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

give Mom my “You are driving me bananas” face, but I do like that she is sitting with me, with no Timmy and no twins, so I do not argue about it.
    â€œWhat are you going to write first?” she asks.
    â€œDear Principal Jacks, I am sorry I hit you in the head with my scarf,” I say.
    â€œSounds good,” Mom says. “Write.” I do so, as neatly as possible because Mom is watching, and then I look back up at her.
    â€œWhat can you write next?” she asks. “Remember, you want to sound sincere.”
    â€œWhat’s ‘sincere’?”
    â€œLike you mean it,” Mom says. “So what can you say?”
    â€œIt was an accident,” I begin.
    â€œOkay, then what?”
    â€œBut I should not have been throwing my scarf at Dennis,” I finish. “Even though he was trying to touch it.”
    â€œHow about just ‘It was an accident, but I should not have been throwing my scarf’?” Mom asks.
    â€œFine,” I say, and I write that sentence down. I do not make any mistakes either, so it doesn’t matter that I’m writing in pen and cannot erase it.
    â€œGood,” Mom says. “How can you end it?”
    â€œFrom, Mandy Berr.”
    â€œNot yet,” Mom says. “You need a closing sentence.”
    â€œHmm.” I think. “How about ‘I will try not to do it again’?”
    â€œExcellent,” Mom answers. “Only no ‘try.’ Write ‘I will not do it again.’ Because you will not, right?”
    â€œI will try.”
    â€œMandy,” Mom says with a warning in her voice.
    â€œFine, I will not,” I say, and I write out the sentence. “Can I end with ‘From, Mandy’ now?”
    â€œYep,” Mom answers. “Then reread your work and make sure you haven’t made any mistakes. I’ll get you an envelope.”
    I finish my note, read the whole thing all over again, and then write Principal Jacks’s name on the envelope. I fold the letter three times until it fits inside, and then I run my tongue over the sealer.
    â€œAm I done now?”
    â€œYou’re finished,” Mom says. “Go stick that in your book bag so you don’t forget it tomorrow. And make sure you bring it to Mr. Jacks’s office first thing.”
    â€œI will,” I promise. “Can I go to my room?”
    â€œOkay. In thirty minutes, though, we’re going to get started on homework,” Mom tells me. “Unless you want to get it over with before the twins wake up?”
    â€œNo, I need a break,” I tell Mom very seriously, and this makes her smile a little in the corners of her mouth.
    â€œOkay, thirty minutes,” she tells me, and I scoot into the living room and place my note in my homework folder. “Hey,” I call back over my shoulder. “Do you know how to snap?”
    â€œSnap what?” Mom calls.
    â€œYour fingers,” I answer, walking back into the kitchen just as Timmy appears from the toy room. And before I know what is happening, Timmy lifts up his right hand, pinches his fingers together, and makes a huge, loud, enormous snap.
    â€œI do,” he says, and I feel my eyes grow as wide as pancakes. “Daddy taught me.”
    â€œHow come Dad never taught me how to snap?” I ask Mom.
    â€œI’m sure he’d be happy to show you,” Mom answers. “And if he doesn’t, I will. Or how about . . .” She raises her eyebrows then like she has a great idea. “Timmy can teach you.”
    â€œNo, thank you,” I answer. I cannot have a preschooler teaching me how to snap—that would just be humiliating. But Timmy has already grabbed my hand and is pushing my fingers together.
    â€œThis,” he says, pointing to my thumb. “And this,” he continues, pointing to my middle finger. He puts his own thumb and middle finger together, and—pow!—he snaps. “You do