The One and Only Zoe Lama

by Tish Cohen

  “Seriously? Did he get murdered?” Mr. Mason always yelled at people who held the elevator door open for other people. It wouldn’t surprise me if somebody offed him.

  Mom gasps. “Murdered? Heavens, no! He wasn’t home. But money was taken. So was his stereo.”

  “That crummy stereo?” I ask.

  She sits on the bed and pulls me close. “That’s not the point. The point is, it could have been our apartment. And you would have been here. Alone!”

  “Good thing it wasn’t,” I say, my face mashed into her shoulder.

  She lets me go and stomps into her bathroom, where she pulls off her earrings and starts washing her face. “This building has absolutely no security!” she says with a face full of bubbles. “That lock downstairs doesn’t work at all anymore. Every lawbreaker in the city has access to us. Every thief, every drunk, every thug, every murderer—”

  “Mr. Mason drives a fancy car. Plus he wears that fur hat. I bet that’s why they broke into his place. Our car’s a heap. We don’t ever wear fur. We’re totally safe, Mom!”

  She spreads toothpaste on her toothbrush, then looks back at me. “I’m sorry, honey. I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s time to call the Realtor.”

  Silence Is Genius

  Monday morning. And there really isn’t anything I despise more than Mondays. Unless you count balloons and usurpers. Not only did my mother spend the weekend looking through the paper for new, burglar-free places to live, but I have cold meat loaf in my lunch box and Devon accused me of hanging up on her on Friday night. Which I did, but only under the threat of an irate mother. Then Monday morning gets about ten times worse when I notice that Sylvia and Devon—by some fairy-dust coincidence—are both wearing red turtlenecks and jeans. The whole class keeps calling them twins.

  I guess Devon’s rule book doesn’t have an entry about competing with your clients. While I don’t like to brag about it, it’s long been a belief of mine that a client is like a bride. The client is meant to bask in the spotlight while I lurk behind the curtains and make them obey me. Like a puppet master. Or Oprah’s best friend.

  Poor little Sylvia doesn’t know it yet, but she doesn’t have thick enough feathers to be sharing the glow of the spotlight with someone as attention-hungry as Devon.

  And, just to make my Monday even crappier, Laurel called me last night to say she saw Riley coming out of Devon’s house on Sunday! So, naturally, I dreamed about Riley and Devon all night. First I dreamed they shared a slice of chocolate cake and Devon started blushing because she got chocolate on her nose. Then Riley—because he’s a cutie-face gentleman—smeared chocolate on his own nose so she wouldn’t feel like a slob, and called her charming. And they went running around town with their chocolate noses and I didn’t catch up with them until they got to the gazebo in Hunter’s Park. Then I licked a chocolate chip from my pocket and smeared it on my nose so he could call me charming, too. But he didn’t. He turned around, narrowed his eyes at me, all annoyed, and said, “Your face is a mess.”

  Today, in reality, he smiles at me as he walks into the classroom. He tugs my hair as he goes by. Which makes my insides go all chocolaty and warm. Until I realize something.

  He usually tugs it twice.

  Mrs. Patinkin raps her desk with a ruler. “Students, I have in my hand what might appear to be twenty-eight squares of green paper.” She takes a deep breath and shakes her head. “But they are so much more. These tiny squares represent the will of the Icktopian people. They are your voting ballots. Today is the day you’ll choose two leaders—one from each team—and they’ll campaign against each other to see which party will rule the island. Today you’ll learn about real democracy.” Then, without even remembering to write democracy on the board, she starts passing out the squares.

  Up goes Stewie Buckenheimer’s hand. “Mrs. Patinkin? Are we going to have a voting booth? Because Small Paul’s already trying to cheat off me.”

  Small Paul moves away from Stewie. “I was not! I saw your retainer on the floor and I was watching to see if you’d step on it.”

  Stewie snatches it up and sticks it into his mouth. The whole class groans in disgust.

  Harrison Huxtable, who is closest to Boris’s cage, raises his hand. “I think something’s wrong with Boris. He isn’t scratching his neck today. And when I told him to squeak, he squeaked.”

  Brandon says, “I noticed that, too! His rash is all cleared up and he let me rub his belly.”

  “It’s a guinea-pig miracle,” says Laurel.

  “Your face is a guinea-pig miracle,” grunts Smartin with his finger up his nose.

  “Who said that?” asks Mrs. Patinkin, looking around.

  Avery and Alice snicker.

  Devon shoots her hand into the air. “Mrs. Patinkin, I’ve been giving Boris supplements and teaching him a few tricks so he can be the best Boris he can be.” She blushes and explains, “He’s never had a real master before.”

  He would have if I’d ever been allowed to take him home!

  “We’ll discuss Boris later, class,” says Mrs. Patinkin as she turns out the lights. “There’ll be no talking during the voting process. Your eyes will remain on your own ballot. And when you’ve written the name of your chosen leader, you’re to fold your paper in half and put up your hand. I’ll come around with a container to collect them. Then we’ll announce our leaders.”

  Brianna puts up her hand. “Do they have to leave the island immediately?”

  Mrs. Patinkin scrunches up her nose. “No one is leaving, Brianna. We’re choosing our leaders.”

  “So we write down the names of the people we want to stay. Not the ones we want to vote off?”

  Mrs. Patinkin drops into her chair and closes her eyes. She’s probably wishing she’d become a yoga teacher right about now because then her students would be meditating. In silence.

  Once all the ballots are collected and Smartin’s is thrown out because he tried to swallow it first and it was too gooey to read, Mrs. Patinkin reads the names on the ballots out loud while Laurel and Avery tally up the votes on the chalkboard. Happily, my name comes up over and over. Unhappily, so does Devon’s. Homer Simpson’s name comes up a few times as well, which makes Mrs. Patinkin scowl. Once all the names have been read, Laurel and Avery add up the tally marks under the names. The final score is:

  Devon, 12

  Me, 11

  Homer Simpson, 4.

  Which means one thing. I better get busy.

  Backyards Full of Trees Are Poltergeist Movies Waiting to Happen

  It’s Tuesday night. Just as I’m measuring myself on the ancient Little Mermaid growth chart I have taped to the inside of my closet door and never reveal to anyone, the oven timer buzzes. It sounds like prison guards are opening the doors to let a handcuffed convict out. Or lock her up. “Zoë honey,” my mother calls from her bathroom, “will you get the shortbread cookies out of the oven? Lorraine will be here in a few minutes and I’m not finished with my hair.”

  As I’m hunting for the oven mitts, there’s a knock on the door. I hurry up and let Lorraine the Realtor in so she can ruin my life.

  “Hello, Zoë,” she says, bending down low to look me in the eye. I hate when people do this. They try to get down to my level because they think I’ll feel better about my shrimpiness. But I don’t. I just feel embarrassed that an adult has to fold herself in half to get a decent look at my face.

  “Be a dear, will you, and take my jacket?” She hands me a heavy white coat, and when she turns away to check her lipsticked mouth in the mirror, I dump it on top of our winter boots in the closet.

  Mom comes out from her bathroom and takes Lorraine into the living room, where they sit down and ask each other how they’ve been. Once they’ve both said they’ve been fine, Lorraine pulls a heap of papers out of her briefcase and sets them on her lap. Then she smiles at me. “Zoë, I’d like you to be a big part of this process. Would you like to tell me a few of your real-estate wishes?”<
br />
  I think about this for a moment. “Umm, I’d like to live on a busy street. In a high-rise apartment. Close to a library. With a teensy, tinsy, slivery view of Hunter’s Park from my window.” I sit down cross-legged on the floor. “Oh, and we have to be on the eighth floor.”

  Lorraine’s smile freezes on her face. “But, honey, that sounds like where you live right now.”

  “Exactly,” I say.

  “Zoë,” warns my mother.

  “It’s okay, Jocelyn,” says Lorraine. “I’ve brought with me what I like to call my Real Estate Needs Assessment. One for you”—she hands a form to my mom—“and a kiddie version for Zoë here.” Then she changes her voice like she’s talking to a stuffed giraffe, and says to me, “I think question-naires are fun, don’t you?” Her lips curl all the way back into a smile that doesn’t care what I think. “Let’s begin. Would you like to have a backyard full of nice big trees?”

  “I have a fear of backyard trees. They’re too Poltergeist.”

  “What about a walk-in closet?”

  “Too Amityville Horror.”

  “What about your very own bathroom with a separate shower?”

  I shiver. “Too Psycho.”

  Lorraine puts the kiddie questionnaire back into her briefcase. “Maybe we should start with you, Jocelyn…”

  “Actually,” I say, pulling a paper out of my pocket, “I’ve put together a list of my own from Google. I like to call it my Real Estate Costs Assessment. The cost of hiring movers—$1,250. The cost of hooking up cable, phone, and Internet at the new place—$175. The cost of mailing change-of-address cards—$7. The cost of leaving loved ones”—I look up and bat my eyes at my mother—“priceless.”

  Mom laughs. “What loved ones? Mrs. Grungen?”

  “We’ve had some lovely moments. Besides, she taught g-ma how to knit.”

  “Who?” Mom asks.

  Oops. “Gram. I meant Grandma.”

  “There are certain costs that go along with moving,” says Lorraine. “But the good news is that if you’re buying a property, I don’t charge you a penny. The people selling pay my full commission.”

  “That’s okay, Lorraine,” says Mom. “You don’t have to explain. I cannot put a price on my daughter’s safety. Costs or no costs, we’re moving.”

  Suddenly a smell trickles through the air. It smells almost exactly like…

  “The cookies are burning!” says my mom.

  I jump up, scramble for the oven mitts, and pull out the smoking tray, letting it crash on the stovetop. The cookies are nothing but ashes.

  Kind of like my life.

  Storybook Cottages Belong in Storybooks

  It’s unusually warm for a Sunday in winter. Mom has the windows halfway down in the car and she hasn’t noticed mine is open all the way. So is my jacket. That’s the one good thing about being too small to sit in the front seat. Mom’s way too busy driving to notice what goes on back here.

  “You’re going to love this place, Zoë. It’s much closer to school. Closer to Laurel and Susannah’s neighborhood, too. It might even be within walking distance of a certain donut shop famous for its Boston creams. The family who’s selling it has to leave town quickly. Some sort of family emergency. So Lorraine says we can get a good price.”

  I don’t say anything, just stick my head out the window a bit so I can feel the sickly sunshine on my face.

  “It’s the perfect house for us. You can keep your bike in the garage. No more elevators to get stuck in.” The car turns onto a quiet street called Montrose Lane. One of the houses has a snowman out front and there’s a tangly cobweb of tree branches over our heads. “See that?” says Mom. “These trees will be like a green roof over the street in the summertime. I’ve always wanted to live on a street like this. Just never dreamed we could afford it.”

  We pull into a driveway. In front of us is a brownish brick house with black window shutters and a matching black front door. There are pretty lanterns on either side of the entrance and a fancy mailbox sits on its own stand in the garden. Above the garage door, there’s a black iron sign with a white center. The house number, 61, is painted on it in fancy writing. The whole place looks like somewhere a character from an old book might live—historic, friendly, and well loved.

  It makes me want to throw up.

  Mom’s already out of the car and jogging toward the front door. “Come on, honey. The family isn’t home, so Lorraine left us a key in the mailbox.”

  Inside, on the main floor, things get even worse. Every room is filled with sunshine, the family room has a big fireplace, the stair railing is perfect for sliding down, and there’s a tree out back that would be great for climbing—if you like that sort of thing.

  Upstairs, my mom takes me into the master bedroom, which has wooden floors and creamy-colored wallpaper with tiny flowers all over it. She spins around with her arms spread out wide. “Would you look at all this space? I’ll be able to take your grandmother’s bedroom set out of storage and finally use it.”

  I just give her a half smile and wander over to the window and look at the backyard.

  “I’ve saved the best for last,” she says, guiding me back into the hall. “Your room. It’s got two dormer windows with curtains that blow in the wind. It’s painted in crisp apple green with one wall in midnight navy. The floors are nice and creaky and under each window is a padded window seat that opens up into a terrific storage space. I bet the girl who lives here now keeps all her secret things in it. Come see…I think it’s the perfect room for a young girl.”

  She pulls me into the room and turns around to watch my face.

  It’s the most perfect room I’ve ever seen. The roof is all slanted on one side and the perfect windows jut out in tiny peaks. The curtains are blowing in the wind. There’s a trapdoor to the attic in the closet—which has special shelves and drawers for the girl’s perfect clothes. I hate to admit it, but Mom was right. It’s the perfect room for a young girl. Just not this one.

  “Mom? Can we go home now?”

  She wraps her arms around me. “I’d like to think we are home.”

  I pull away from her and run down the stairs.

  Mom didn’t speak the whole way back to the apartment. I could tell she was deep in thought, probably wondering whether she should hang our living-room curtains in the new house’s living room or family room. At home, I hang up my jacket, kick off my boots, and go to my room, where I can be alone and get deep in my own thoughts, which no one seems to be interested in.

  While I’m lying on my bed, staring at the wall and not making a short list of my Icktopian values like Mrs. Patinkin said I should, Mom comes and stands in the doorway. “Maybe you could get yourself a little rabbit. In the new house. You’ve always wanted a pet.”

  I shake my head. “Rabbits bite.”

  “Well, at the very least, you can babysit the class guinea pig. What’s his name? Norris?”

  “Boris. But the only weekend that isn’t taken is next weekend, and we’ll still be here. All the other ones are booked up by the Sixers.”

  “Tell your teacher you’d like to take him home next weekend then. The place will be a jumble of boxes anyway, what’s one big, smelly cage?” Mom comes over and sits on the bed, which sinks down. I scoot closer to the wall so I don’t fall into her. She pushes the hair off my face. “Sweetie, there comes a time when you have to move forward with your life. I know it hurts leaving the things we love behind, but you’ll see—change can be a good thing. And you’ll grow to love the new house every bit as much as you love this apartment.”

  My hand goes up to touch the horse mural on my wall. I’ve always called it Horse. Not too imaginative, I guess. My father painted it when I was small, back when he used to read me Black Beauty before I fell asleep each night. Mom says I was so in love with Beauty that I begged for a horse of my own. It had to be big and it had to be black. Then when my mom took me on a trip to visit my aunt’s apartment in New York, my dad stayed hom
e and painted me my very own horse, complete with flowing mane, glossy black coat, and stamping hooves. Mom swears I stayed up all night trying to climb the wall and ride it once we got home.

  Now, in a small voice, I ask, “So you’re buying the house for sure?”

  “Yes, honey. I put in an offer yesterday.” She squeezes my arm before standing up and walking to the door. “It’s going to be great. You’ll finally have a closet big enough for all your clothes.”

  I trace Horse’s polished hoof with my finger. There’s a splash of white my dad placed on the hoof that makes it look like her foot is shimmering in the light of the moon he painted above Horse’s head. I’ve always thought if I rubbed it the right way—not too fast, not too slow—I’d be able to see Dad’s reflection. The way Mom says he poked his tongue out when he painted. I move my finger across the gleaming highlight.

  She’s right. I’ll have a very big closet. But I won’t have this.

  I Icktopia

  “Be sure to remember to clean and disinfect his water bottle every day,” Devon lectures me as I pack Boris’s supplies into a small plastic bag. She follows me to my desk, where I grab a bigger plastic bag and stuff the food inside. “Zoë? Are you even listening to me?”

  “I’ve been in charge of Boris since September, Devon. I think he’ll survive the weekend.”

  She parks her hands on her hips. “See now, your attitude worries me. Survival isn’t good enough. We want him to thrive.”

  “He’ll thrive!”

  She grabs the plastic bag from my hand and rearranges the food boxes. “Not if his yogurt treats get mixed up with his alfalfa!”

  It takes every bit of strength I have not to cram alfalfa in her face.

  It’s almost 3:15 on Friday afternoon; and it’s been a long week of slipping in glitter, which seems to be flaking off Devon’s Icktopia campaign posters. My posters, on the other hand, are not about razzle-dazzle and glitz. My posters have heart. Literally. I came up with a great slogan for the Icktopian people: