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

the kitchen.
    â€œHere.” I dump her on Dad’s lap. Then I jog up the stairs and change out of my nightgown as fast as I can.
    And even though I want to, I do not take the cherry-red lipstick out from under my mattress and smear it on my lips, because I am very good at being cooperative today.

    Mom holds my hand as we walk through the mall toward Small-Fry Shoes, and I skip next to her, because I am happy we are out together with no strollers and no diaper bags and no Timmy and no twins.
    I also skip because Mom is walking very, very fast and my legs are much shorter than hers.
    â€œHere we are,” Mom says as we walk into the shoe store. “Go see what you like, but remember, only one pair.” I let go of her hand to examine the thousands and millions of beautiful shoes on the shelves. I run my hand over a pair of sneakers with tie-dyed laces, and I pick up a blue shoe with glittery fireworks spreading across the toes. But then I see them: the most perfect, wonderful pair of shoes I have ever seen in my whole life. I lift one of them very carefully, using only the tips of my fingers so I do not leave any smudges, and I examine every inch of it.
    The shoes are pale lavender, just like the crayon that sits next to the periwinkle one in my box of 152 colors. And they have flowers decorating the toes—flowers that stick out in every direction, which is much better than just having flowers painted on. Plus, some of these flowers are periwinkle, which is the best color in the whole universe.
    But the flowers are not even the best part of this pair of shoes; the best part is that they have a heel—a real heel that would click-clack on the ground. And I have always wanted a pair of click-clack heels.
    I carry the shoe over to Mom, who is looking at dinosaur sneakers for Timmy in the boys’ section.
    â€œLook,” I say to her.
    Mom glances over at me. “Pretty,” she begins, “but impractical. We’re looking for shoes you can wear every day. Do you think Timmy would like these dinosaur ones?”
    â€œI will wear these every day,” I tell her. “I promise. Every single day. Did you see the flowers? Some of them are periwinkle and everything.”
    â€œI said they’re very pretty, but they’re not the kind of shoes we’re looking for today.”
    â€œBut you said I could pick my own pair,” I remind her. “And these are exactly the kind of shoes I’m looking for. I can even wear them on Picture Day.”
    â€œNo one will be able to see your shoes in the school picture,” Mom points out.
    â€œBut I will know I am wearing them,” I reply, “which is the whole point of good shoes anyway.”
    Mom grins at me then, just a little bit. “You have a point,” she tells me. “Well, there’s no harm in you trying them on, right? But if they don’t fit or they’re uncomfortable, we’re choosing another pair.”
    â€œThey will be perfect!” I assure her, and I bounce up and down on my tippy toes because I am so excited to get these shoes on my feet.
    Mom approaches the salesgirl who is leaning against the cash register. “Can my daughter try on these shoes, please?”
    â€œSure,” the girl says, and she has a string of earrings flowing all the way up her ears. At the very top of each ear is a small flower, and it almost matches the flowers on my perfect shoes.
    â€œSlide your foot in here,” the girl says to me, and she takes off my shoe and pushes my heel all the way back against the edge of the size machine, which is cold against the bottom of my foot. “Size two,” she announces, moving the metal bar on the machine to the tip of my longest toe. “I’ll be right back.” She picks up the sample shoe and walks with it into the room at the back of the store.
    â€œJust so you know, Mandy,” Mom begins, “if you really want to get these shoes once you