Alvin Ho: Allergic to Birthday Parties, Science Projects, and Other Man-made Catastrophes is a part of the Alvin Ho collection.
There's nothing scarier than a birthday party in the third book in a hilarious chapter book series that tackles anxiety in a fun, kid-friendly way. Perfect for both beginning and reluctant readers, and fans of Diary of a Wimpy Kid!
Alvin Ho, an Asian American second grader, is afraid of everything. For example, what could possibly be so scary about a birthday party? Let Alvin explain:
• You might be dressed for bowling . . . but everyone else is dressed for swimming.
• You could get mistaken for the piñata.
• You could eat too much cake.
• You could throw up.
So when Alvin receives an invitation to a party—a girl’s party—how will he ever survive?
A humorous and touching series about facing your fears and embracing new experiences—with a truly unforgettable character—from author Lenore Look and New York Times bestselling and Caldecott Honor winning illustrator LeUyen Pham.
“Alvin’s a winner.” —New York Post
An Excerpt fromAlvin Ho: Allergic to Birthday Parties, Science Projects, and Other Man-made Catastrophes
One Foot in the Grave
my name is Alvin Ho. I was born scared, and I am still scared. I never thought I’d live to see myself in another book, on account I could’ve very well died camping in that last one. The good news is that I had the secret powers of my Batman ring and my rolls of toilet paper with me. They saved my life.
The bad news is, there’s still a lot of other things that could kill me, just like that:
Pork chops (if they’re not well-done).
Chopsticks (if you fall on them).
The kiss of death.
The safest place for me to be is home, if you don’t count the fact that my home is in Concord, Massachusetts, which is hard to spell. It’s where the American Revolutionary War began, with lots of explosions and bad language and dead bodies all over the place. There aren’t any dead bodies out there anymore, but there sure are a lot of creepy dead authors who still live inside their homes, giving tours, instead of lying around at the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery where they belong. Normally, this isn’t a big problem, like setting fire to the woods, it’s just an average problem, like having the match.
But today was not normal.
When I got to school this morning—surprise, surprise—we hopped right back on the bus after A&A (attendance and announcements).
“Hey, it’s time for handwriting class!” I screamed as the bus rolled down the street, away from school. I love hand- writing class.
“Hooray, no handwriting today!” yelled Pinky, whose handwriting looks like hair floating in the ocean. “Yippie!”
“Did you forget?” asked Flea, who was sitting next to me. “It’s our field trip day.” Flea’s a girl. Otherwise, she’s okay. She wears a patch over a genuine pirate eye, and one of her legs is longer than the other, like a real peg leg. But she’s still a girl.
Field trip? What field trip?
“I’ve been looking forward to this all week!” shrieked Esha.
“Me too!” said Sara Jane.
I love field trips. I’m just not good at remembering them.
The wheels on the bus went round and round.
Scooter and Jules’s thumbs went up and down in a thumb-wrestling match.
Then their fists went left-hook, right-hook in a boxing match.
Then Nhia, who is a ninja from Cambodia, slipped a head-hold on Pinky, who has the biggest head in the class on account of he’s the biggest boy, and Pinky screamed into Nhia’s armpit, which made Hobson whack Eli on the head, which made Sam karate-chop Scooter with a loud “Aiyah!”, which made our teacher, Miss P, who was sitting at the front of the bus, turn around and yell, “SIMMER DOWN, BOYS, OR YOU’LL GET A NOTE SENT HOME!” How she knew who was doing what, all the way from the front of the bus and facing the other way, I’ll never know. But she’s very smart and smells like fresh laundry every day. Maybe she has eyes in the back of her head, just like my mom.
The noise on the bus simmered down.
When mouths close, something else is supposed to open, it’s one of the rules of school.
In this case, it was Scooter’s lunch box. Scooter’s dad is a cook in a restaurant and Scooter gets restaurant leftovers for lunch. And when Scooter opens his lunch box, people sniff.
It smelled like cold fried chicken. It was cold fried chicken!
Scooter’s teeth sank into the chicken.
Juice dribbled down his chin.
This made Hobson, who’s a little roly-poly, yelp that he was hungry too, and rip open his lunch bag—just as the bus went around Monument Square, which isn’t a square at all, it’s a circle—and something went flying. I think it was raisins. Yes, it was raining raisins!
Then it rained sea- weed crackers! Then potato chips! Then my favorite—Goldfish crackers! Oh, I love field trips!