Once my family found out I hadn’t gotten a starring role in the play, I knew they’d feel bad for me. My mom would probably make me cookies. My sisters would probably let me have the TV all week.

I walked in my front door after school, threw down my backpack, plopped on the couch, and let out a loud sigh.

“Don’t leave your backpack by the door. Someone could trip over it,” Mom told me.

“Don’t hog the couch. I want to sit on it too,” my little sister, Mia, told me.

“Don’t sigh so loudly. It’s annoying,” my big sister, Alexa, told me.

“Doesn’t anyone see how upset I am? Don’t you feel bad for me?” I asked.

Waggles, our dog, jumped on my lap. He looked very silly. My sisters had dressed him in a pink and purple skirt.

He licked my face. That was his way of showing me that he felt bad for me. Or maybe he wanted to taste my cheek.

“Doesn’t anyone besides Waggles care that I’m upset?” I asked.

Alexa and Mia shrugged.

“I care. I’m making you a special snack,” Mom said from the kitchen.

“Are you baking yummy cookies?” I asked.

“No. I’m cutting up healthy celery sticks.”

I sighed again.

“Why are you upset?” Mia asked me. “Did you have a potty accident like my friend Jack did in preschool today?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t have a potty accident.”

“Did you miss your mommy when you were at school? My friend Luke cried for his mommy today.”

“That’s not why I’m upset,” I said.

“Did you lose your special teddy bear that you carry around everywhere?” Mia asked.

“No. I don’t even own a teddy bear.”

“Are you upset because you don’t even own a teddy bear?” Mia asked.

“No.”

“I’ll guess why you’re upset. This is fun,” Alexa said.

“I don’t think it’s fun.” I stomped my foot.

Alexa rolled her eyes. “You look as gloomy as a sad baby clown. Either something horrible happened or you’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m not being ridiculous,” I said.

“Okay, I’ll guess horrible things. Did you break an arm or a leg?” Alexa asked.

“No.”

“An arm and a leg?” she asked.

“No.”

“Did you break two arms and two legs? Or two arms and one leg? Or one arm and two legs?” she asked.

“No.”

“Did you break a hand or foot? Or two hands and two feet? Or one hand and two feet? Or —”

“No. I’ll just tell you why I’m upset. I didn’t get the part I wanted in the class play,” I said.

“That’s it? You’re being so grouchy over that tiny thing?” Alexa asked.

“It isn’t tiny,” I said. “It’s big, huge, enormous! Mr. McNutty made a huge mistake, and there is nothing I can do about it!”

“You are very dramatic. Maybe you are a better actor than I thought,” Alexa said. I was not sure if she was serious or not.

Mom walked into the room with a plate of lame celery sticks. “What role did you get that made you so grouchy?” she asked.

I frowned and told her,

“That’s perfect for you,” Alexa said.

“It is. You’re grouchy. And you’re short like a dwarf,” Mia said.

“I wanted to be the prince. That’s the biggest boy part in Snow White,” I said.

“There’s a famous theater saying: ‘There are no small parts, only small actors,’” Mom said.

Huh? That theater saying didn’t make any sense. There were lots of small parts. For instance, Grouchy Dwarf was a small part. It was a very small part. It was so small, it would take a microscope to see it. Grouchy Dwarf was a much smaller part than the part of the prince. My mom was also wrong about there being only small actors. Plenty of actors were tall.

“I love Snow White. It’s so romantic.” Alexa clutched her heart. “It has a princess and a queen and pretty dresses and a big kissing scene. My class performed Peter Pan in third grade. It was full of pirates and swordfights and shouting. It was awful.”

“That sounds a lot better than Snow White,” I said.

“I can cheer you up,” Mia told me.

“By buying me a new video game?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Something better than that.”

“By telling me how I can get the role of the prince?”

Mia shook her head again. “Something better.”

“Are you going to do my chores all week?” I asked.

She shook her head again. “Something better. I’ll sing you a Princess Sing-Along song.” Before I could stop her, Mia sang a song from her favorite TV show. It was my least favorite TV show.

She sang in a screechy voice: “Things could be a whole lot worse, la la la. A witch could give you a curse, la la la. Next time you feel the need to pout, la la la, be glad your nose isn’t a snout, la la la.”

“Singing that song was not better than buying me a new video game, showing me how to get the part of the prince, or doing my chores for a week,” I said.

“I was only trying to help. How about this instead?”

Mia sang: “When you’re feeling really sad, la la la, think of things that make you glad, la la la. Sweet kisses for baby dolls, la la la, new dresses from shopping malls, la la la.”

“You’re not helping at all. Kisses and baby dolls and dresses and shopping malls don’t make me glad. I don’t like any of those things.” I scowled.

I just kept going. “Alexa didn’t help either. I don’t like romantic plays. And Mom is wrong about there being no small parts, only small actors. Grouchy Dwarf is a very small part. And the tall kids in my class are acting in the play. Owen Leach is tall, and he got the part I wanted.”

“Keep that mad look on your face. I’m drawing a picture of you,” Mia said. She was sitting in front of me with a big sketch pad and a pile of colored pencils. “If you stop looking angry, I’ll have to erase your face in my picture and start over.”

“I’m so mad about the play, I’ll probably look angry for the rest of my life,” I said.

“Great! Thanks!” Mia smiled.

I glared at her.

“Perfect,” she said.

A few minutes later, she held up her sketch pad. She’d drawn a picture of me looking very mad. My eyes and cheeks were red. My frown reached to my chin. There was spit on my lips.

“What should I call this drawing?” she asked.

“Call it Handsome Big Brother,” I said.

Mia shook her head.

“How about Zeke the Magnificent?”

She shook her head again.

“Call it The Boy Who Should Be the Prince,” I said.

“I know the perfect title.” Mia smiled. I’m calling my picture Zeke Meeks, the Pouting Crankypants.”

“I’m not a pouting crankypants!” I shouted. I was so mad, I punched the couch.

“Ezekiel Heathcliff Meeks,” Mom said. “Go take a ten-minute time-out in your bedroom.”

I stomped into my room and slammed the door hard.

“Make that twenty minutes,” Mom said.

As I sat on my bed, I realized I had been very, very wrong. This was not the best day of my life. It was the worst day of my life.