seatwork page out of my math workbook for me. And get me a pencil out of my case.”