Absolutely Almost by Lisa Graff Page A

Calista’s nose. Dad was right. That girl was off her rocker.
    â€œI’m not wearing a diaper,” I told her.
    â€œSo you’re definitely not a baby, then,” she said like she was thinking things through. “And you
do
like Captain Underpants.” She tapped her chin again. “So one can only logically conclude”
—tap, tap, tap—“
that Captain Underpants is not for babies.”
    I sighed and reached for my backpack. “Mom wants me to read this book,” I said, pulling out the stupid, long, boring book she’d given me. “But I tried, and the words don’t make any sense.”
    â€œAh,” Calista said. She took the book and turned it over to look at the back. After a minute of reading, she said, “This looks awful.”
    â€œIt is,” I told her.
    Calista thought while I buried my face on the table. I could tell she was thinking, because when she was done, she said, “Would your mom know if you didn’t read this book? Why can’t you go back to reading Captain Underpants? At least you like those books.”
    That surprised me when Calista said that, because it sounded like she was saying I should be sneaky and not tell my mom about Captain Underpants. Which is what I wanted to do anyway, but I was surprised about a grown-up saying it. Grown-ups weren’t supposed to be sneaky.
    â€œShe’d see it on my reading log,” I said. “And then she’d be mad all over again.” I pressed my face harder into the table. Mrs. Rouse was getting mad about the reading log, so I knew I had to start reading something. But if I tried to read
Johnny Treeface
again, it would probably kill me. And I definitely didn’t want to be dead from a book.
    I didn’t know what to do.
    â€œIt’ll be all right, Albie,” Calista said. “We’ll figure something out. Now, why don’t you go watch some TV?”
    â€œBut . . .” My fifteen minutes were already up. I was pretty sure Calista knew that, because she’d set the timer on the microwave herself.
    â€œAlbie,” Calista said, and her voice was very serious, “I
insist
that you watch fifteen more minutes of television right this very second. Unless . . .” She tapped her chin again. “Did I hear you say you wanted to clean the toilet?”
    â€œTV!” I said, laughing. “I pick TV!” And I raced for the couch before Calista could realize she was off her rocker again.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    As soon as the timer on the microwave went off, Calista walked into the living room. I snapped off the TV. Calista was holding something behind her back, and I could tell she was up to something. I just couldn’t tell what it was.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I asked, trying to peek.
    Calista didn’t answer. “You know,” she said, “I started reading
Johnny Tremain,
and it turns out it’s actually not so awful. Maybe you should try it again.”
    I wrinkled my nose. Is
that
what she was being sneaky about? “No, thanks,” I said.
    â€œAll right,” she said with a shrug. “It’s up to you. But I think you might want to give it a shot. It looks like there are cartoons in it.” And she tossed the book next to me on the couch and went back to the kitchen.
    My head shot up. Cartoons? How come I hadn’t noticed before that
Johnny Treeface
had cartoons in it? I turned to look at the book on the couch.
    It wasn’t
Johnny Treeface.
It was
Captain Underpants and the Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants,
the same one I’d been reading before. Only Calista had made a new title for it, with construction paper and markers, and taped it to the front.
    JOHNNY TREMAIN
    by Esther Forbes
    That’s what it said on the front.
    â€œCalista?” I called into the kitchen. I was staring at the book. “How come—?”
    â€œAfter you’re done