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    Don't Wear Polka-Dot Underwear with White Pants: (And Other Lessons I've Learned)
    Don't Wear Polka-Dot Underwear with White Pants: (And Other Lessons I've Learned)
    Don't Wear Polka-Dot Underwear with White Pants: (And Other Lessons I've Learned)
    Ebook96 pages1 hour

    Don't Wear Polka-Dot Underwear with White Pants: (And Other Lessons I've Learned)

    By Allison Gutknecht and Stevie Lewis

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    About this ebook

    Eight-year-old Mandy Berr learns life lessons with patriotic pizazz in the first adventure of a new chapter book series.

    Eight-year-old Mandy Berr has a lot going on. She has to share her parents’ attention with her newborn twin siblings, who are always crying, and her little brother, Timmy, who is constantly in her way. And she also has to find a way to deal with her nemesis, Dennis, who has a knack for getting under her skin.

    At least Mandy has the upcoming Presidential Pageant to look forward to at school. She is determined to be President George Washington—she is perfect for the lead part, after all. But when Mandy’s teacher makes a surprising choice, it looks like Mandy will have to keep sharing the spotlight. Can she find her own way to shine?

    Mandy has some valuable life lessons to learns in this adorable chapter book—including the fact that white pants and polka dot underwear are never a good combination.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAladdin
    Release dateNov 12, 2013
    ISBN9781442483941
    Don't Wear Polka-Dot Underwear with White Pants: (And Other Lessons I've Learned)
    Author

    Allison Gutknecht

    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.

    Read more from Allison Gutknecht

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      Book preview

      Don't Wear Polka-Dot Underwear with White Pants - Allison Gutknecht

      CHAPTER 1

      The Trouble with White Pants

      I KEEP TELLING MOM ABOUT the White Pants, and she says to wear them anyway.

      They will make me fall down, I explain.

      Pants do not make you fall down, Amanda, Mom answers, because she does not understand anything at all.

      Yes, they do. I stomp my foot and cross my arms and put on my very best I am pouting now face. White pants like dirt, and they will make me fall in it.

      Then be extra careful at recess, please, Mom says, holding the awful pants open for me to step in.

      No.

      Mom sighs a big gust of breath in my face and stares at me with her I mean business eyes. Amanda Berr, I am going to count to three.

      I will get ketchup on them, I say.

      One . . .

      I will drop marker on them, I say.

      Two . . .

      I groan like a dinosaur and lift up one leg just so Mom will stop counting.

      Here is a deal, I begin. I will wear these awful white pants if you buy me periwinkle pants. My favorite color is periwinkle. It is more beautiful than blue and more perfect than purple and it is a fun name to say. But I do not have one piece of periwinkle clothing, and I think this is unfair. I checked my whole entire closet—shirts and shorts and dresses and ugly fancy blouses that Mom keeps in plastic until Easter. No periwinkle. I had held my periwinkle crayon from my box of 152 colors up to each piece, just to be sure. And still nothing.

      I’ll look for some, Mom says, shaking the white pants in front of me.

      Today, I insist. I want periwinkle pants today.

      I cannot get you periwinkle pants today, Mom says. Why can’t you just like a nice, normal color—like pink? How about if I get you pink pants?

      I hate pink.

      "Good, these pants aren’t pink." Mom shakes the pants even more ferociously.

      I grab the pants in my own two hands then. I will dress myself. I am not a baby, I say.

      Fine, Mom answers. "Be downstairs and dressed in five minutes, Amanda. And in those pants. I don’t have time for any more funny business today."

      So I stuff my legs into the pants and stomp down to the kitchen table, and Mom does not even say, Thank you for wearing the awful white pants, Mandy. Mandy is my real name even though Mom thinks it is Amanda. I do not like the name Amanda because it does not have any Ys in it, and this is a tragedy. I like to make Ys with curlicue tails and I cannot do this when there are no Y’s in my name, so this is why my name is Mandy and not Amanda.

      Finish up your cereal, Amanda, Mom says. Your bus will be at the corner in ten minutes. Hurry.

      I cannot hurry because of these pants, I tell her.

      Don’t be ridiculous, Mom responds, which I think is pretty rude, if I am being honest.

      I am being serious, I insist. If I eat quickly, I will dump the cereal onto the pants and they will be dirty because white pants love dirt. I told you so already. I lift one kernel of cereal onto my spoon very slowly and raise it toward my mouth, just to show Mom how careful I have to be.

      If you want to eat that way, it’s up to you, Mom says. But you only have five more minutes to do so, Amanda.

      Mandy, I remind her, but she does not correct herself. Mom is not such a good listener. She was not such a good listener ever, but she is even worse now that the twins are here. Everything in this house for the past five months has been about the twins:

      The twins are hungry.

      Don’t be noisy, you’ll wake the twins.

      Aren’t the twins adorable?

      The twins are not adorable. They’re damp. Damp is my new favorite word—my teacher, Mrs. Spangle, taught it to us during our science lesson. It means when something is just a little bit wet. And the twins are always just a little bit wet. Their diapers are wet or their drool is wet or their food is wet. They’re damp. Like that washcloth that is still damp the next morning even though it’s had the whole entire night to dry from your bath. And damp things are gross, I’ve decided.

      Mom says it’s not nice to call the twins gross. She says I have to call them Samantha and Cody, but most of the time, she’s not paying enough attention to see if I do, so I don’t.

      My little brother Timmy also hardly gets any attention anymore, but I don’t mind that so much. Because he’s pretty gross too.

      Oof, Cody is wet again. Mom pats the diaper on one of the twins and lifts him up. He starts to wail then, because all the twins like to do is cry and get even damper.

      They are pretty terrible, if I am being honest.

      Amanda, can you get yourself to your bus stop? Mom calls over her shoulder on her way to the twins’ room.

      I’m eight, I answer, because Mom forgets that I am not a baby. I know important things like how to get to my bus stop and how to read books without pictures in them and how to cook—well, to pour cereal, which is pretty much the same thing.

      Don’t forget your lunch box! Mom calls from the twins’ room. It’s on the counter. I swirl the rest of my cereal around in the bowl and try to splash a little on my pants so I can change them. Hurry, Amanda!

      I groan like a dinosaur again and pick my Rainbow Sparkle lunch box up off the counter. Rainbow Sparkle is who I want to be when I grow up: She is fast and she is funny and she has purple eyes, which is what I want to have (hers are almost periwinkle, only not quite). I’m stuck with brown eyes and brown hair, when all I want are beautiful purple

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