Pizza Is the Best Breakfast: (And Other Lessons I've Learned) - Softcover

Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Allison Gutknecht is the author of multiple books for young readers, including the Pet Pals series, Sing Like Nobody’s Listening, Spring Break Mistake, The Bling Queen, and the Mandy Berr series. After graduating from the University of Pennsylvania, she earned her master’s degree in children’s media and literature from NYU. Allison grew up in Voorhees, New Jersey, and now lives in New York City.

Stevie Lewis grew up in Southern California and works in the animation industry as a visual development artist. She studied computer animation at Ringling College of Art and Design in Sarasota, Florida. In her spare time she enjoys traveling, rock climbing, baking cookies, browsing thrift shops, and drinking delicious coffee! She lives in San Francisco with her two little dogs.

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Pizza Is the Best Breakfast

CHAPTER 1

Glue Stick Stickup

IT IS NOT MY FAULT that there is chocolate pudding in Timmy’s hair.

Mom says that it is my fault, of course. She thinks that just because I pulled the pudding cup away from Timmy, and it squirted on his face when I squeezed it, that this whole chocolate pudding thing is my problem.

But I promise that it is not.

“You said I cannot eat pudding for breakfast,” I tell Mom, still holding the almost-empty pudding cup in my hand. She lifts Timmy onto the counter to sit and begins running a wet paper towel down his bangs.

“You can’t,” Mom answers.

“But Timmy was,” I point out. “And that is not allowed.”

“You’re right, that’s not allowed,” Mom says. “But you had no business grabbing the cup away from him like that. You should’ve just told me.”

“Then you would have called me a tattletale,” I tell her, which I think is a pretty good point.

Mom sighs an enormous gust of breath—so enormous that the tippy-top of Timmy’s hair blows a little from her nose wind.

“Timmy should not have been eating pudding for breakfast—do you hear that, Timmy?” Mom lifts his chin up to face her, and he nods his head, even though he is still licking chocolate from his lips. “But, Mandy, you did not have to intervene. Next time—and there better not be a next time, Timmy—just come get me.”

“So I should tattletale.”

“Mandy,” Mom says with a warning in her voice. “Enough.”

When Mom’s back is turned, I stick my longest finger inside the pudding cup and swoop up the last bite. Then I drop the cup onto the counter, because I am not cleaning up a three-year-old’s trash. No way!

“Mandy eat pudding,” I hear Timmy call then, and I whirl around on my heel to face him. He is pointing at me as Mom wrings his hair into wet tangles. “Mandy eat pudding too. I saw.”

“Worry about yourself, Timmy,” Mom says. “And, Mandy, throw that pudding cup away for me, please.” I pick the cup back up in my hand and stomp toward the trash can, and I wiggle my finger through the pudding one more time, just to swipe up the last of it, before I toss it in the garbage.

“You’re welcome, Timmy,” I call, and he does not even say thank you for throwing out his trash, which I think is rude. I am pretty sure that if Timmy had to throw out my trash after I ate pudding for breakfast, I would have had to say thank you, so I stick my tongue out at him.

“Okay, I think it’s all out now,” Mom says, and she grunts as she hoists Timmy off the counter. But I think she should have left the pudding in his hair, because then at least the front of it would have been brown like mine. Not that I would like to look like Timmy, but I also do not like that he gets to have blond hair and I do not. At least the pudding would have made things even.

“You’re going to be late for your bus, Mand,” Mom says as she rinses her hands off in the sink.

“Mandy,” I correct her.

“I know your name, silly,” Mom says. “Mand is just short for Mandy. It’s affectionate.”

“I do not like it,” I tell her.

“I thought you didn’t like Amanda.”

“I do not like that, either,” I say. “I like Mandy. With a y. The y is the best part.”

“You have a lot of rules, you know that?” Mom says, and she kisses the top of my head. “Skedaddle. Your bus will be here in two minutes. Remember your jacket. And be careful of the twins on your way out, please.”

I trot out of the kitchen and Timmy calls “Bye, Mandy!” after me, but I do not answer him. The twins are lying on the living room carpet like blobs, looking at mobiles. I hold my nose as I step over them, because one of them always seems to stink like a dirty diaper.

I grab my book bag and open the front door before I remember.

“When is Paige coming?” I call to Mom.

“Tonight,” she yells back.

“But what time?” Paige is my favorite cousin in the whole world, and I haven’t seen her since last Christmas, which I think is way too long.

“After dinner. Grandmom is going to pick her up at Uncle Rich’s house this afternoon,” Mom tells me.

“And she is going to sleep in my room, right?” I ask. “Like a slumber party?”

“That’s the plan,” Mom answers.

“Wahoo!” I open the front door all the way and then slam it behind me, dragging my book bag along the ground as I gallop like a pony toward the bus stop.

Because if there is one thing that puts me in an excellent mood, it is Paige, because Paige is fabulous. That is her favorite word—“fabulous”—which is perfect because that is exactly what she is. Paige looks like a princess with very wavy hair and real pierced ears, and her lips are so pink that she always looks like she is wearing lipstick, even though she is not. Plus, Paige does not have any brothers or sisters, which is what I would like to have, except that sometimes I like to pretend that Paige is my sister. She would be a much better sister to have than the twin, because even though Paige is already ten years old, she never cares that I am only eight. Because I am her favorite cousin too, just like she is mine.

And favorite cousins are absolutely the best kind to have visit you.

*  *  *

“Psst.” I lean against my desk and hiss at Dennis. “Psst, Freckle Face.” I tap on the edge of his desk, which is now right next to mine. This is Mrs. Spangle’s way of making sure that Dennis and I get along more than we argue with each other.

I do not think this plan is working out so well.

“What?” Dennis runs his hand over the top of his Mohawk. We are supposed to be creating maps of our neighborhoods with construction paper, but Dennis doesn’t seem to be doing much more than petting his own hair.

Though I have always wondered what the top of a Mohawk would feel like, if I am being honest.

“Are you done?” I point to his paper, which looks even worse than the artwork Timmy makes in preschool.

“Yeah.”

“Can I use your glue stick?” I whisper. “Mine ran out.” I screw up the bottom of the stick all the way so Dennis can see that it’s empty.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so, Polka Dot,” Dennis says.

“But it’s right there.” I point to his glue stick, which is lying next to scraps of multicolored construction paper. “You didn’t even put the cap on. It’s going to dry up if you don’t let me use it.”

“Too bad for you,” Dennis says, and he thumps his head on his desk and pretends to nap. I look toward Mrs. Spangle, and she has her own head buried in her bottom desk drawer, digging through her handbag. I peer over the side of Dennis’s desk until I can see his face, and he has his eyes closed, ignoring me.

So I...