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anymore. But everyone in his squad has to do an overnight at least sometimes, and last night was Dad’s turn. On mornings like this he comes home around five and locks himself in the guest room in the basement (which is really more like the ground floor in old brownstone houses like ours). No one’s supposed to bother him until after school, but Nicky usually forgets, so even though I’m totally annoyed that he’s in my face, it’s a good thing he came to bug me instead of Dad.
    â€œI need waffles now, Frankie. We’re starving.”
    â€œAsk Mom,” I say, burrowing back into my pillow. “And both of you get your smelly paws off my bed.”
    â€œNo way!” Nicky shrieks, plopping himself down next to me on my bed. “Mom stinks at waffles. Remember before?”
    Unfortunately, I do. The last time my mom tried to make waffles, she ended up melting all thekitchen tools. It wasn’t totally her fault—the jar of utensils fell on the open waffle iron after she’d plugged it in. But she was so focused on trying to “gently fold egg whites” into the lumpy batter that she didn’t notice all the melting spatulas and spoons. How she missed the disgusting smell, I have no idea, but by the time she turned to pour the batter on the machine, the smoke alarm had gone off and we ended up having to leave the windows open for two days. In February.
    â€œHow about cereal?” I say. “Mom can make that.”
    â€œWaffles, Frankie, waffles!” hollers Nicky, who’s now jumping up and down on my bed.
    â€œAaargh!” I scream, pulling my pillow over my head. “Leave me alone!”
    Of course, Nicky ignores me. “Waffles! Waffles! Waffles!” he yells, over and over, still jumping.
    All the hollering gets Rocco excited, and he starts barking like crazy. That wakes up The Goons, who share a giant room right next to mine. They bang onthe wall with their big meaty fists and yell things like, “Shut up or I’ll kill you!” It’s a good thing we don’t live in an apartment like Liza does, or our neighbors would totally have the police on speed dial.
    Finally, Mom comes in to see what all the insanity is about. I don’t know if Nicky notices her, but he keeps right on jumping and screaming like a maniac at the top of his lungs. My mom is dark-haired, and pretty, in a distracted sort of way, but right now she looks sleep-deprived and more than a bit crabby.
    â€œNicky!” my mom tries to yell above my brother’s loud, annoying waffle chant. “Stop that jumping and use your inside voice immediately!”
    My mom teaches second grade, and when she gets mad, she goes into teacher mode and says things like, “Use your inside voice” and “Keep your hands on your own body.” Sometimes she even claps—one, two, one-two-three—to get us to calm down. Joey, Leo, and I have to force ourselves not to crack upwhen she does it, but since Nicky’s in second grade, it usually works on him.
    Nicky stops jumping on my bed, but instead of sitting down or stepping off, he leaps into the air and lands right on top of Mom. She obviously wasn’t expecting her seven-year-old son to come flying into her arms, so the two of them crash onto the floor, freaking out Rocco and making him bark even louder. I just want to roll over in disgust and go back to bed, but that is so not happening.
    The crash is enough to get The Goons out of bed, and they burst through the door demanding to know what I think I’m doing waking them up at this hour. When they stomp into my room, The Goons are like loud, massive, hairy boy monsters with major B.O. They are so annoying. They finally notice Mom thrashing around on the floor trying to get Nicky off her as he squeals like a hyena, but all they do is snort with laughter. They don’t even bother to give her a hand.
    As usual, it’s my job to come to the rescue, and