“Dennis stole my cookbook,” I explain. “My grandmother gave it to me, and it is very important, and I need it back now or else I won’t get to go to the carnival with my cousin, and he stole it.”
“I didn’t steal it!” Dennis yells back. “I promise! Mrs. Spangle, I didn’t.”
“Mandy, when was the last time you saw your cookbook?”
“Yesterday,” I say. “I had to bring it to school because I didn’t want my cousin to cook out of it without me, because then Grandmom would have brought her to the carnival and not me, so I had it in my book bag and I was showing it to Anya and Natalie, and now it’s GONE.”
“See, this is why I don’t like you bringing things that are important to you to school,” Mrs. Spangle says. “But since that ship has already sailed, did you check your cubby?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“Did you look really well?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
Mrs. Spangle sighs at me then. “Go look. Natalie, can you help her? I know you’re very organized about these kinds of things.” Natalie stands up and walks with me to the cubbies. We take every single item out of my cubby, and guess what? Still no cookbook.
“It’s not here!” I call across the room.
“Whose cubbies are on either side of yours?” Mrs. Spangle asks.
“Julia’s and Anya’s,” I answer.
“Julia and Anya, do me a favor and go look around your cubbies and see if you find Mandy’s cookbook,” Mrs. Spangle tells them. “Sometimes things wander into the wrong cubby by accident.”
Julia and Anya join Natalie and me in the cubbies, and they root through their things. Anya pulls her book bag and jacket out of her cubby, and then both of us stand as still as statues and stare.
We stare at the cookbook that is lying upside down at the bottom of her cubby.
My cookbook.
“How’d that get in there?” Anya whispers to me.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe I put it in the wrong cubby?” Anya reaches down and picks up the book, and she tries to give it to me quickly before Mrs. Spangle can see.
“What’s that you have there, Anya?” Mrs. Spangle asks.
“We found it,” she calls back. “It was in my cubby by mistake.”
“Oh, it was, was it?” Mrs. Spangle says. “I think that means you have something to say to Dennis, doesn’t it, Mandy?”
I stare back at Mrs. Spangle but do not say one word. Instead, I stuff the cookbook into my own book bag and make sure that it is safely put away before returning to my seat.
“We’re waiting,” Mrs. Spangle says to me. “What do you say to Dennis for accusing him of stealing your book?”
“Sorry,” I answer, though I do not really mean it. After all, it is not like Dennis hasn’t stolen any of my things before. Just because he didn’t take this one thing shouldn’t mean I have to apologize for it.
“You know, you two are more alike than you want to realize,” Mrs. Spangle tells us. “If you would just try to get along, I bet you might actually like each other. Now, Mandy, help Dennis pick up all of the things you dumped out of his desk while I put your initials on the board. And, Dennis, this is a good opportunity for you to clean up the trash that you’re keeping in there, don’t you think?”
Mrs. Spangle walks away, and I kneel next to Dennis’s desk and start lifting all of his gross things off of the floor.
“See what you get for being a tattletale, Polka Dot?” Dennis whispers to me, and I roll my eyes up to the ceiling at him.
Even though a small part of me knows that Dennis is right. Because tattletales never win.
CHAPTER 10
Paige Times Two
AS SOON AS I GET home from school, I throw my book bag onto the couch, unzip the zipper, remove the cookbook, and yell, “PAIGE!”
“I’m up here,” Paige calls from the top of the stairs. I run over to the bottom so I can face her.
“Come on,” I say. “I got the cookbook back. If we work really fast, I bet we can make three more things before Grandmom comes for dinner.”
“Fabulous,” Paige says, and she bounds down the stairs and follows me into the kitchen. I whip open the book, and we stare at the table of contents.
“We should probably see what ingredients we have first, right?” Paige asks. “So we know what we can make?”
“Nah. If we don’t have it, we’ll just use something else. That’s what I did with my pizzas. I used ketchup instead of tomato sauce, and it was the best pizza I ever had.”
“Ooh, how about these?” Paige points to a picture in the book. “Sandwiches with chocolate-hazelnut spread and raspberries. They look pretty.”
“We don’t have any of that stuff except the bread,” I say, opening the refrigerator door. “But how about . . . sandwiches with peanut butter and apples? That is almost the same thing.”
“Perfect,” Paige answers. “You’re really good at this.”
“I know,” I agree. “I’ve had a lot of practice not getting what I want.”
“Really? It seems like you always make sure you get what you want. It’s kind of impressive.”
I shake my head back and forth. “No. Timmy gets what he wants, and the twins get whatever they want because, if they don’t, they’ll just cry about it,” I explain. “I have to compromise all the time.” “Compromising” is what Mom says I have to do whenever she thinks I am being a brat. It is one of my least favorite words ever.
“You’re lucky—you don’t have to compromise at your house,” I continue. “Because you don’t have any brothers and sisters getting what they want instead of you.”
“That’s true,” Paige says as she spreads a mound of peanut butter across a slice of bread. “But sometimes I think it would be fun to have a brother or sister, at least for a little while. That’s why I like coming to your house.”
I think about this for a moment. “So who is your favorite cousin now? Timmy?”
“You’ll always be my favorite cousin,” Paige says. “You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because you are fabulous,” Paige tells me, and she swipes a smear of peanut butter across the tip of my nose. I stick my tongue as far out of my mouth as it will go, seeing if I can lick it, and Paige laughs so hard at me that she has to sit on the floor for a minute, holding her belly.
“Well, it sounds like someone is having fun in here,” Mom says. “Nice nose, Mand.”
I wipe the rest of the peanut butter off of my nose with a paper towel. “We are going to make the rest of the dishes before Grandmom comes for dinner. We still have time, right?”
“Sure. I’m glad to see you two enjoying each other’s company again,” Mom says. “Just call me if you need to use the oven or to cut something with a knife. Don’t try to do it yourselves. And, girls?”
We both turn around and look at Mom, waiting.
“Have fun!” she says.
“We will,” I say, “because we’re family. Right, Paige?”
“Family and friends,” Paige responds, “which is even better. Now let’s see what else we can cook.” And I do not even care anymore that Paige can still be a little bit bossy, because she said I was fabulous, and you know what?
She is pretty fabulous too.
* * *
Dad brings home pizza for dinner, even after Paige and I spent all afternoon working in the kitchen.
“You two can serve the appetizers and dessert,” Mom tells us.
“What did you make? It looks delicious,” Grandmom asks.
Paige and I present our peanut butter and apple sandwiches and our lettuce and tomato pita tacos for appetizers, then our marshmallow ghosts, blueberry and chocolate yogurts, and banana and gummy bear sundaes for dessert.
“We made an extra dish,” I tell Grandmom. “Since you and I didn’t get to eat the egg salad.”
“The gummy bear sundaes were Mandy’s idea,” Paige explain
s.
“Why am I not surprised?” Grandmom responds. “Well, girls, I’m very proud of you. I like how you worked together to create all of these dishes yourselves—that took a lot of work.”
“So do we get to go to the carnival tomorrow?” I ask, because I do not know why Grandmom is holding her horses about telling us.
“Yes,” Grandmom says. “I’ll pick you two up first thing in the morning. How does that sound?”
“Fabulous!” Paige and I answer at the same time, which makes us laugh at ourselves.
“Jinx.” Paige holds out her pinky toward mine.
“What does that do?”
“We said the same thing at the same time. Now we have to lock our pinkies and say ‘jinx,’ ” she explains.
“Like a pinky swear?”
“Exactly like a pinky swear.”
I wrap my pinky around Paige’s and we call out “jinx,” and then I take an enormous spoonful of my banana and gummy bear sundae, without the bananas. “Wahoo!” I call out when my mouth is full, and drips of ice cream fly out of my mouth. This makes Paige laugh all over again, though Mom and Dad do not think it is so funny.
That night I hear Paige breathing quietly on the bouncy mattress on my floor, but I cannot fall asleep because I am too excited. Instead, I lie in my bed and stare up at the ceiling, thinking about the roller coasters and games that I am going to see tomorrow and how I am going to get to spend the whole day with Paige and Grandmom, with no Timmy and no twins getting in the way.
* * *
Grandmom says that the carnival is the only place where it’s okay to eat cotton candy before breakfast, so Paige and I share a gigantic pink fluffy mound, and I think it is delicious, even though I usually hate pink things.
“Now can we go on the roller coaster?” I ask. I have never been on the carnival’s roller coaster, because I thought it was scary when I was little, but now I do not, because I am not a fraidy cat.
“Yes, can we?” Paige asks.
“I don’t know,” Grandmom begins. “Roller coasters aren’t really my thing.”
“It does not even look too scary, though,” I tell her. “It’s not like the big roller coasters with loops and stuff.”
“I think my roller coaster days are over,” Grandmom tells us. “But if you two want to go together, you can. I’ll wait for you at the exit.”
“Really?” Paige looks at Grandmom and then at me. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, absolutely,” I answer, and I grab her hand to run to the roller coaster line.
“Stay together!” Grandmom calls after us. The roller coaster worker measures us to make sure we are both tall enough, and when we are, we join the back of the line.
“This is amazing,” Paige says. “I never get to go on roller coasters because my parents don’t like them but won’t let me ride by myself.”
“I don’t think they would be very fun by yourself anyway,” I tell her. “The best part of a roller coaster is getting to scream as loud as you want, and that is only fun to do when there is someone next to you.”
Paige nods her head in agreement, and when it is our turn, we board our roller coaster car side by side.
“I’m a little scared,” Paige confesses then.
“You will love it,” I tell her. “Now put your hands in the air. This makes a roller coaster even better, I think.” The ride takes off with a start, and the wind smacks me in the face. My hair flies behind me as I keep my hands raised all the way above my head, and every time the roller coaster lurches down a hill, I scream, and Paige does the same.
When the ride grinds to a stop, I look over at Paige, who is smiling almost as widely as I am, her hair covering her face like a gigantic mop.
“That was amazing!” she calls out.
“Do you want to go again?” I ask.
“Umm,” Paige says as we step out of our car, pushing our hair away from our faces. “Can we take a little break? I think I had too much cotton candy to ride two times in a row.”
“Sure,” I tell her, and we skip over to Grandmom, who is waiting for us right by the exit. “What should we do now?”
“How about,” Paige begins, “I try to win you a goldfish?”
“Really? Can you? Do you know how?” I ask.
“I told you, my parents won’t let me go on the roller coaster at our town’s carnival, so I spend a lot of time playing the games,” she tells me. “I’m pretty good at the one with the fishbowls.”
“But won’t you want to keep the fish?” I ask her.
“And take it in the car all the way back to my house?” she says. “Nah, if I win one, you can have it.”
“Okay, let’s do it!” I say, and Paige and I run ahead of Grandmom to the goldfish game. Sure enough, on her very first try, Paige throws the little ball directly into one of the fishbowls, and I am pretty sure I have never cheered so loudly in my life.
“Here you go, sweetheart.” The worker gives Paige a plastic bag with a bright orange goldfish swimming inside, and Paige hands the bag right over to me. I throw my arm that is not holding the bag around Paige’s neck for a hug, being careful not to slosh my new fish around too much.
“What are you going to name him?” she asks.
“How do you know it’s a boy?”
“I don’t,” Paige answers. “Maybe it’s a girl.”
“Then I will name her Paige,” I say. “After my favorite cousin.” I lift up the bag then so I can kiss the side of it, since I am so glad this goldfish is mine.
“Wahoo!” I call out, looping the arm with the goldfish through Paige’s elbow, and reaching out my other hand toward Grandmom. We weave through the carnival, and I hold both of them close to me so we are all together. Because one of the best parts of relatives is that they belong to you, and if you’re really lucky, one of them will always think that you are the most fabulous person in your family.
Mandy’s Lessons:
1. LEFTOVER PUDDING IS BETTER THAN NO PUDDING AT ALL.
2. COUSINS ARE GREAT UNLESS YOU DO NOT LIKE THEM.
3. NEVER INVITE AN EXTRA PERSON ON A PLAYDATE.
4. GRANDMOMS LOVE ALL GRANDKIDS THE SAME, WHICH IS ANNOYING.
5. PIZZA IS THE BEST BREAKFAST.
6. EVEN IF YOUR BROTHER STINKS, HE IS STILL YOURS.
7. IT IS POSSIBLE TO MAKE A BIG KID CRY.
8. DON’T ACT LIKE A FRAIDY CAT IF YOU DON’T WANT TO BE CALLED ONE.
9. GHOSTS DON’T LIKE IT WHEN YOU BITE THEIR HEADS OFF.
10. IT IS NO FUN TO RIDE A ROLLER COASTER BY YOURSELF.
DON’T MISS MANDY’S FIRST ADVENTURE,
DON’T WEAR
Polka-Dot Underwear
WITH WHITE PANTS
(AND OTHER LESSONS I’VE LEARNED) !
I KEEP TELLING MOM ABOUT the white pants, and she says to wear them anyway.
“They will make me fall down,” I explain.
“Pants do not make you fall down, Amanda,” Mom answers, because she does not understand anything at all.
“Yes, they do.” I stomp my foot and cross my arms and put on my very best “I am pouting now” face. “White pants like dirt, and they will make me fall in it.”
“Then be extra careful at recess, please,” Mom says, holding the awful pants open for me to step in.
“No.”
Mom sighs a big gust of breath in my face and stares at me with her “I mean business” eyes. “Amanda Berr, I am going to count to three.”
“I will get ketchup on them,” I say.
“One . . .”
“I will drop marker on them,” I say.
“Two . . .”
I groan like a dinosaur and lift up one leg just so Mom will stop counting.
“Here is a deal,” I begin. “I will wear these awful white pants if you buy me periwinkle pants.” My favorite color is periwinkle. It is more beautiful than blue and more perfect than purple and it is a fun name to say. But I do not have one piece of periwinkle clothing, and I think this
is unfair. I checked my whole entire closet—shirts and shorts and dresses and ugly fancy blouses that Mom keeps in plastic until Easter. No periwinkle. I had held my periwinkle crayon from my box of 152 colors up to each piece, just to be sure. And still nothing.
“I’ll look for some,” Mom says, shaking the white pants in front of me.
“Today,” I insist. “I want periwinkle pants today.”
“I cannot get you periwinkle pants today,” Mom says. “Why can’t you just like a nice, normal color—like pink? How about if I get you pink pants?”
“I hate pink.”
“Good, these pants aren’t pink.” Mom shakes the pants even more ferociously.
I grab the pants in my own two hands then. “I will dress myself. I am not a baby,” I say.
“Fine,” Mom answers. “Be downstairs and dressed in five minutes, Amanda. And in those pants. I don’t have time for any more funny business today.”
So I stuff my legs into the pants and stomp down to the kitchen table, and Mom does not even say, Thank you for wearing the awful white pants, Mandy. Mandy is my real name even though Mom thinks it is Amanda. I do not like the name “Amanda” because it does not have any Ys in it, and this is a tragedy. I like to make Ys with curlicue tails and I cannot do this when there are no Y’s in my name, so this is why my name is Mandy and not Amanda.
“Finish up your cereal, Amanda,” Mom says. “Your bus will be at the corner in ten minutes. Hurry.”
“I cannot hurry because of these pants,” I tell her.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mom responds, which I think is pretty rude, if I am being honest.
“I am being serious,” I insist. “If I eat quickly, I will dump the cereal onto the pants and they will be dirty because white pants love dirt. I told you so already.” I lift one kernel of cereal onto my spoon very slowly and raise it toward my mouth, just to show Mom how careful I have to be.
“If you want to eat that way, it’s up to you,” Mom says. “But you only have five more minutes to do so, Amanda.”
“Mandy,” I remind her, but she does not correct herself. Mom is not such a good listener. She was not such a good listener ever, but she is even worse now that the twins are here. Everything in this house for the past five months has been about the twins:
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