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down as far as I can and scramble out of the kitchen.I glance over my shoulder to make sure a ghost isn’t following me, and then I slam right into it: the ghost himself.
    â€œArghhhhhh!” I scream at the top of my lungs, and I try to back away from the ghost, scooting across the floor on my bottom.
    â€œMandy, Mandy, it’s me.” Dad stoops down so his face is next to mine, but he is still hard to see in the darkness of the living room. “What is going on in there?”
    â€œI thought you were a ghost!” I tell him.
    â€œWhat is that sound in the kitchen?” Dad steps over me to investigate, but my heart is beating so hard that I am sure it is going to have a fight with my stomach grumblies. I hear a beeping sound, and then the whirl of the microwave stops. One last pop echoes across the room.
    â€œMandy, what—how—why—I can’t—” Dad stutters, and I see him looking all around thekitchen. He opens the door of the microwave, and even from the floor, I can see it: my beautiful pizza, exploded. Orange and red cover the entire inside of the microwave, like the ugly finger paintings Timmy makes in preschool.
    â€œI was hungry,” I tell Dad, finally lifting myself onto my feet. “And I wanted pizza. Not dumb egg salad.”
    â€œDoes this look like pizza to you?” Dad points in the microwave and then to my second pizza, which is lying upside down on the counter, the crackers broken and the ketchup running down the side like blood. “And how long did you set this for?”
    â€œI pressed three and five,” I answer.
    â€œThirty-five minutes ?” he exclaims.
    â€œThat’s what it said in the cookbook,” I explain. “ ‘Bake at 350,’ but I knew I was not allowed to touch the oven, because I am very good at following that rule, so I put it in the microwave instead.”
    â€œIt’s not even six a.m. yet,” Dad says with a sigh. “How could you possibly have made such a mess before six a.m.? Really, even for you, Mandy, this is a record.” He looks around the kitchen one more time, like he is still a little bit asleep. “Here’s what we’re going to do: You clean up this whole catastrophe you have going on in here, and if the kitchen looks pristine—even better than when you entered it—by the time everyone else wakes up, I won’t have to take away Rainbow Sparkle’s TV show this week.”
    I slump my shoulders and push my lips together into a pout, but I do not disagree. “Let me know when you’re ready for me to examine your work. I’ll be waiting on the couch,” Dad says, padding out of the kitchen and into the living room, shutting off one of the kitchen lights on his way. “And why does it look like Grand Central Station in here? You’re wasting electricity.” I watch himwalk to the couch, and while his back is turned, I skedaddle to the light switch and flip it back on. Even if it was my pizza and not a ghost popping and hissing at me, you can still never be too careful when it comes to keeping them away.
    I walk over to the paper towel holder and begin to unwind a huge glob, but then my stomach growls at me—the grumblies even angrier than they were before. I place the paper towels back on the counter, lift the chair off the ground, step on top of it, and then make myself one more pizza slice, this time with no crackers. Without placing it in the microwave, I take a gigantic bite out of my white bread, cheddar cheese, and ketchup pizza.
    And no matter what anyone else says, I know it is the best pizza I have ever had.

CHAPTER 6
No Bossing My Brother

    I HAVE NEVER BEEN HAPPIER to see my classroom than I am on Monday morning. I am so glad to get away from Paige and Timmy and the twins and exploding pizzas and trespassing ghosts that the minute I see Mrs. Spangle, I throw my arms around her waist and squeeze