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hear us sing.
    But the girls are so excited now about getting to dance onstage that I don’t think they’re even bothering to learn the words—so us boys better know them.
    It is going to be a
disaster
, because . . .
    1. Jared uses the same musical note for every word he sings. He sounds like someone using a buzz saw.
    2. Corey has decided to just move his lips and pretend to sing.
    3. Stanley sings really loud, but he never gets the words right.
    4. And so on.
    But at least we’ll be the oldest kids there, so no big kids can laugh at us.
    “Why don’t you sing me the song right now?” Mom suggests, smiling. “At least try.”
    “No, thanks,” I mumble. Performing it once on stage—in front of moms, dads, and video cameras—will be bad enough. I just hope we don’t end up on YouTube.
    And I also have to be the emcee!
    This is like a nightmare come true for me. Everyone will be
staring
.
    “Well then, why don’t you go see what your little sister is up to?” Mom says. This sounds like more of a question than it is.
    “Alfie seems to be arguing with someone,” Mom adds, smiling.
    “Probably one of her dolls,” I say.
    Alfie has a very active imagination.
    And she has tons of dolls.
    “You go settle things for them,” Mom tells me, smiling. “You know Alfie. Sometimes she needs a little help sorting things out. And who better for that than her big brother?”
    “Okay,” I say, hiding my sigh as I pry up one last bit of cheese before I go.
    See, spending time with Alfie can make a person dizzy. She’s like Jared, a
little
, because she likes to argue just for the fun of it. And she always thinks she’s right—even though she’s only four!
    Also, Alfie can chatter about a five-minute
Fuzzy Kitties
cartoon for fifteen minutes, easy. It makes my brain hurt.
    “Go on,” Mom urges. “Tell her it’s almost time for her bath, okay? Ten minutes.”
    Alfie needs lots of advance notice—about doing anything.
    Ten-minute warnings. Five-minute warnings. One-minute warnings. It’s like she’s a space shuttle always about to blast off.
    My dad says Alfie “has trouble with transitions,” whatever that means.
    It sounds like he’s saying that my little sister doesn’t know how to fix car engines, but I know that can’t be right.
    “Scoot,” Mom says.
    But I don’t just scoot, I skedaddle.

10
OFFICIALLY BROWN
    “Knock, knock,” I say, pausing outside Alfie’s room. Her door is open, but I’m trying to teach her not to barge into
my
room without knocking. See, I’m setting an example.
    So far, so bad.
    Alfie looks up from a row of six or seven Barbies lying on her fluffy carpet. Three of them have Beyoncé-brown skin. They are all wearing fancy dresses. Their feet are all touching a yardstick, which is a long ruler that I guess Alfie is pretending is the ground. “Is this gonna be a knock-knock joke?” she asks, getting ready to not laugh.
    “Nope,” I tell her. “I’m supposed to tell you that you have to take a bath in ten minutes. So, ten-minute warning. What are you doing?” I say, already half sorry I asked, because her explanation might be a real brain-frazzler.
    “We’re having a beauty contest,” she informs me. “First prize is a brand-new darling outfit. Right now they’re telling their hobbies,” she adds. “This one likes horseback widing,” she says, pointing.
    That’s Alfie-speak for “riding.”
    “And this one likes shopping,” she continues. “Actually, all of them like shopping.”
    I go closer to take a look. “Who’s winning so far?” I ask, plopping down next to her.
    “She is,” Alfie says, pointing to her newest doll, one with long, blonde hair. “Because her hobby is collecting stuffed animals. I wish they made little stuffed animals for Barbies,” she adds, forgetting about the contest for a minute. “I’d buy a whole lot of them!
Tons.
”
    “I know you would,” I say, picturing it. “But what about this doll?” I ask, pointing at one of