Never Wear Red Lipstick on Picture Day: (And Other Lessons I've Learned) by Allison Gutknecht

her hand in front of her face, like she is batting away my comment. “I mean, Dennis should not be touching your things, yes, but when he does, you should tell a teacher about it. You need to stop trying to handle everything yourself. You’re only making things worse.”
    And I do not say anything then, because I know that Mom is a little bit right.
    â€œMaybe I’ll write a note to Mrs. Spangle, ­apologizing for letting you go to school with all of those things,” Mom says.
    â€œAccessories,” I correct her.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThey are not things, they are accessories,” I explain. “ Things are boring; accessories are amazing.” It is a very important difference, and Mom needs to understand it.
    â€œWhatever they are, they’re not working out too well for you, are they?” Mom says. “Should I write Mrs. Spangle a note?”
    â€œNo. She doesn’t know about the scarf.”
    â€œWhere was she when you hit Mr. Jacks in the head?”
    â€œIt was before school in the gym,” I explain. “She did not see.”
    â€œThen you are going to write an apology note directly to Mr. Jacks,” Mom tells me. “I should have thought of that in the first place.”
    â€œNo, thank you,” I answer, and I am polite and everything.
    â€œI’m not asking, I’m telling, Amanda,” Mom says, and she uses my A name, so I know she means business. “There’s stationery in the junk drawer. Get to work.”
    I yank open the junk drawer and pull out piles of chip clips and rubber bands and magnets before I find Mom’s seashell stationery, which is not even good stationery to have. If I had my own stationery, I would make sure Rainbow Sparkle was on it. Or at least some periwinkle polka dots.
    I take a red pen out of the drawer too, even though I am not usually allowed to write with pen. (I wrote with purple pen on my seatwork the first day of second grade, until Mrs. Spangle made it a rule that we could not write with pens in the classroom. She put it on the rule chart and everything. It is not one of my favorites.) I shove twin stuff off to the side of the kitchen table and sit down to write.
    Dear Principal Jacks , I begin. I am sorry you took my glittery scarf. From, Mandy Berr.
    â€œI’m done!” I yell to Mom. “I need an envelope.”
    â€œLet me see that first,” Mom says. She lifts up my note, takes a fast glance at it, and then rips it in two pieces. “Absolutely not,” she says. “Try again.”
    â€œWhy? I said I was sorry.”

    â€œYou said you were sorry for something that happened to you ,” Mom explains. “Good apologies work only if you say you’re sorry for what you did to someone else.”
    â€œI do not know what you’re talking about.”
    â€œYou said that you are sorry that Mr. Jacks took your scarf,” Mom says.
    â€œRight, that is what I’m sorry about.”
    â€œThat is not an apology,” Mom says. “An apology would be, ‘I’m sorry I hit you in the head with my scarf.’ Understood?”
    â€œUghhhh,” I groan, and get up to grab another sheet of stationery out of the junk drawer.
    Dear Principal Jacks , I write again. I am sorry I hit you in the head with my scarf .
    â€œYou can’t write just one sentence, by the way,” Mom calls from across the kitchen, as if she is reading over my shoulder. “You need to be more sincere than that.”
    It was not my fault, though, because Dennis was trying to touch it. Dennis Riley. You know him because he is always in trouble. From, Mandy Berr.
    â€œDone!”
    Mom comes over and takes the paper from my hand. Before I can stop her, the paper is in four pieces.
    â€œI don’t understand why you’re making this so difficult,” Mom says. “Here, I’ll sit with you until you get it right. Grab another sheet of stationery.”
    I