I am really good at math and drawing. But nobody gives out trophies for those things, which is unfair.
So all my parents have is a stack of math tests with stars on them, and some drawings taped up on the wall. They never put up a shelf in the living room for all my awards. Which is good, I guess, because it would be empty.
After I figured we were done with the admiring, I went over to the shelves on the other side of the fireplace.
There were lots of pictures of Margaret’s older brother, Mitchell, there, playing baseball with his friends.
And six identical baseball trophies. M.V.P. each one read, but with a different year. Nothing else.
“What does that stand for, M.V.P.?” I asked.
Margaret scratched her head like she was fake-remembering. “Oh, right! Moron-Villain-Pest,” she said. “He wins it every year. No competition.”
I knew Margaret was making that up because Mitchell isn’t even one of those things. Which does N-O-T, not, mean he is my boyfriend.
I took a purple marker from my pocket and wrote M.V.P. on my arm with a lot of question marks after it so I would remember to find out what it meant.
Margaret didn’t notice because she had picked up a golden ballerina statue.
