Junie watched Cartoon Cavalcade for a while, but then she gave up. “You know how it feels, Natie,” she told her brother, “when you’re too excited to even watch a show? That’s me.”

“I just want you to remember, Junie,” Nate said. “Even if some people don’t make it, you can still have a good time. Small parties are a lot more fun, actually.”

But Junie wasn’t listening. She made a sign that said WELCOME FIENDS for their front door and scattered a trail of M&M’s from the gravel driveway to the house, in case anyone had a hard time figuring out where to go. She asked Nate if he would put on a different shirt—The Man from U.N.C.L.E. one that was her favorite. “I never told you before,” she said, “but Debbie Fredricks has a crush on you. So be nice to her, okay?”

He would, he said, explaining that having a seven-year-old think he was cute was not exactly his dream in life.

She wanted to put ribbons on Bucky, but her mother said not to. Bucky was too unreliable to have around a bunch of children, anyway. He could kick. So Junie put ribbons on one of their cats, Snowball, instead, while Nate blew up balloons and taped them to the walls.

At eleven thirty their mom made Junie take a nap, even though she swore she’d never sleep. She lay on the bed, calling out every couple of minutes, “Is it time to get up yet?” until finally their mother gave in and said, “Okay.”

By quarter past twelve Junie was dressed and ready, standing by the door. She had picked out her mother’s outfit too: a green dress that showed off her red hair, with matching green earrings shaped like four-leaf clovers and high-heeled shoes she hardly ever had any occasion to wear. “You look just like a mom on a TV show,” Junie said. “Mrs. Cleaver, maybe, or Donna Reed. But even prettier.”

At one o’clock, when the guests were due to arrive, Junie decided to put on a record—the Beach Boys. “Promise me, Natie,” she whispered. “You wouldn’t ever mention how I sometimes have accidents at night, right?”

“Not in a million years, J,” he said. “Anyway, I think you’re going to outgrow that, now that you’re seven.”

At quarter past one Junie was still looking out the window. No cars had pulled up. “Maybe they took a wrong turn,” she said. “Maybe they forgot the directions.” Nate didn’t point out that everyone who rode their bus knew exactly where they lived.

At one thirty, when there were still no guests, Junie sat down on the sofa. “I don’t understand,” she said in a quiet voice. “They all knew about my party for ages.”

“Maybe some of the kids got sick,” Nate lied, knowing as he said it how lame it sounded.