The War with Grandma
The War with Grandma is a part of the The War with Grandpa collection.
Don't miss the laugh-out-loud companion to the classic, The War with Grandpa--now a major motion picture--about a girl who must face off against her grandma or risk losing the biggest competition of summer.
Meg is excited when she hears the Centennial Strawberry Days Celebration is holding a competition for kids. The winner will be crowned the official Strawberry Days Ambassador and get a pair of electric bikes! Meg knows with Dad as her partner, there's no way she can lose.
But Meg's strawberry dreams turn sour when Dad can't participate and, worse, he's already invited Grandma Sally to replace him. Without even asking Meg! Grandma likes to play by her own rules and Meg realizes her chances at winning are at an all-time low.
For Meg this means war! Only, Grandma is tougher than she looks and willing to give as good as she gets. As the competition begins, it becomes clear that Meg's summer will have the most epic showdown ever.
An Excerpt fromThe War with Grandma
1
Meg Stokes’s True Real Exposé
To Whom It May Concern:
URGENT NEWS!!!!!!!!
My grandma is ruining my life and I am so mad I can hardly breathe.
I am going to type everything that happens to me from here on out because I NEED THIS TO BE A MATTER OF PUBLIC RECORD!
This written document will not be a book or a story or an essay. It will be more like an exposé, which according to my teacher, Mr. Bailey, means a piece of writing that gets to the underbelly of things and reveals scandalous truths. So be prepared for scandal. And LOTS of it.
If you ask my dad, it all started many, many, many years ago, before I was even born. When he was in fifth grade (which is the same grade I just finished, so it really was forever ago), he wrote a true and real story about how his Grandpa Jack, my Great-Grandpa Jack, moved in and stole his room. His bedroom. So then my dad declared war on Great-Grandpa Jack, and it got ugly.
Really ugly.
Like U-G-L-Y ugly.
Everyone knows a room-stealing grandpa is no joke.
The fighting got so bad, my dad wrote about it for a school assignment, and then he made it into a book. The War with Grandpa was a pretty good true and real story. A bunch of people read it, even Great-Grandpa Jack, who said, “Peter, this is the best present ever.” I don’t think adults understand presents.
Dad’s war was the most epic war in the history of grandkids and grandparents.
Until now.
Until today.
Until my war.
This exposé is about me and my sworn enemy, my archnemesis. Some call her Sally. My dad calls her Mom. My sister, Hattie, calls her Gram. The old me called her Grandma. Now I call her a menace. And I’m going to tell you all about her and how we’re on opposing sides of this conflict. I won’t leave out a single detail until there is a decisive victory by yours truly.
Things have gotten so bad that right now I am using my dad’s computer.
Dad just walked in and said, “Meg, you’re being ridiculous. Are you really that mad at Grandma?”
I’m not answering him. Because the answer is obviously yes.
I’m typing every word he says instead as a record of what happened so that all the kids in the world will remember the even more terrible War with Grandma and learn how to prepare for battle. Don’t let the comfortable shoes, triangle hair, and big glasses fool you, my friends!
Dad walks over to the desk and starts distracting me again.
“What are you doing?”
“I am typing every word you say.”
“Why?”
“Because I feel it’s necessary.”
He sits on the rocking chair he keeps in here, which is very old, like him, and looks like it’s going to fall apart, like him, but it’s his favorite chair. Then he clears his throat. “I’m sorry about what happened today, but I don’t think it was as bad as you think it was.”
That is false. It’s actually worse than he thinks I think it was. I’m sure of it.
“You have to ease up,” he says, looking me in the eye, so I look him in the eye and type at the same time. I will not be intimidated.
“I’m never going to ease up, Dad.”
“Meg, this has gone too far.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean, can you give your grandmother a break?”
“No.”
“Or at least give me a break?”
“No.”
“Megan, please, stop typing.”
“I’m sorry, Dad, I can’t stop typing, but I can tell you that my feelings have surpassed anger. I am currently furious. Vehement. Incensed!” I’ve been using the online thesaurus because Dad keeps it as his home page and the word of the day is always right there. “I need to find a new partner.” There, I said it at last.
Dad heaves an enormous tired sigh, which makes me feel bad but not that bad.
“Meg. You can’t get a new partner and you know it.”
And here’s the whole heart of the matter. I am in a competition (more on that later) where I will, I WILL, win the prize of my dreams. The prize of my happiness and freedom! I know I can do it. I know I WILL do it. The only thing holding me back—the only person holding me back—is my “partner.” She is sabotaging me.
SABOTAGING!
And no one even cares! No one!
They’re all acting like the events of today are acceptable!
I try to compose myself. I say in my most serious voice, “Dad. Grandma and I have come to a crossroads.”
“A crossroads?”
I say nothing because I don’t know exactly what a crossroads is.
Then my dear old dad stands up and says, “Can you really type that fast?”
“I can.”
“How?”
“Typing club.”
“Typing club? You’re really, really fast.”
“Dad, I’m not even the fastest. I’m fourth.”
“Who’s the fastest?”
“Diego Martinez, and I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Well, you’re faster than me.” For the first time since he started talking, I actually agree with him.
“Thank you.”
“Will you go down and at least talk to her?”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
“I do not know to whom you are referring.”
“Grandma Sally.”
“You mean the person stomping all over my hopes and dreams?”
“Meg. Come on.”
And then I start to fume and I billow up in even more anger.
“Fume? Billow up?” Dad says, reading over my shoulder.
That’s growing annoying, so I say in a very loud voice: “Yes. Fume. Billow up, Dad. Billow up in anger like a tsunami! You were at the competition today! You saw what happened! I have every right to billow up.” I pause and then I say, I say it right to his face, I say, “Grandma Sally and I are at war.”
Dad closes his mouth and acts like he’s being normal, but he’s not being normal. His face gets red and he starts to giggle. GIGGLE!
“It’s not funny, Dad!”
“I know. I know, it’s not,” he chokes out.
“It’s really not funny.”
“I know.”
And that’s where we are, people. That’s where we are. My dad, laughing at me. LAUGHING. My grandma, downstairs, making a mockery of my pain.
So let it go on official record: I am not typing this because I want to be a writer like my dad. I’m not typing this because of some school assignment. I’m not even typing this because I need to “cope with my feelings,” like my Aunt Jenny is always saying (because she’s a therapist and one time made me lie on my back and breathe through my nose and think about dogs running through waves at the beach and it really does help—I highly recommend it).
The reason I am typing this is to make a record of this war with my grandma, because if I don’t, no one will believe me.