Don't Wear Polka-Dot Underwear With White Pants: (And Other Lessons I've Learned) - Plot & Excerpts
It is a whole week later, and no one listens to me except Rainbow Sparkle. I have not practiced my narrator lines all the way through with one family member—not ever—and this is just unfair. It is not even that my house is so boring; it’s just too loud. I like loud noises, but only when they are coming from me. Not from Timmy, not from the washing machine or the dishwasher or the microwave, and definitely not from the twins. The Presidential Pageant is less than a week away now, and every single time I have tried to read all of my lines to Mom, someone has started crying, and it makes me too mad to try again. I cannot concentrate on practicing my fifty-six narrator lines with all this racket. “I am going outside,” I call, and no one answers because nobody listens to me. I go out our back door and stand on the side of the house where I will be alone, my script with Mrs. Spangle’s yellow highlighting held tightly in my hands. I lean against the side of our house, but then I remember about the caterpillars and I stand up straight again.
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