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over. Also, I was feeling kind of . . . troubled. Had it been a good party or a bad party? Were haunted houses in March weird after all?
    Well, yes, haunted houses in March were weird. But were they too weird? Was there such a thing as too weird after all?
    At cake time, Louise pushed her slice away, claiming she only ate normal cake and not weird ghost-flavored cake. She also said black icing stunted kids’ growth.
    â€œSo eat a piece from the middle,” I told her, since only the ghostie’s eyes and mouth were black. The rest was white. Anyway, the shape of the cake was a ghost, but the flavor was chocolate. And it was rude of Louise to say that with Mom right there, since Mom had baked and decorated the cake herself.
    â€œNo, thanks,” Louise said, as in the whole cake is weird and anyone who eats it will turn short and deformed, the end.
    Lying on my bed, I sent Louise a telepathic scowl. Then I got up and went in search of Sandra. Sandra would know if my party had been too weird or not, and I could trust her to tell me the truth. She wasn’t the type of person who lied to make people feel better.
    â€œWas my party weird or good?” I asked when I found her in the bathroom. She was brushing her teeth. Her mouth was frothy.
    She shrugged. “Both.”
    â€œ Both? How could it be both?”
    She spat. “Winnie, think about it. With you, how could it not ?”
    â€œSandra.”
    â€œWhat?” She cupped up some water and rinsed her mouth. “You are a weird child. You will always be a weird child. Deal with it.”
    I put my hands on my hips. “Listen, you. I am not a child. I am ten now, and being ten means I am fully and completely a tween. Before you know it, I will even be . . . doing puberty and taking shaving lessons.”
    She met my eyes in the mirror. “You totally just proved my point, you know.”
    â€œNuh-uh!” I cried. “You just don’t want to admit that I’m growing up, but I am.” She looked amused, so I stomped my foot. “I am, you big old . . . you .”
    She turned from the sink and dried her hands on a towel. “Okay, okay,” she said, giving in way too easily. “It’s just . . . don’t feel like you have to rush it, all right?”
    â€œMeaning what?” I asked suspiciously.
    â€œMeaning that you should take time to smell the roses. Or in your case, that disgusting perfume you made out of daffodils and grape juice.”
    â€œ ‘Daffodil Delight,’ ” I said. I invented it in honor of Amanda, and it was not disgusting . . . although it was also not entirely un disgusting. “And I’m still perfecting the formula.”
    â€œOkeydoke,” she said. She patted my head.
    I ducked away from her. “Stop agreeing with me!” “Winnie, chill. All I’m saying is that growing up is fine, and it happens whether you want it to or not, but it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
    â€œIt is for me,” I argued.
    â€œLucky you. Remember that when something hard comes along, ’kay? And remember that I tried to warn you.”
    â€œI will, and it won’t, and you did not!” I insisted. Then I got confused in my head. “Aaargh!” I cried, spinning on my heel and marching out of there.
    Back in my room, I went to my desk and got out a piece of strawberry-bordered notepaper out of the strawberry stationery set Chantelle had given me. It included a strawberry-scented pen, a strawberry pencil, and an adorable eraser that looked just like a strawberry, only smaller.
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    â€œGrowing up is all it’s cracked up to be,” I wrote. “And being weird is much more fun than not being weird, and so is being unique, and if anything hard ever does come along, then who cares? I’ll handle it, just like Mom said. I can handle anything, and the reason why is because I am me and I am ten and I am awesome. And maybe that