Read Never Wear Red Lipstick on Picture Day: (And Other Lessons I've Learned) for Free Online

tiptoe out of Mom and Dad’s bathroom.
    And I do not even mind too much that I still have to clean up all of Timmy’s toys, because I have found it: the perfect new accessory—one that Dennis cannot steal, because he can’t scrape it off my lips, and one that Natalie cannot copy, because she is much too boring to wear lipstick.
    And I think I am going to be the best-­looking one in our class photo this year, because nobody else will be wearing cherry-red lipstick on ­Picture Day.

CHAPTER 6
    Sharper Shoes

    WHEN I CARRY THE LAUNDRY BASKET full of Timmy’s toys downstairs and toward the toy room, Mom does not even say, Thank you for cleaning up ­Timmy’s mess, Mandy . Instead, she says, “What did you do to your face?”
    She yells it, actually. Loudly. So loudly that it makes a twin start crying, which serves her right, if you ask me. But before I can even answer, Mom continues, “Are you wearing my makeup?”
    â€œYes,” I answer honestly.
    â€œWhy do you have my makeup on your face?”
    â€œI had to practice,” I explain.
    â€œPractice for what?”
    â€œPicture Day,” I answer.
    â€œYou are not wearing makeup for Picture Day,” Mom says. “You are in second grade. This isn’t Halloween.”
    â€œI’m not going to wear all of the makeup,” I say. “Just the lipstick.”
    â€œOh no, you are not,” Mom says. “Eight-year-olds do not wear lipstick.”
    â€œBut why?”
    â€œBecause you’re too young.”
    â€œI’m not a baby.”
    â€œI didn’t say you were a baby, I said you were too young.”
    â€œBut I like it.”
    â€œJust because you like it doesn’t mean that it’s appropriate, let alone for Picture Day.”
    â€œIt makes me happy,” I say in my sweetest voice, but Mom still looks annoyed at me.
    â€œThat still doesn’t mean it’s appropriate,” Mom says. “You can wear lipstick when you’re older.”
    â€œHow old?”
    â€œEighteen,” she answers, and my eyes grow as wide as pancakes then, and I drop the laundry basket on the floor with a crash.
    I do the math quickly in my head. “That is in ten years. That is way too long.”
    â€œMaybe sixteen,” Mom says. “But definitely not eight. Now go clean yourself up.”
    â€œPlease?” I drag out the e in “please” so that it sounds like its own word. “Pretty, pretty please?”
    â€œYou know, Mandy,” Mom begins, lifting the wailing twin onto her hip, “I was thinking about taking you along to run some errands at the mall tomorrow—just you and me—”
    â€œFor Picture Day?” I am suddenly very excited. “To get me a new accessory?”
    â€œNo, to buy you and Timmy new shoes. Your feet are growing faster than your shoes can keep up with them. But I thought you’d like to come along and pick out your own pair.”
    â€œYes!” I answer. “Yes, I would like to go and pick out my own pair. Pretty, pretty, pretty please with whipped cream on top?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Mom shakes her head. “With you being so uncooperative these past couple of days, I think I’m going to have to change my mind and bring Timmy—”
    â€œNo!” I interrupt her. “I will stop being ornery. I would like to go to the mall. Please.” I scoop the toys that have fallen out of the basket back inside as fast as I can, just to show Mom how cooperative I’m being.
    â€œThat’s a good word—ornery,” Mom says. “How do you know that?”
    â€œMrs. Spangle taught it to me,” I say, but I do not tell her the part where Mrs. Spangle called me ornery, because I know Mom will ask what I was doing, and that is not something I would like to explain.
    â€œAnd what are you going to do about your face?” Mom asks.
    â€œWash the makeup off,”