The (Almost) Perfect Guide To Imperfect Boys by Barbara Dee

humor—her sense of everything—is more sophisticated. Here’s what I’m wondering—is it just my twins, or are toddler girls more complicated than toddler boys? Do they stay that way over time? (Thirteen-year-old Awesome Daughter is certainly a complicated person!) Am I making too much of the gender thing? Let me hear from you, friends. Comments below!
    Xox,
    Jen
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    I had to wait until the next day to talk to Maya, because Maya’s mom was super strict about what she called “after-school socializing.” According to Mrs. Lopez, afternoons were for homework and gymnastics practice, not for newsworthy phone calls from your best friend. Not for e-mails or texts, either. All of which, if you asked me, was a big reason why Maya obsessed so much about parties, and about weekends in general.
    My plan was to get to school early on Tuesday, to meet Maya before homeroom. But that morning Dad insisted on making pancakes. He worked so hard running his car-parts company—“crazy busy” was how he described it—that it meant he missed most family dinners during the week. So when he decided to cook breakfast, you couldn’t say, No thanks, Dad, I’ll just grab a bagel. Besides, it was incredibly sweet of him to let Mom sleep late.
    â€œMorning, Finster,” he greeted me from the stove. “What’s your opinion of blueberries this fine morning?”
    â€œMy opinion is, they’re purple, not blue.” This made me think of Zachary’s eyes, which I didn’t want to do. So I switched over to the comedy routine Dad had taught me when I was little: “Why is there no bluefood? I can’t find blue food. I mean, green is lime; yellow is lemon—”
    â€œOrange is orange,” Dad said, nodding.
    â€œRed is cherry,” I said, grinning. “What’s blue? Oh, they say, ‘Blueberries!’ ”
    â€œUh-uh,” Dad recited. “Blue on the vine, purple on the plate.”
    Together we chanted, “There’s no blue food! Where is the blue food! We want the blue food!”
    Dad grinned as he handed me a plate of blueberry pancakes. “I can’t believe you remember that entire George Carlin bit, Finster.”
    â€œSure.” I swirled some syrup on my plate and took a huge-ormous forkful of pancake. “Why wouldn’t I?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know. Because the human brain works in mysterious ways.” He speared a pancake off my plate and chewed it thoughtfully. “Speaking of which, Mom mentioned you were having a bit of trouble memorizing Spanish?”
    â€œJust irregular verbs. Because they’re so random.”
    â€œSo if they’re tricky, why not let Mom help you? She’s amazing at those memory things.”
    I rolled my eyes. “Yes, I know. She’s the queen of mnemonics.”
    â€œAnd that’s a good thing, right?” He took another bite.
    â€œIt’s awesome. I’d just rather figure stuff out on my own.”
    â€œBut why? If it’s hard and she’s willing to help you—”
    â€œDad, she’s willing, but she doesn’t have time. You should see her in the afternoons; she’s practically mental when I get home. And anyhow, I can manage.”
    â€œI’m sure you can,” Dad said, nodding seriously. “Nobody’s doubting your ability.”
    Really? Then why did you and Mom threaten to take away my camera? I wondered.
    He messed my hair. “Hey, Finster, wanna switch? You go to my office today and I’ll go to eighth grade.”
    â€œLet me think about it,” I said, kissing Dad’s stubbly cheek with sticky lips. “See you tonight, okay? And thanks for the blue food.”
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    As soon as I got to school, I raced to Maya’s locker. About six weeks ago, before winter break, I’d decorated it for her as a birthday present,