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it’s pre-algebra and some of the problems just make my brain hurt.
    I’m about halfway done when the doorbell rings, and suddenly, there’s Cole, running down the hallway in his diaper yelling, “Dinner! Dinner!” He’s right this time, but the really funny thing is that he says that every time the doorbell rings, no matterwhat time of day it is. Sometimes Frankie picks me up on the way to school in the morning, and even when she rings the bell at seven forty-five a.m., Cole comes racing to the door, fully expecting to see the deliveryman waiting there with a big white bag.
    My mom comes in, scoops up Cole, and tosses her purse at me. I pay the delivery guy and start setting out our food on the coffee table while Mom gets Cole settled in his crib and reads him a story. Our apartment does have an actual dining table, but we have this nightly ritual where we watch the cooking channel together and eat our dinner in front of the TV. I know, I know, kids do better in school and don’t end up doing drugs when families sit down at the table for dinner. But so far I’ve never gotten below a B and I don’t even know anyone who does drugs, so I don’t think our mother-daughter TV dinners are going to mess me up too much.
    By the time my mom has finished reading to Cole, I’ve arranged our meals on our plates like theydo in food magazines and I’ve poured us both iced tea in my favorite polka-dot glasses. When I turn on the TV, it’s still on PBS and that same commercial for Chef Antonio’s cooking class comes on again. I watch the ad a second time while my mom changes into sweatpants—she says whoever invented work clothes must have hated being comfortable.
    Chef Antonio looks me in the eye and tells me every class will feel like a fiesta. I’ve never been to a fiesta, but even the word sounds fun. My mom plops herself down on the couch and glances at the TV. “A cooking class, huh? I used to love those,” she says as she unwraps the napkin around her plastic silverware. “But seriously, who has the time?” She digs in to her takeout shish kebab and takes a long sip of iced tea.
    And just like that, I have an idea. An absolutely amazing, totally brilliant idea. I can’t wait to tell Frankie about it.

CHAPTER 8
Frankie

    My house is like Cirque du Soleil minus the talent and the really cool costumes. Four kids, two working parents, and one small, but very sloppy, slightly stinky dog create a recipe for major chaos. Of course I missed Liza’s text last night and didn’t see it until this morning. Why? Because my little brother Nicky swiped my phone and hid it in a tissue box in my room—his idea of a hilarious joke—where I never would have looked for it if I hadn’t just sneezed myself awake.
    Here’s what Liza’s text said: I have a BIG idea. Call me.
    Since I didn’t read it until just now, I obviously didn’t call Liza last night. Big idea? For what? Our project? It sounds even bigger than that.
    I don’t have time to think about it because Nicky runs in carrying a bottle of maple syrup and yelling something about waffles. As usual, Rocco is trotting along behind him, panting and drooling. Have I mentioned that it’s 6:25 a.m.?
    â€œMe and Rocco are hungry, Frankie.” Nicky’s piercing voice drills directly into my ear and his dark curls tickle my cheek. “We want waffles! Where’s Pop?”
    Don’t ask me why Nicky calls my dad “Pop.” It started when he was a baby and liked the Dr. Seuss book Hop on Pop , and it stuck. The rest of us call him “Dad,” although my older brothers, Leo and Joey (a.k.a. The Goons), call basically everyone “Yo.”
    â€œDad’s sleeping,” I say. “You and Rocco will have to wait till later.”
    My dad has been a firefighter for more than twenty years, which means he almost never has to work the night shift