The One and Only Zoe Lama

by Tish Cohen

  Just then Janna Knudsen trots up wearing two different boots—a dark brown sheepskin boot on one foot, and a cream sheepskin boot on the other.

  Looking at no one in particular, she says, “Haley’s selling knockoff boots. Only nineteen dollars a pair. Which boot goes better with this outfit?”

  I want to kiss her for interrupting us. I try to focus on her question, looking her over from mismatched boots straight on up to her dingy blond hair. She’s wearing a dirty white ski jacket with faded jeans. It’s a no-brainer.

  I say, “Dark brown,” at the exact same time Devon says, “Cream.”

  I look at Devon, shocked. Again, no one says a word.

  The end-of-recess bell rings and kids scatter. Janna waves thank you and goes back to the small pile of boxes in front of Haley Reiser. Then Devon waves good-bye and disappears into the school.

  “Can you believe that Devon?” I say to Laurel and Susannah. “Janna was totally asking me! Janna has been asking me for fashion tips since the year she wore her skirt backward during school assembly. Besides, the poor kid’s dingy from head to toe; can you imagine how a pair of dirty-after-two-days, fake suede boots are going to look? You might as well call her Dingy Girl. You have to train the eye away from all the dinginess, not add to it! Just because her father designs fashion doesn’t mean Devon is qualified to take over! I’m going to have a talk with Janna right after—”

  “Uh, Zoë?” says Laurel, nodding toward Janna. “I think it’s too late.”

  My mouth drops open as I watch Janna counting out money and placing it into Haley’s hand. Tucked under Janna’s arm are the cream boots.

  Rules Were Made to Be Spoken. Out Loud.

  Friday morning I’m the first one in the classroom. We ran out of milk this morning, so my mom had to drive us to a coffee shop for hot chocolate and croissants to go. So not only did I get to eat breakfast in the car, I got chauffeured all the way to the front doors of the school like Susannah will be when she’s in the movies.

  I have to turn on the classroom lights because Mrs. Patinkin isn’t even here yet. After I hang up my backpack and my coat, I blow Boris a kiss that I hope he’ll remember when he’s at Devon’s house all weekend, then I head for my desk. Which I just now realize has something shiny and hot pink on it. And so does Laurel’s. And Susannah’s. And every other desk in the entire class, including Mrs. Patinkin’s.

  I scoot into my seat and pick it up. It’s a fancy folder and it says, “Devon Says.”

  She wrote down her crappy advice and had it professionally bound? In pink?

  I refuse to open it. In fact—I drop it on my desk—I refuse to even touch it.

  Riley thunders into the room and tugs on my hair twice as he passes me. “Whoa,” he says. I don’t turn around because I can hear him picking up the…thing. “Devon wrote a book!”

  I cross my arms across my chest, but don’t turn around. I huff out a little puff of air. “It’s not a book, it’s a folder.”

  He whistles. “Still. Kind of fancy. It has all her rules in it.” Then he pokes me in the back with the thing. “See? Someone beat you to it. I’ve been telling you for years to write down your rules.” He makes a hissing noise with his tongue. “Now it’s too late. It’s all over.”

  I don’t respond.

  His head pokes over my shoulder. “Why so silent? You’re not jealous of Devon Sweeney, are you?”

  I toss my hair, which might not behave as well as Devon’s, but definitely has more personality. “Not a chance.”

  He grins slyly and drops back into his seat. “I’m not sure that twitching eyelid of yours agrees.”

  Mrs. Patinkin is the last one in the classroom. She waves hello with her fingers, then picks up her copy of “Devon Says.” First she looks at the cover, then she flips it open and thumbs through the crummy pages. “Well, well, well. We have a published author in our midst. Tell me, Miss Sweeney—would you be willing to sign my copy after class?”

  Devon blushes—for a change—and nods. Then she holds up a sparkly pink pen that’s hanging from her neck. “I brought my favorite gel pen. Just in case.”

  Ugh. Susannah, who hasn’t touched her copy out of respect for me, leans close and says, “Don’t worry. No one who’s anyone autographs in pink anymore. It’s so grade school.”

  Then Mrs. Patinkin says, “Well, it’s all very professionally done. It makes Devon’s unique points of view very official, don’t you think, class?” Then she turns around and writes Official and Published Author on the chalkboard. I don’t have to turn around to see Devon beaming. Her smile is spreading through the air like tuberculosis.

  I hiss to Susannah, “My rules are every bit as official as hers! I just chose the less traditional and more mysterious route of refusing to print mine. Writing them down makes them overly accessible.” Which means people want to throw up from hearing them over and over.

  Susannah lowers her glasses to show this is, in fact, one very serious conversation. “It is my personal belief that you have much more prestige by refusing to publish yours, and that you are, in fact, every publicist’s dream.”

  I rub Susannah’s shoulder. “You’re good people, Barnes.” Then I look over at Laurel to make sure she agrees and actually catch her peeking into Devon’s book—I mean, folder! I smack my hand down on it and Laurel jumps back and shrugs as if to say she couldn’t help herself.

  My eyelid twitches even harder.

  Mrs. Patinkin taps her ruler against her desk. “Zoë Monday Costello! I’ll thank you to share your secret musings with the rest of the class.”

  Normally I don’t mind when she does this. I just whip a superslippery compliment out of my sleeve, Patinkin practically weeps with appreciation, then she forgets all about whatever I got Zoë-Monday-Costello’d for in the first place. But today is different. My brain still hasn’t stopped stomping its feet about pink folders. “I was just saying I’ve very recently discovered a new word that I hope to use in a sentence one day.” I question-smile at Mrs. Patinkin. “With your permission, I’d like to try.”

  Mrs. Patinkin nearly levitates with excitement. She holds her stump of chalk up to the board so she can write down my word as fast as spit. “Go ahead, Zoë,” she says with her breath.

  I stand up. “The word I’ve discovered is usurp. It means to seize. Or to steal.” I turn slightly to my left so I can see Devon out of the corner of my hair. “To dethrone or eject. And if one were to use it in a sentence, he—or she—might say, ‘To help out is human, but to usurp is going to get your precious toes stomped on by very small, but very furious boots.’” I sit and fold my hands on my desk. Mrs. Patinkin’s face clouds over. She really wants to reward my effort but she can’t figure out how. My bet is she’ll fake it.

  I’m right. “Yes. Good. Yes. Nice…sentence, Zoë.” She writes usurp on the board and turns around to face us. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, you should all take Zoë’s sentence as inspiration to reap the bounty of words that surround you. Now, everyone come over to the back carpet and sit cross-legged. I have a wonderful surprise for the entire class.”

  By the time the Fronties get to the carpet, most of the spots are taken except for a big empty circle around Smartin. With our noses begging us to sit anywhere else, Susannah and Laurel and I have no choice but to plop down beside him. We’re mortally disgusted to see he’s coloring his entire right arm and hand with blue highlighter. Even Laurel isn’t impressed.

  He nudges me with his inky arm. “Come on, Costello. Wanna hold hands?”

  “You’d have to chop it off, sterilize it, and sew it onto someone else’s body first.”

  “For you, I’ll do it.” He starts to lick the highlighter off his skin. Everyone falls over, groaning in toxic horror. Vile!

  “Martin Seth Granitstein,” says Mrs. Patinkin. “If you can refrain from swallowing your own tissue, I won’t keep you in for recess. When you’re outside in the field, under the playground monitor’s care, I invite you to consume whatever y
ou like. In my class, however, I ask that you swear off human flesh.”

  Martin shrugs—“Okay”—pops the lid off his highlighter, and bites off the felt tip. Blue drool oozes from the corner of his mouth as he swallows.

  Mrs. Patinkin screeches, “Martin! To the office. And have the nurse examine you while you’re there.”

  He stands up and points at me with a blue finger. “Can I have an escort? Sometimes I get lost.”

  I bury my head in my hands and squeeze my eyes shut. Please say no! Please!

  “No!”

  Once his sorry carcass is out of sight, Mrs. Patinkin closes her eyes for a moment, then smiles like she’s never seen or smelled Smartin in her life. “I have very exciting news. The entire school is going to participate in a political-science experiment. Each class will be developing an imaginary island and will be holding mock leadership elections. Students in every class will be divided into two political parties, each with their own name and belief system. And each party will elect a leader.”

  Devon’s hand shoots up. She doesn’t wave, just holds it up with her fingers flagpole straight, pointed at the ceiling. When Patinkin nods, she chirps, “I hope to be a leader because my father always says me and my sister should strive to be number one in every endeavor.”

  I try not to groan out loud and Mrs. Patinkin says, “Hurry, Brianna. Go write endeavor on the board.” She smiles at Devon. “That will be our final vocabulary word for the week.”

  Tall Paul puts up his hand. “Does that mean we don’t have to speak in full sentences until Monday?”

  Mrs. Patinkin closes her eyes, then opens them. “Absolutely not.”

  “My parents want me to be an orthopedic surgeon, so I don’t have to be a leader,” says Avery.

  “You’re never operating on me, Buckner,” mutters Riley.

  Avery looks around, trying to figure out who dissed his future surgical dexterity.

  Kitty, a plumpish Sixer with purple braces, says, “My parents don’t want me to have beliefs until I’m at least eighteen.”

  I jump off the carpet and hurry over to Mrs. Patinkin’s desk. She’s looking about five years older than when she arrived in the morning, so I bring her her coffee mug to remind her there are still things worth living for. Her mouth is too exhausted to smile, so she smiles at me with her eyes, then gulps the whole thing down.

  “As I was saying, two leaders will be elected in each class, and will campaign for the presidency by making their political plans for the island public. This will prepare them for the schoolwide election, where they will make a speech in front of the entire school. Then students will vote for the leader of their class. Any questions?”

  Mrs. Patinkin waits about three seconds for us to stop scratching and squirming, and start thinking up some crummy questions. Then she continues: “Good! Let’s divide the class, shall we?” She looks around, then rests her eyes on the highlighter stain Smartin left on the carpet. “Everyone to the right of the blue line, shift to the right. Everyone to the left of the blue line, shift left. We’ll add Martin to the group on the left. Look around at your groups, people. You’ll be working very closely with these people over the next few weeks.”

  I look around me to find Susannah and Laurel made the cut—phew! So did Maisie, Avery, and a bunch of Sixers. And Smartin, if he survives. But, wait…someone’s missing. I look around to see Riley on the other team, which totally stinks.

  Mrs. Patinkin says, “You have five minutes to come up with a name for your island. I want you to be inventive. Think of names you’re certain have not been used for any other place on earth.” She pushes back her sleeve and checks her watch. “Sta-art now!”

  Everybody starts whispering. My group throws out gruesome words like Hizzletown, Junglasia, and Sonderland. Then I come up with the most perfect name ever for a fake island—Zentopia. Right away my group agrees on account of it sounding like the Zentopian people won’t have to do a lot of work.

  Pretty soon Mrs. Patinkin calls, “Ti-ime! Now I’d like each team to give me their name, and then we’ll vote on a winner.”

  I stand up and say, “My peoples do solemnly believe our island should be called Zentopia.” I do a cute little bow and sit down. My group claps and hugs me. I happen to know Patinkin will like our name because she does yoga every morning before school. I think she likes to find her own Zen state before facing a day at school with us.

  Devon stands up and says, “The island should be called Icklesius, which is a democratic combination of everyone’s suggestions. I feel it’s important that each and every voice be heard—”

  “We’ll save our belief systems until next week,” says Patinkin. “Zentopia and Icklesius. Both very unique and well thought out. Shall we vote?”

  I stand up again. “Mrs. Patinkin. Since we’re missing a member of our group, the voting won’t be fair. It’ll be fourteen against thirteen, since each person is obviously going to vote for their own group’s name.”

  “Good point,” she says. “We’ll just have to use Devon’s suggestion of combining both names. It’s the most democratic thing to do. We’ll take the topia from Zentopia and the Ick from Icklesius and call our island Icktopia.”

  Which is the worst name an island could have.

  As Mrs. Patinkin writes Icktopia on the chalkboard, I try to wave to Riley to let him know these teams stink and that the name Icktopia stinks even worse, but he’s leaning in real close to Devon, who is whispering something in his ear.

  Maybe the name Icktopia is going to fit this island after all.

  Clear Your Head of Googly-Eyed Puppies

  On Monday morning, I’m late for gym because my mom forgot to put my ALLENCROFT HAS SPIRIT! T-shirt in the dryer, and Mr. Garson won’t let us take gym in our regular clothes in case we sweat all over them and he gets blamed for stinking up the halls with us later. So there I was at 7:30 in the morning, drying my stupid SPIRIT shirt in my apartment building’s creepier-than-creepy laundry room, wa-ay down in the basement, where the spiders and the incinerator live. The laundry room is right next to the storage lockers, too, and the whole time my shirt was drying, it sounded like something in Mrs. Grungen’s locker was whispering to me. So I had to leave before my shirt was fully dry and now I’m running to gym class in a clammy shirt.

  I did, however, make time to pop into Mrs. Patinkin’s empty classroom to make sure Devon brought Boris back safe and sound. There he was, sleeping in his food dish like an angel. Just as I blow him a kiss and turn to go, I spy a photograph leaning against his cage for all to see. It’s a picture of Devon feeding Boris a bedtime bottle from an eyedropper. In her bed. And I’m not sure, but it looks like she’s singing to him.

  No wonder the poor pig is so exhausted. Her creepy attentions probably gave him night terrors.

  I burst through the doors to the main-floor hallway and find Annika Pruitt standing in front of Justin Rosetti’s locker, which is considered THE best locker in the school, right beside the snack machine and the pay phone that everyone except the teachers knows works without quarters.

  I’m going to be totally late, but I cannot resist. I stop. “Annika, what’s up?”

  She beams. “Hi, Zoë,” she sings. “How are you this morning?”

  I ignore the question. It’s Monday, it’s not a holiday, and my shirt is probably growing mold. Besides, she really doesn’t look like she cares. I point to the locker’s open door. “What are you doing? Isn’t your locker upstairs?”

  “No.” She bats her eyelashes, which are almost as long and thick and curly as her enormous hair. “Justin popped the question over the weekend.”

  “What question?”

  “He asked me to move in with him.”

  Whoa. I open the locker door a bit farther and, sure enough, there is Annika’s flowered binder and beaded pencil case lined up beside Justin’s fat, markered cardboard binder—the one he ripped the green vinyl from so he could graffiti it better. One wall is wallpapered with lovesick puppies
and Annika’s fringed hippie purse is hanging on a hook beside Justin’s hoodie.

  Okay. It’s important that I handle this situation with tact. Annika can be overly sensitive, especially when it comes to Justin Rosetti. “Wow,” I say, nodding. “I love what you’ve done with the place.” I reach up to touch an orange tiedyed scarf taped to the locker door. “This must be your idea. You’ve always had seriously impeccable taste.”

  She nods. “Yes. At first Justin was worried it might make the place too girlie, but I convinced him I needed to do something to balance all his manly energy.”

  I look at Justin’s scratched-up Ozzy Osbourne stickers. “Good thinking. Listen, Annika, I know you’ve been against it in the past, and I didn’t push it because you and Justin hadn’t taken any serious steps toward this kind of permanence. But I wish you’d consulted me first. You really should have signed a prenup.”

  She looks shocked. “A prenup? I don’t want anything to come between me and Justin at a romantic time like this!”

  “But it’s exactly what you need. Without a signed document that lists who gets what when you break up—”

  “Justin and I will never break up! We’re going to get married one day and move to Australia, where we can live on the beach and I can make his dinner while he surfs! We don’t need any prenup!”

  This plan is flawed on so many levels, I can barely stand straight. But you have to take baby steps with Annika. “Actually, it’s a little late for a prenup now. But I could do up a nice little postnup.” I glance around the neighborhood and nod my approval. “We’re dealing with some prime real estate here. Now that you’ve gone to all the trouble of moving in and redecorating, you might have some ownership rights. Certainly the longer you live together, the more you’re entitled to. Are you really prepared to give up the locker without a fight, should something happen?”