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

I say. “I will do it in a lick and a split. I promise.”
    â€œThat’s more like it,” Mom says. “Keep being this cooperative, and we have a mall date for tomorrow.”
    â€œI will,” I tell her, because not many things are worth cleaning up Timmy’s toys and scrubbing cherry-red lipstick off of my mouth, but going to the mall with Mom is certainly one of them.

    When I wake up the next morning, I stretch toward my toes slowly until I remember: It is ­Saturday, which means it is mall day, which means I get to choose my own pair of new shoes. And this is much better than having Mom choose new shoes for me, because she tries to make me wear shoes with laces, and I hate to tie laces.
    â€œWahoo!” I call out to myself, and I jump out of bed faster than I have ever jumped. I turn my bedroom doorknob so that the door flies open, and I pad down the stairs quickly.
    â€œI am ready!” I announce as soon as I get to the kitchen, even though I am still in my nightgown and even though Dad is the only one there.
    â€œReady for what?” he asks before taking a sip of his coffee.
    â€œMom is taking me to the mall,” I explain. “You are not allowed to come. You have to babysit Timmy and the twins.”
    â€œSounds like fun. I think we’ll all go,” Dad says with a smile.
    â€œNo! Mom promised. Only me. No twins.” I say the last two words like there is an exclamation point after each of them. “And no Timmy. You can come, I guess, if you want to leave them home alone.”
    â€œI was just teasing you, but thanks for the halfhearted invitation,” Dad says. “I don’t think you’re going today, though—Mom said she wanted to clean out the garage.”
    â€œWhat?! But I can’t wait a whole other day,” I tell him.
    Dad shrugs. “You can take it up with your mother,” he says. “Doesn’t matter to me.”
    â€œ Mooooooommmmmm ,” I yell, dragging her name out so that it is many, many syllables, and then I remember that I am still supposed to be acting cooperatively, and I don’t think Mom will think shouting is being “well behaved.” “Where is she?” I ask Dad.
    â€œIn the twins’ room,” Dad says. “And try to keep your voice down—Timmy is still sleeping.”
    I run to the twins’ room and open the door slowly. Mom has both of them propped up on the changing table, and they are wiggling like ­octopuses.
    â€œOh, good,” Mom says when she sees me. “Help me keep a hand on them, will you? They’re wiggle worms today.”
    â€œNo, thank you,” I answer, because I try to never, ever touch the twins, especially when they are smelly and damp on the changing table. “When are we going to the mall?”
    â€œAfter you help me with the twins, like I asked you to,” Mom says.
    â€œSo today?”
    â€œYes, today,” Mom says. “Now get over here. Keep a good grip on Cody while I change ­Samantha—careful, he’ll try to get away from you.”
    I hold the twin down by his thighs, but he tries to reach out and pull my hair, so then I hold his hands down, too. “Knock it off, twin,” I say.
    â€œMandy, his name is Cody,” Mom says. “How would you feel if he called you only ‘Girl’?”
    â€œI would not care,” I say, because the twins do not even talk yet, so it is a silly question. “What time are we leaving for the mall?”
    â€œAfter you change Cody’s diaper for me,” Mom says, grinning at me out of the corner of her mouth.
    â€œThat will never happen,” I tell her.
    â€œWell, it was worth a shot,” she says, fastening the sticky tape on the other twin’s diaper. “Here, carry Samantha to your father, and once you’re all dressed, we’ll get going.”
    I grab the twin around her waist like a sack of laundry and haul her to