The One and Only Zoe Lama Page 11

  “Yeah. Sadly, wallpapering doesn’t get you any actual property rights.”

  “I should have listened to you. It’s just that he’s so manly…I lost my head.”

  Manly? The guy phones his mother every time he gets a C and says he’ll hold his breath if she doesn’t come into the school and make them change it. “Don’t beat yourself up, Annika. It could have happened to anyone who’s been taking advice from a Sixer—”

  She gasps. “Devon chose the frolicking puppy wallpaper. She dropped by with Cheese Nips. Believe me, Devon will be devastated when she hears what Justin did.”

  Frolicking puppy wallpaper and Cheese Nips—these are Devon’s business moves? “The only thing I can suggest now is that we go after him for joint ownership. Which means you could maybe get the locker every other week. And alternating holidays.”

  “I couldn’t do it. He’s already talking about Tricia moving in.” Her cheeks glow pink, which totally clashes with her orangey hair. “It would kill me to see her things scattered on my throw rug.”

  That’s it. Not only is Devon Sweeney going to destroy me and my future marriage, she’s going to destroy the entire school. She’s taken her lousy advice too far. And these kids are gullible—they’re willing to fall for the first swindler who pulls a folder full of printed pages out of their pocket. I care way too much about my friends at this school. I care way too much about Riley.

  There’s only one way I can beat her—and after losing Boris, it’s not going to be easy. I have to come up with the very best advice the peoples of Allencroft Middle School have ever heard.

  Bad Jokes Come Before Boston Creams

  Other than my knee banging under the coffee table, the living room is completely silent. Outside, a bus roars along Chicoutimi Street.

  I let out a big breath and smile. “This is nice.” I look around the room at Laurel, Susannah, and Sylvia. “Isn’t this nice?”

  No one answers. I kick Laurel and Susannah under the table.

  “Yeah!” says Susannah.

  “Real nice,” says Laurel, picking through the bowl of blue corn chips.

  “Come on, Sylvia,” I say. “Have another hot dog.”

  She shakes her head no and goes back to examining her cuticles. “I’m still pretty full from all the Tater Pops you made me eat.”

  “How about a pickle? Pickles aren’t so filling.”

  “Nah. I’m allergic.” Sylvia looks around. “So when does Client Appreciation night start?”

  I smile. She has no idea the fun she’s in for. “You’re living it.”

  Before Sylvia arrived, Susannah, Laurel, and I brain-stormed about how to make it look like we’re an insanely fun bunch of girls. Laurel thought we should do makeovers, but we all agreed that Sylvia’s “after” might not be any better than her “before.” The only thing that’s going to improve her head of snarls is a wig. Susannah said we should watch season one of The Garage Girls because she couldn’t remember if Brie had bangs back then. So I had to invent a rule. Hair is not to be discussed in any way. And since people on TV tend to have perfect hair, no TV. And, since Laurel, Susannah, and I have kind of okay hair, no makeovers.

  Which leaves us with really only two things: our sparkling personalities and a box of Boston cream donuts.

  Sylvia looks at Susannah. “Susannah, did you go to your big audition? The one for the major-motion-picture role?”

  Susannah hugs herself and nods. “They didn’t even make me read lines. They just took a few pictures of me, oohed and aahed, and told me they’d call me back next week. My agent says it almost never happens this way and that I’m really lucky.”

  “How exciting,” says Sylvia. “I’ve always wanted to be a model…”

  Okay, this is very bad. If Sylvia starts setting her sights on impossible goals, it’s going to be very bad for business. I need to change the subject. Not only that, but I need to start being insanely fun. “I have a joke!” I say. “What’s fuzzy and green, and if it fell out of a tree it would kill you?”

  Laurel throws up her hand. “I know! A poisonous caterpillar!”

  I shake my head.

  “A moldy blueberry,” says Susannah as she brushes her hair.

  “No,” I say.

  “A green kitten!” shouts Sylvia. “With supersharp claws.”

  Laurel falls over laughing. “Green kitten!”

  “No,” I say. “A pool table.”

  They all look at one another, scrunching up their faces. Then Laurel huffs. “Why would a pool table be hanging from a tree?”

  “I never said it was hanging!” I say. “It’s just sitting up there. Which is why the joke is so funny.”

  Susannah says, “It’s not funny, Zo.”

  “Yes, it is.” It needs to be funny. Insanely funny.

  Laurel says, “The kitten’s better.” She starts to giggle. “He’s, like, all fuzzy and green…”

  Susannah snorts, “A green kitten would get so much TV work.”

  I clench my jaw and try to keep my voice calm. “Sylvia, what’s funnier? Kitten or pool table?”

  “Umm…” The room falls silent while she thinks. I can hear the clock ticking in the kitchen.

  “What was that?” asks Sylvia suddenly, tilting her head toward the wall. “It sounded like scritch-scratching.”

  Laurel jumps up. “Maybe it’s Boris!” She rushes over to the wall and starts banging. “Boris! Here, Boris!”

  “It’s not Boris,” says Susannah. “The walls are filled with bugs.”

  Sylvia’s face goes pale and I nudge Susannah. Ugly rumors like this can sink a company. I smile. “Zoë Lama and Associates does not have bugs.”

  “Boris!” Laurel shouts into the wall.

  “Someone get a piece of cheese!” says Laurel. “We’ll put it on the bathroom floor. As Boris bribery.”

  “Yeah! Only guinea pigs don’t eat cheese. We need hay,” says Sylvia.

  “Where are we going to get hay?” asks Susannah, rolling her eyes. To me, she whispers, “Can I get the donuts now?”

  “Yeah. But eat slowly. Otherwise we’ll run out of things to talk about.”

  Susannah jumps up and heads toward the kitchen. She comes back with the box. “Boston creams for everyone,” she sings.

  “I love Boston creams,” says Sylvia.

  “Same here,” says Laurel, pulling a spray bottle of blue food dye from her fanny pack. “I’m going to eat mine from the inside out.”

  “Me, too!” Sylvia says. “First I squirt out the cream, then I pull the hole open and separate the top from the bottom, then I—”

  “Eat the top first!” Susannah squeals. “That’s exactly what I do.”

  We all reach into the box at the same time. “Not too many, Sylvia,” I say. “Remember what happened last time.”

  “What happened?” asks Laurel.

  I explain. “Nothing. Sylvia gets night terrors if she eats too much chocolate before bed. Screams like a sick cat in the middle of the night.” I laugh. “Right, Sylvia?”

  Sylvia goes pale. She drops her donut.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is it starting already?”

  She reaches for her overnight bag and heads for the front hall.

  “Sylvia!” I call. “Where are you going?”

  A few seconds later, I hear the front door slam.

  “Did she just leave?” asks Laurel with her mouth full.

  I tear out of the apartment and find her punching the elevator button. “Sylvia, wait! Don’t go, please!”

  “My night terrors were a secret! You swore you’d never, ever tell anyone, remember? You said it right in front of my mother.”

  Ooh. I actually do remember something like that. Vaguely. “But that was a few years ago. I completely forgot! Anyway, it’s only Laurel and Susannah. They won’t think badly of you, believe me, if you knew half the weird stuff they do—”

  “That’s not the point. You promised you’d never say anything!”

 
“And I’m sure I meant it. I just forgot…”

  She waves her hand toward the apartment. “I never wanted a big event from you. I don’t care about flash and dazzle. All I wanted was an apology. I lost my boyfriend.”

  I stare at her little face. “That’s all it would have taken to keep you as a client? And friend?”

  She nods.

  I wrap my arms around her and hug her tight. “I’m so sorry, Sylvia.”

  She pulls away and steps onto the elevator. “Good-bye, Zoë.” And, for the first time in years, the doors close right away.

  Nothing Mops Up Brain Sweat Like a Good Book

  Sunday morning, Susannah and Laurel called to tell me to put on a tracksuit and sneakers and meet them at the public library. They said they had a plan to help me take down Devon, which is going to be harder than I’d originally thought. She got her hair streaked. I’d like to report that it looks perfectly awful, but the truth is, it looks awfully perfect.

  The Icktopian election is this coming Friday and this I know for sure. I will not lose to the dazzlingly highlighted Devon Sweeney, no matter how many golden hairs fall on Riley’s shoulder. We’re meant to give our speeches before the Icktopian people vote, and Devon—who’s been working on hers with her dad—has been spreading rumors that hers is so good she just might publish it, too.

  What Devon doesn’t know is that mine is going to be even better. As soon as I write it, that is.

  I show up at the library to find Laurel and Susannah seated around a table with a pile of water bottles and energy bars in the middle.

  “What’s this?” I ask, reaching for a yogurt bar.

  Susannah smacks it out of my hand with the long stick attached to the newspaper. “Not until after Round One.”

  “You’re in training now,” Laurel explains. “We’ve gathered up every Dear Allie advice column from the last eight months. We’re going to ask you questions and you’re going to give us your very best advice.”

  “Then we’ll compare it to Dear Allie’s to see how you measure up,” says Susannah. “It’s the only way to work your advice muscles. Get your edge back.”

  “By the end of the day, you’ll be in the best shape of your Lama life,” Laurel says. “Olympic level.”

  I raise both ends of the white towel hanging around my neck. “So why did I need to bring this? Brain sweat?”

  “Exactly,” Susannah says.

  I plunk my feet up onto the table, pull a bag of chocolate chip cookies out of my pocket, and cram two in my mouth. “Okay. Let the games begin.” I mumble through the crumbs. Who am I to argue? I don’t know if I’m losing my edge or not, but I’m definitely losing my mind. Sylvia has been declared Devon’s #1 MBF, Mrs. Patinkin’s class is barely speaking to me, and Riley is getting more hair-covered by the day.

  And whether I like it or not, moving day is one week away. I’m ready to try anything.

  “I’ll go first,” says Susannah, disappearing behind the newspaper. “Dear Allie.” She pauses and peers over the top. “I mean, Zoë. My four-year-old granddaughter throws tantrums in the candy aisle of the supermarket, and when I tell her to keep her voice down, she hits me. What should I do? Signed, Battered in Boston.” They both lean real close and stare at me.

  I smile. “That’s easy. The kid obviously needs chocolate. Chocolate’s filled with tryptophan—a chemical that makes people happy. If Grandma makes her kid happy, she won’t get whacked.” I lean back and pop another cookie. “Next.”

  Susannah scrunches up her face. “That’s not what Dear Allie said. She said that the child is acting up because she needs an hour of focused attention from Grandma each day.”

  “That’ll work, too,” I say.

  Susannah and Laurel look at each other. “Okay, my turn,” Laurel says, looking through the advice column. “I have been dating my boyfriend for two years. Is it appropriate for me to phone him sometimes, or should I continue to wait for him to call me? Signed, Too Much Silence in Syracuse.”

  I laugh. “You should wake up and smell the 1900s. And when you’re done with that century, take a whiff of the new millennium. Put lover-boy on speed dial—stat—and harass his carcass every time he’s so much as sharing a subway car with another girl.”

  They’re silent for a minute.

  “Please tell me that’s not what you do with Riley,” says Susannah, shaking her head.

  “No. I’m just saying she needs to be coaxed into civilized society. That’s all.”

  Laurel bugs her eyes at Susannah.

  “I totally saw that!” I say. The librarian shushes us.

  “Zoë,” says Susannah. “It’s very possible you’re going through a lull. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Okay. This is my cue to take a break. I grab a water bottle and wander off into the aisles, running my fingers along the spines of the books and listening to the sound it makes—like playing cards in the spokes of my bike tires.

  This Lamarama training session isn’t going to help. In fact, I really don’t think anything is going to help me. Could it be possible that Devon is actually the better Lama? She does have youth on her side. Is it possible that rules look more official when they’re written down?

  Maybe it’s over for me. I’ve had a good seven-, eight-year run. Most presidents don’t last as long. Maybe I should be thankful for what I’ve had and move on. I could always take up knitting. Or maybe I could collect souvenir spoons, like old Mrs. Grungen down the hall. I glance at the bookshelves to find I’m in the animal section. Which gets my brain clicking and whirring. Didn’t my mom say I could get a pet?

  I bend down low and scan the books, crawling past the wild animals to the pet-care manuals. They have books for every kind of pet—from hedgehogs to potbellied pigs. Both of which would make my mom about as happy as the cockroaches.

  No, what I need is something cuddly and friendly. Something that would help fill up space in that big old house. Something like…I stop and pull out a book about Airedales. That’s exactly what I need. A puppy.

  I sit on the floor and stare at one pouting puppy after another. They’re so cute it makes me rethink my whole frolicking-puppy-wallpaper stance. Maybe being surrounded by puppies is a solid way to build a relationship.

  I reach for another book—this one’s on dog care. It’s a pretty good one, too. The puppies don’t look quite as bigeyed, but there’s lots of good information on things like how to teach your puppy to go down the stairs and how to keep him from eating out of the cat’s litter box. I look around to make sure no one’s looking before folding down the corner of that page. I might need the litter-box advice for Smartin one day.

  Or maybe Devon will.

  I sip from my water bottle and turn to a page about training. There’s this special program they use called LOVE. Hmm. L is for Learner—if you tell your new pal what you want, she’ll be a quick learner. O is for Open—open yourself up to your MBF’s fears and concerns and you’ll spend many happy years together.

  V is for Voice. Always speak to a new MBF in a calm, soothing voice so she learns she can trust you. A calm, soothing voice…

  I choke on my water.

  This is Devon’s advice!

  I tear back to the table, where Susannah and Laurel are taking some kind of coaches’ break and scarfing down all the energy bars. I slap the book down on the messy table, ignoring the shushing that is coming from every which direction. “How much do you dudes love me?”

  Susannah snorts, “I’ll love you a whole lot more when you get that book off my new purse.”

  “This training session is over,” I say.

  “I hate to tell you, Zoë, but it’s barely begun. In case you hadn’t noticed, Round One completely blew. I’ve been thinking for our next round—”

  “There’ll be no next round. Turns out that hooking your arm through your boyfriend’s and saying ‘Let’s go,’ then praising him lavishly isn’t actually the best way to get your boyfriend to go shampoo shopping with you; i
t’s how to avoid hesitation in your pet beagle! And putting meat tenderizer on Harrison’s submarine sandwich is not going to get him to lose weight, it’s how to get a pup to stop eating his own poop!”

  Laurel and Susannah’s eyes bug out so far they just might drop out onto the table.

  “That’s right,” I say. “Devon’s advice comes from a dog-care manual. Every last bit of it!”

  “Shut up!” says Susannah, grabbing the book from my hand.

  “That’s not the best part. Flip to page 137.”

  Susannah flips forward and starts reading. Then she stops and looks up at me slowly. “No…”

  “Yes.” I turn the book around for Laurel to see. “MBF doesn’t stand for Major Best Friend at all. It stands for Man’s Best Friend!”

  Laurel shrieks and grabs for the book. She scans the page. “Do you realize what you’ve just done, O Zoë Lama? You’ve not only won the Icktopia election, you’ve won your place back as rightful ruler of the whole school.”

  A slow smile stretches across my face.

  Life Swapping Not Recommended

  “Zoë,” my mother calls from the living room later Sunday afternoon. “How’s it going in there? I hope you’re busy packing up your closet. The moving truck arrives next Saturday whether you’re ready or not.”

  I’m lying on my bed writing my election speech, which will start out something like this: What do choke chains, liver snaps, and student ID cards have in common? Everything if you’re a student at Allencroft Middle School—where you’re all being treated like DOGS! I can already hear the whole school gasp. Especially Riley.

  “Can’t hear you, Mom. I’m too busy packing up my closet,” I say. For effect, I crinkle a few sheets of paper.

  “That’s wonderful, honey. I’m glad to see you’re coming around to the whole moving thing. Lorraine tells me there’s a girl your age living right next door. I’ll bet she smells way better than Mrs. Grungen.”