The One and Only Zoe Lama Page 7

  riledup: yep. lzl

  zoelama: ?lzl?

  riledup: later, zoe lama

  zoelama: wait, did u hear wat happened to me today?

  I wait for him to answer. I wait some more.

  zoelama: ri?

  He’s gone. And not only is he gone, but he has no idea how close he came to losing me. And I have no idea how upset he would have been. Which means my perilous adventure was one big waste.

  My IM jingles again.

  g-ma: yo zo?

  zoelama: hi g-ma, did mom tell u about wat happened to me?

  g-ma: no time 4 that. Nursie’ll be right back. I got caught.

  zoelama: ?caught?

  g-ma: cigars in the boys room w/ fritz

  zoelama: i knew it! he’s a bad influence on u

  g-ma: o he’s bad alright. heehee. They threatened 2 kck me up to 7th floor 4 total lockdown

  zoelama: but then I’d have 2 take the elevator!

  g-ma: 7th floor is ladies only

  zoelama: but they must know it’s fritz’s fault!

  g-ma: they nvr saw him. and I’ll nvr tell. don’t tell ur mom, she’ll make me stop seeing him

  zoelama: u should stop seeing him!

  g-ma: i’ve told u 2 much. delete this IM! Bye!

  I don’t know where this Fritz came from, but he must be stopped. He’s turning g-ma into a teenager!

  Rule by Humiliation. You Know, in the Name of World Peace.

  This has never happened before. Ever. Today is

  the day we’re meant to turn in our Icktopia drawings and mine isn’t even close to being finished. Not only that, but there’s a dried-up puddle of drool in the center of the island because I fell asleep all over my homework last night. Being trapped in a semi-airless metal box for an hour was more exhausting than you’d think.

  In the classroom, Devon is sitting at Mrs. Patinkin’s feet. It seems the hem of Mrs. Patinkin’s pants has fallen and Devon is trying to fix it with masking tape. I whip out my mini-stapler and climb down onto the floor beside Devon. “It’s better to staple a pant hem,” I say.

  “Zoë,” says Mrs. Patinkin with a smile, “we’ve got this under control. Take your seat, please.”

  Take your seat, please?

  I back away and slump down in my chair. After spreading my island drawing on my desk, I start to color in the surrounding water, pressing extra hard where I’ve penciled in waves and slowing down around the gang of seagulls who are waiting for the whale to blow fish out of his hole. My drawing might not be finished, and the dry riverbed might be slightly puckered from drool, but my version of Icktopia is perfect.

  There are kittens, goldfish, and wiener dogs roaming free. Every beach has three trash cans that are emptied every hour and waiters stand on every street corner with silver trays full of chocolate chip cookies.

  Right smack in the center of town is the Icktopian Jail—one tiny cell surrounded by bars. The only things in the room are a My Little Pony sleeping bag, a toilet with zero privacy, and a rack of my mother’s ugliest dresses for prison uniforms. I plan to keep the Icktopians in line using the threat of humiliation rather than force. If every country did this, I’m quite certain we’d have world peace.

  I poke Susannah in the ribs. “Hey. Did you get the Queen of the Perfects commercial?”

  She lowers her glasses and looks around. “I got better than that.”

  Laurel scoots her chair closer.

  Susannah’s eyes light up. “I made it just in time, but only because my agent’s Humm—” She looks at Laurel. “Because traffic was moving quickly. Anyway, the director took one look at me and called over a bunch of older ladies. They all just stood there, staring at me.”

  Laurel rolls her eyes. “Can we speed this up?”

  “The director finally touches my chin and says, ‘Look at this, she’s perfect.’” She giggles. “And the old ladies agreed! So I asked if I got the part and they said, ‘No, honey. We have something better.’ The director gave me a card and asked me to come back in two weeks.”

  “Wow,” I say.

  Susannah beams.

  “Ugh.” Laurel slumps on her desk. “Why doesn’t anything good ever happen to me?”

  “Tell them we’d like our loft overlooking that really big New York toy store—FAO Schwarz!” I say.

  Susannah slides her glasses back up her nose and sits back in her seat.

  Not two minutes later, Brianna’s head pops over my shoulder. She looks around, then whispers, “Zoë. We need to talk. Real bad.”

  “What—?”

  She shushes me. “I’ve been thinking about this whole island game. You, me, and Maisie need to form an alliance.” Maisie gives me a covert wave from across the room.

  “What?”

  Brianna continues. “These teams could merge into one at any moment. And then someone will get voted off the island! That’s why we need to form our alliance. So we can stay strong. United so we’ll make it to the final three!”

  I don’t even know where to start. “Brianna, there is no final three. We’re voting on leaders, but no one’s getting voted off the isla—”

  Brianna hisses, “That’s what they want you to believe!”

  “Who?”

  Brianna nods and crazy-smiles. “Exactly.” Then she gives me what I guess is our secret alliance shake—she clacks her bony elbow against mine, which makes me yelp.

  Mrs. Patinkin claps her hands and asks Devon to begin gathering up our island drawings. Devon walks up my row holding the pile of Icktopias against her chest. When she gets to my desk, she looks at my drawing and gives me an annoying little rosebud smile, then swooshes on past.

  Twenty-eight Icktopias of all shapes and sizes stare down at us from the board. Avery’s is so tiny he couldn’t fit the name of the island across the top—only Icktop. Laurel’s is done in every shade of blue known to mankind. Even the sun is bluish green. Susannah’s island is surrounded by soft studio lighting, which she says is far more flattering than the cruel and unforgiving glare of natural sunlight.

  “Okay, people,” says Mrs. Patinkin. “I’d like each of you to stand up when I call your name, and apprise the class of your unique and individual vision.” She looks down at her checklist. “Shall we begin with…Riley Sinclair?”

  I personally think Riley is the perfect one to start with since he’s wearing his hair all messy today. It looks extragorgeously cute. He stands up and looks at us through his bangs with a grin. “The magical lands I created—”

  Mrs. Patinkin interrupts him. “From the front of the class, Riley. And position yourself adjacent to your drawing.”

  He stumbles toward the front and looks down at his unlaced shoes. I smile because I know he doesn’t know what adjacent means. “Uh, Mrs. Patinkin?” he asks.

  She lifts her eyebrows.

  “Where should I stand so I can be extra-adjacent to my drawing?”

  “Anywhere beside it will suffice.”

  He steps closer to it and begins. “The magical lands I created are unique and individual.” The class snickers here and Riley fake-growls at them. “If you look over here on the right side, you’ll see our mountain range. It’s where snowboarders can catch some sweet moguls. I’ve added a terrain park with jumps, rails, boxes, and a wicked half-pipe and two quarter pipes.” Some of the kids sit forward in their chairs and groan. Like they wish they were there. But only Small Paul really wishes it. The other kids just want to look like they wish it.

  Riley points to another section of his island, which looks like his little sister colored it. “The waves on the west coast are always good for surfing.”

  “Are there sharks?” asks Harrison Huxtable.

  “There won’t be sharks after we feed you to them, Huxtable,” says Smartin.

  I smack my hand on my desk as a warning to Smartin. What Harrison lacks in calorie control, he more than makes up for with impeccable personal hygiene. The kid’s spotless.

  Smartin, on the other hand, wear
s his breakfast on his clothing and probably bathes himself in a dog dish. He’s a walking microbe factory and has no business speaking to someone as speckless as Harrison.

  “Thank you, Riley,” says Mrs. Patinkin. “I hope you’ve left room for a hospital on your island. Or at least a fracture clinic with extended hours.”

  Riley grins and holds up his ankle, which he broke last year snowboarding. He fake-limps back to his desk. I wish I could fake-kiss him better.

  “Zoë Costello,” says Mrs. Patinkin as she squints at the board. “Am I seeing correctly? Is your drawing…incomplete?”

  “Sort of. It was almost complete, but Laurel and Susannah and I got locked in an elevator and I had what some doctors might call a claustrophobic attack because of a childhood incident involving a rotten hiding place and a suitcase and a moron of a cousin, and by the time we got out of the elevator, I was not only starved nearly to death, but I was emotionally exhausted. I tried to complete my drawing but I guess all the excitement—”

  Mrs. Patinkin interrupts me. Rather rudely, I think. “Laurel, Susannah—were you able to finish your art assignments?”

  They both look at me, terrified. Like they’re not sure if it’s better to get reamed out by me or Mrs. Patinkin. I nod to them that they should tell the truth. Even if the truth takes me down. “Yes,” they both say.

  Mrs. Patinkin glares at me and scratches what looks like a big X in her book. “All right, then, we’ll have to find someone with a less exciting social life to take the stage. Devon Sweeney, is your project complete?” asks Mrs. Patinkin.

  “Yes!” Devon scurries to the front and stands beside a big piece of paper with nothing but a yellow circle on it. The circle has a silvery Z through the middle and is outlined in purple dots. As soon as she points to her crappy excuse for an island, the whole class oohs and aahs like she drew a geographically correct map of Hawaii. “Icktopia means too much to me to draw silly little beaches and seagulls.”

  Hey, I worked for two hours shading those wing feathers!

  She continues: “The only way I could truly capture my feelings was to portray them with this symbol.” Mrs. Patinkin rushes to the board and writes symbol on her vocabulary list. Then she does something even worse. Mrs. Patinkin stands at the board with her crummy chalk, like she’s certain Devon’s going to be shooting off a whole list of chalkboard-worthy vocabulary words.

  Devon says, “The color yellow represents warmth, the silver Z represents a dazzling future, and each purple dot represents a very special memory.” She pauses to hug herself and rock side to side. “It was inspired by my father and all my hopes for him.”

  We all look at one another, confused.

  “I mean his hopes for me!” she says quickly.

  Then, just as I slump farther down in my seat and try to forget the pain in my stomach that seems to start every time Devon talks about her father, the whole class says, “Awww.” Like she’s talking about a lost puppy or a fuzzy caterpillar.

  “I was planning to add a bit of sparkle to my symbol,” Devon says, “to represent the spirit and courage of my people. Except my glue gun broke.”

  Then the worst thing possible happens. Sylvia takes a tiny breath and timidly puts up her hand. “Um, Devon? My mother has a brand-new glue gun. If you want to bring your island—I mean, symbol—over on the weekend, maybe we could add the sparkles together.”

  Mrs. Patinkin stands up and clasps her hands. “This is exactly what I was hoping for. This project is going to bring us closer together as a class.” She looks at Sylvia, then Devon. “Already I’m seeing the beginnings of some real Icktopia magic!”

  I have a word for the chalkboard. Involuntary. Which means I so didn’t mean for anyone to hear the low-pitched growl that came scrabbling and churning up from the underbelly of my soul.

  Sparkles Are for Good Witches of the North and LameWizard Lovers

  The Great Glue Gun Meeting must be stopped. It’s Friday night and I’m home alone in my bear-claw slippers and pajamas. My mom went out for pasta with her best friend, Jane, and promised to be back before ten, which means I have to work fast or else Devon’s going to be welcomed into the bosom of Sylvia’s mother’s craft room. And one thing is certain—once Devon gets a look at the zillions of color-coded ribbons lined up like a rainbow in the Smye’s present-wrapping closet, I’m a goner. There isn’t a girl on earth who doesn’t want to receive a gift wrapped in those ribbons.

  Through a little detective work—I spied Sylvia writing her address on Devon’s hand—I know exactly when the meeting is supposed to go down. Twelve-thirty tomorrow, just in time for Mrs. Smye’s famous smoked-meat sandwiches.

  I pick up the phone and dial Sylvia’s number. There’s a bonus to having known Sylvia as long as I have. I know her weakness. Chocolate. I pour a pile of chocolate chips onto my mother’s bed and pop a bunch into my mouth. You know, for atmosphere.

  Sylvia answers the phone. “Smye residence.”

  I sputter a bit on melted chocolate, then say, “Hi, Sylvia, it’s Zoë.”

  “I can’t really talk right now. It’s almost ten and I’m supposed to be in bed because I have a big day tomorrow…”

  I try to sweep the chocolate from my mouth with my tongue, but there’s too much. “Mm, that’s exactly what I was calling about. Tomorrow. I found a new chocolate shop. It’s down by Bristol Street and they make chocolate-covered rice crackers. And I know how much you like rice crackers.”

  “Wow. Do they make them fresh?”

  I sit up taller. “Yes! But only on Saturdays. Which is why I’m calling so late. Tomorrow’s Saturday. I checked their Web site, they open at eleven. But I figure we should leave early so we can be the first ones there. That way we’ll get the freshest—”

  “Oh, I can’t go tomorrow. Devon’s coming over to finish her project. It’s going to look really good once it’s all sparkly.”

  It takes a second for me to reload my brain. And my mouth, which is watering for more chocolate. “I’ve always believed that less is more when it comes to sparkles. In fact, it should be a rule. Rule #18: Sparkles are for Good Witches of the North and LameWizard lovers. Everyone else should just back away from the sparkle jar.”

  Sylvia says nothing. Little puffs of angry bird breath blow into the phone.

  “Sylvia? Are you there?”

  “I’m a LameWizard lover!”

  I stop chewing. Crud! I forgot about Brandon! “Of course you are,” I say, real quick. “Which is why you are allowed unlimited sparkle access! Much more than the average person! Haven’t I always encouraged you to indulge your sparkle needs? I remember our class Halloween party, back in fourth grade, when you dressed as a princess and wore that shimmering tiara—”

  “Zoë? I have to go now. See you at school.”

  Click.

  My head drops into my hands. Stupid mistake! Insulting her taste in boys and her love affair with glitter. All these years, I’ve done everything I could to build up Sylvia’s confidence. Like the time in kindergarten when she lost her first tooth. I helped her clean it up and polish it so the tooth fairy would be impressed by Sylvie’s attention to dental hygiene. Then there was the time her brother parked his gum in her cowlicks and I had to work it out with Caesar-salad dressing before her mother saw it and cut her hair into bangs—THE dastardly enemy of the cowlick. She smelled like garlic for weeks, but it was better than walking around looking like she’d been electrocuted.

  I grab the phone book from Mom’s night table, then dial Devon’s number. A man with a nice voice answers. “Hello?”

  “Is Devon there, please?”

  He laughs. “She might be.” Then he just waits.

  “Um, can I talk to her, please?”

  “Su-ure.”

  “Can I talk to her today? Please?”

  He laughs a cozy, Christmas-morning-by-the-fireplace kind of laugh. The kind where tinkly music is playing and outside it’s snowing, but you’re safe and warm inside. With your dad. “Wel
l, I guess that can be arranged. Are you a friend of Devon’s?”

  No. “Yes.”

  In the background I can hear Devon giggling and saying, “Daddy, stop it!”

  “Alrighty,” he says. “Let’s see if I can find her. Oh! Here she is, right under my armpit!”

  There’s more tickling and giggling and Devon saying “Daddy!” a few more times. I’m just about to hang up, because all this father-daughter stuff is making my throat burn, when Devon’s voice comes on. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Devon. It’s Zoë.”

  “Hey. What’s up?”

  The plan was to invite her for chocolate-covered rice crackers. Or, if she wasn’t into that, I was going to tell her I had top-secret news that she absolutely had to hear before noon on Saturday. In person. But the air went out of both those ideas. Suddenly I’m too depressed to care much about the Great Glue Gun Meeting. “Um…I was just wondering if you knew which questions we have to do for math homework.”

  “Sure, just a second. I’ll go get it.”

  The phone clatters and I hear Devon’s footsteps running off somewhere. Then I’m left with her father humming. It’s a song I remember from when I was little. The Cruella De Vil song from 101 Dalmatians, which used to be my favorite movie. I don’t remember much about my dad, but it’s possible that he might have watched it with me a few times before he…was gone.

  Just then I hear the front door locks rattling, and my mother coming in. She drops her keys on the hall table and pops her head into her bedroom just as I hang up the phone and stuff it under a pillow. My mother has a few unwritten rules of her own. Like no phone calls after 9:30.

  “Zoë, honey, are you okay?” She looks upset. “Did you hear what happened?”

  “No.”

  “There was a break-in two doors down. In Mr. Mason’s place.”