My Miserable Life by F. L. Block

think they were a problem. The girls were really excited, squirming in their seats like they had to pee.
    â€œOh, thank you,” said Ms. Washington, looking kind of surprised and confused. “I didn’t expect you.”

    â€œI also brought some cupcakes,” my mom said. “They’re made with real sugar and butter and white flour.” She smiled at me and held up a large pink cake box. I guess most bakeries insist on pink cake boxes. No one seemed to mind this either.
    â€œWould you like to help pass out the erasers and cupcakes?” Ms. Washington asked me.
    â€œSure,” I said.
    â€œThank you, Ben. You are the caterpillar’s spats.” She went over to the board and wrote BEN HUNTER IS THE CATERPILLAR’S SPATS . I’m not sure what that means, but I think she meant it as a good thing. “Would you like to ask two friends to help you?”
    â€œJoe Knapp and Serena Perl,” I said. Mercy Keating was staring at my mom like she was the Japanese eraser Mercy wanted the most. Or one shaped like a book if that was an option.
    While we were eating the cupcakes, my mom went over to the board and wrote I LOVE BEN HUNTER SO MUCH THAT IF THERE WAS A LOVE METER, IT WOULD REGISTER SO HIGH IT WOULD EXPLODE .
    Everyone laughed. Great. Thanks, Mom. But the cupcakes were good, and Serena Perl liked her Japanese eraser. It was shaped like a puppy. She said she would never actually erase anything with it so the puppy wouldn’t get worn out.
    *   *   *
    When I got home that afternoon (which was not a Thursday), the girl Thursday was in my room on a stepladder, painting the walls white. The room smelled like paint fumes, and music was blasting.
    â€œHey,” Thursday said when she saw me.
    â€œHey,” I said.
    Her hair was a little longer and dyed pink, and she had on a pair of light blue cutoffs and a lavender T-shirt. She wore less makeup, and I could see a few freckles on her nose. She actually looked kind of pretty. Her eyes were green, which I hadn’t noticed before.
    She stepped off the stepladder, put her hands on her hips, and looked at me.
    â€œI’m sorry I painted your room black.”
    I noticed that the black paint was still showing through the white paint.
    â€œBlack paint is hard to cover,” she said, reading my mind. “Just like the way we try to cover up the dark side of life. But you can’t give up trying. Darkness is real, but so is light.”
    Wow, she had really changed. Maybe it was because her hair was pink? She told me that her new look was “pastel goth.” So probably her hair was dyed pink because she was feeling better and not the other way around.
    â€œNo prob.” She went back to painting, and I took a brush and helped her, because in some ways, she was kind of cool.
    My mom ordered pizza for dinner that night, and Thursday stayed and even helped Mom set the table. Tree came by with his salad. And just as we were about to sit down, there was a knock on the door. Grandma! She had brought homemade cookies and a large container of ice cream.
    â€œBen!” she said, hugging me. She smelled like honey graham crackers and vanilla and roses. “How is my adorable, wonderful young man? I love you so much. Oh, how I’ve missed you!”
    She sat next to me, and we fed Monkeylad snacks under the table. But somehow, when we weren’t looking, he must have escaped, because there was another knock on the door and the Grump was standing there with Monkeylad on a leash.
    â€œHe tried to eat my dinner again!” the Grump shouted. “But this time I caught the little monster!”
    â€œOh, I’m so sorry,” said my grandma. “Please forgive us. Maybe you could join us for dinner, Mr.… Oh, please remind me of your name. I find myself forgetting things lately.”
    The Grump paused and frowned at her. Then he said, “Mr. Fishnik. Frank Fishnik.”

    No wonder