4. The World’s Best Roscoe Riley

Chapter 4 The World's Best Roscoe Riley This all started because my little sister won another trophy. Hazel is still in preschool. And she already has a golden trophy from Little Minnows swim team. And one for being the Fastest Skipper in Ms. MacNamara's pre-K class. So you can see why I was the teensiest bit annoyed when she came home with another trophy. I'd had a long, hard day at school.

On account of an incident involving chocolate milk. Did you know that if you blow through a straw into chocolate milk, the bubbles will volcano right out of your cup? The bubbling part is way cool. Cleaning up the mess afterward is not so cool. Anyway, after all that, I didn't need to hear Hazel's big news as soon as I opened the door. "Roscoe!" she screamed. "I wonned another one! For bestest sitting-stiller for the month at circle time!" "I never got a trophy, and I sit still," I said. "Well, sometimes I do."

Life is so not fair. I dropped my backpack in the hall. I kicked off my tennis shoes. Then I flopped on the couch. "You will not be getting any trophies for neatest boy on planet Earth," Mom said. "Backpack in the closet. Shoes in your room." She kissed the top of my head. "I want a trophy," I said in that whining voice you use when you feel really sorry for yourself. "You got that little plastic statue in kindergarten last year," Mom said. "For most improved hand

raising." "I mean a real trophy," I said. "A big, heavy one. Made of gold." "Shoes," Mom said. "Backpack." I got off the couch and picked up my shoes and my backpack. "You are the best burper in first grade," my big brother Max said. He burped an extra loud one. It was beautiful. Like music. "But I'm still the best in the world," Max added. Which is true. My brother has a gift. "Everybody's got something cool like a trophy or a statue or something to take to show-and-tell," I said.

"Everybody?" Mom asked. "Last week Gus brought his yellow belt from karate," I said. "He got a little gold trophy cup with it. And today Emma brought her piano statue. She got it for practicing lots. It's of that grouchy guy." "Ludwig van Beethoven," said Mom. "He was a famous music writer." "Even you have a trophy, Mom," I said. "For selling Girl Scout cookies." "That was a very long time ago," Mom said. "I was a great little salesperson, though. I could sell snow to a polar bear. I could sell water to an otter. I could sell—" "Gee, Mom," I interrupted. "You are big-time not helping me feel better. Which is sort of your job, after all." Mom gave me a hug. "Sorry, sweetheart. You just be the very best Roscoe you can be. That's all that matters."

Easy for you to say, I thought. You have a cookie trophy. Nobody gives a trophy for being The World's Best Roscoe Riley.