My eyes scanned down past where Mrs. Rouse had written “Great reading, Albie!” But I didn’t see anything that looked mashed-up-banana disgusting.
“What?” I asked.
Mom flicked the paper back to her own eyeballs. “What on earth are these books you’ve been reading, Albie?” she said. “The Adventures of Captain Underpants? Captain Underpants and the Attack of the Talking Toilets? The Invasion of the Potty Snatchers?”
“Yeah,” I said. I still didn’t get why she was mad, and when Mom got like that—confusing mad—it was best to talk slow. “The Captain Underpants books. They’re really funny.” The only problem with them was that their titles were so long, it took me forever to write them on my reading log. But it was worth it.
I set the forks down on the table and moved to the backpack. I pulled a book out for her to see. Captain Underpants and the Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants. “I’ve read four already.” Calista had gotten them for me from the library, which I was about to tell my mom, but for some reason at the last minute, I decided not to. “Look at the pictures,” I said instead.
Mom skimmed through the book so fast, I was pretty sure she didn’t even notice the flipbooks, which are the funniest parts. “Albie,” she said slowly. Her forehead was wrinkled up like it was at Dad sometimes when they talked about who was supposed to do the grocery shopping, but I still didn’t get why. We weren’t talking about grocery shopping. “You’re way too old for these books.” She flipped the book open again, to a page where Professor Pippy P. Poopypants is getting really mad about everyone making fun of his name. It’s funny because he’s a scientist, but also he has a really terrible name. Mom held the page up so I could see. “Look at these drawings,” she said. “This is for babies.”
I didn’t think the book was for babies at all, because for one thing, babies can’t read.
“You’re in fifth grade, Albie,” Mom said. “You should be reading books for fifth-graders.”
The timer on the microwave went off then, but Mom didn’t pull out our enchilada dinners. Instead she tossed Captain Underpants on a pile of mail on the counter and walked off down the hall. I stood at the table, just waiting. I stared at the enchilada dinner sitting inside the dark microwave. I wanted to take it out and start eating, because I wasn’t sure where Mom went and my stomach was growling again, but last time I tried to pull a dinner out of the microwave, I got burned by the steam and Mom got mad at me for being careless.
“Here,” Mom said when she finally walked back into the kitchen. She was holding a different book, a new one. She handed it to me.
“Johnny Tr—” I tried to sound the title out, but it was tricky looking.
“Johnny Tremain,” Mom said. “I read it when I was in fifth grade, and I loved it. Now there’s a book for kids your age.”
I turned the book over in my hands. It was thick. Long. Too long. I opened it up. The words were tiny, and there weren’t any pictures.
It did not look nearly as good as Captain Underpants.
“I want you to read at least one chapter tonight for your reading log, okay?” Mom said. I must’ve been frowning on accident, because then she said, “Just try it, Albie. I bet you’ll love it.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Now, why are we just standing here? Didn’t the microwave beep? Let’s eat!”
“I was waiting for you to take the food out,” I said.
“What, you can’t take food out of the microwave by yourself? You’re a big kid, Albie. You need to start acting like it.”