The Invisible Rules of Zoe Lama

by Tish Cohen

  It can’t wait until tomorrow. I’ve ordered a bunch of flowers for Mom with a romantic card from Handsome Mr. Lindsay, and flowers wilt. Plus, Mom arranged for Get-me-this-Get-me-that Jason to come over tomorrow instead of yesterday. Besides, Mom’s relaxation might have worn off by then.

  I never thought the idea would come from Handsome Mr. Lindsay himself.

  “When I saw all the girls in those platform shoes at Middleton School that year, I knew we were headed for trouble,” he says. “And sure enough, there I was, an hour later, carrying one of them to the hospital with a sprained ankle. So definitely no platform shoes at the Snow Ball. Laurel, will you make the announcement tomorrow morning?”

  Laurel nods.

  That’s it. All I need to do is appeal to Handsome Mr. Lindsay’s hero instinct by spraining my ankle in the next half hour.

  Shouldn’t be too difficult.

  As the rest of the committee debates the dangers of poorly attached spaghetti straps, I get to work on my plan.

  The thing is, I’ve never actually sprained a body part before, so I’m not sure how to do it. I’d like to keep the agony to a minimum, if at all possible. I could let someone’s chair leg come down on my foot. But that wouldn’t be easy unless someone lifts their chair for some reason and I can throw myself underneath it real fast. Or I could wander off in search of a book on making punch—we are in a library, after all—and pull a big display case on top of myself.

  But that seems a little dramatic.

  As I gaze around the room, I realize with great sadness that there is very little opportunity to sprain oneself in a school library. Other than the odd paper cut, you’re looking at a fairly hazard-free zone. I’m going to have to injure myself in the hallway.

  Slowly, silently, I lean back in my chair and peer through the open door. There really isn’t much out in the hall except a bulletin board and a janitor’s mop. Basically, I’d need to run full force into the cement wall to injure anything well. At least the office is right next door, in case I misjudge and crack so many bones that Handsome Mr. Lindsay has to call for help.

  Comforted by the invention of 911, I smile to myself. I’m a genius. I’m this close to being flower girl at the wedding—

  Suddenly my chair slips out from under me. It screeches forward and I fly backward, way faster than I’d ever have planned. I’m hanging in the air for what seems to be about a whole minute.

  Then the floor rises up and I feel a sharp crunch in my elbow.

  It was really nice of Handsome Mr. Lindsay to volunteer to take me to the hospital, since Mom wasn’t home when we called her and her cell phone was turned off. And it was really nice of the nurses to distract me with teen magazines while the cast was going on.

  So I guess my plan worked. Here I am in the backseat of Handsome Mr. Lindsay’s Honda with a handful of pullout heartthrob posters and we’re headed straight for my apartment.

  In the elevator I’m so excited I could burst, but Handsome Mr. Lindsay chalks it up to the pain medication. Mom should be in a terrific mood after all the calming mud baths. She’ll probably look as beautiful as she did before I was born; back when she, as she says, “had time to fuss with silly things like makeup and hair dryers.” I can’t wait for him to see her. I’m going to hide in the kitchen and spy until he kisses her!

  When we get to the eighth floor, I goof. I almost call him Dad. As the elevator door opens then suddenly starts to close on us, he puts his arm across it so it doesn’t slice me in half. The guy risks his own flesh for me, so, like an idiot, I go, “Whoa! Thanks, Da—Mr. Lindsay.” Just like that.

  I’d better be careful. He won’t want to marry my mother if she has an overly needy kid. It’s bad enough I’m a budget wrecker and an elbow cracker. I smile at him as we approach my apartment and imagine him coming through the door each night, emptying his pointy math tools on the hall table and running to find me and tickle me before he bakes us some cookies. Chocolate chip.

  “This is it,” I say, pulling out my key. “The lock works pretty good. My key almost never gets stuck.” I show him—just so he knows living here won’t be a hassle—and I push the door open. “You’ll like my mom; she was prom queen before she got too old.”

  But as soon as the door is open, my happiness fades away, replaced by immediate horror. I don’t know what kind of spa that place is, but Mom doesn’t look relaxed or rejuvenated. She’s lying on the couch in wrinkled pajamas, with a HUGE red nose, hair in every direction, and a mountain of dirty Kleenex on her lap.

  One thing’s for sure. Handsome Mr. Lindsay isn’t going to be kissing her tonight. Maybe not ever.

  “Zoë, honey,” Mom says. “Are you okay? I just got home and spoke to the hospital on the phone.” She tries to sit up, but falls back onto a pillow, moaning like a wounded cow. “I’m afraid I’ve got the flu.”

  “That’s okay, Mrs. Costello,” Handsome Mr. Lindsay says, bringing me inside. “Don’t get up. Zoë’s going to be just fine, aren’t you, kiddo?”

  Suddenly my arm throbs. I just want to go to bed. “Yeah,” I lie. “I’m terrific.”

  Handsome Mr. Lindsay walks across the room and holds out his hand to shake Mom’s, but he pulls it back when she sneezes into a clump of used tissues. “I’m Matthew Lindsay,” he says, stepping out of the way of the flying germs.

  “Lindsay?” Mom sits up taller and looks at my flower delivery, which is on the coffee table with a small card lying beside it. Opened. “Are you the Mr. Lindsay who sent me these beautiful flowers? They just arrived.”

  He holds up both hands and laughs. “No, ma’am.”

  Mom looks confused. “That’s strange. You’re the only Mr. Lindsay I’ve ever met. And the phone number on the card is the school’s number.”

  They both look confused. Then they both look at me and suddenly I think maybe I have the flu. What was I thinking?

  Mom notices his shirt pocket filled with math tools instead of ferrets or bulging muscles and I realize I’m so busted.

  “Zoë,” Mom says, “do you know anything about this?”

  Handsome Mr. Lindsay stares at me with a weird smile on his face. The kind of smile someone might smile if they think they’ve swallowed a centipede. I’m so embarrassed, I could die. He must think I’m a total and complete idiot!

  I step backward. “I seriously don’t think you should be questioning me right now. I’ve had a bad fall and the doctor said I need my rest.” Spinning around, I rush down the hall to my room, where I can bury myself in blankets. I must have been insane to plan this. Insane! Just before I shut my door, I hear Mr. Lindsay telling Mom his number one policy. He never, ever dates parents of his students.

  Figures. The first guy I pick for Mom has “policies.”

  It’s time to pull out Unwritten Rule #12, which I’m writing in my head this very minute. Hooking Up Your Mother Is a Dead Duck Waiting to Happen and Is, from This Moment On, Illegal.

  It Ain’t Over till the Lady in White Sings

  The next morning I can’t figure out how to get my coat on over my cast, so I completely miss the school bus and a ride from Mom, but not in that order. So I’m forced to scrabble my way to school with my hot-pink cast in a sling, but otherwise bare, and a coat and backpack hanging from the other shoulder. The coat keeps slipping down to my elbow, taking the backpack with it, and every three or four steps I trip over the whole mess.

  Advice to self: don’t break any more elbows at the end of November. And if you stupidly ignore this advice, buy yourself a cape as soon as the plaster dries.

  It’s not helping one bit that the whole husband-snaring attempt has officially backfired. My mom has rebooked her Calm’n’Cozy beauty day for a week from Thursday. So now she’ll look beautiful for exactly no one but me and Grandma. Not that it matters anymore, not since Handsome Mr. Lindsay has flipped-out rules about dating and is seriously paranoid about sneezes.

  Did I mention I’m never fixing up another mother of mine? Ever?

 
Now that I’m injured, I’m in desperate need of not one, but two, assistants. And maybe even a taxi service. I reach down to pull my jacket up for the millionth time. I’m also in desperate need of that cape.

  What I’m also in desperate need of is a ten-foot pole to keep Get-me-this-Get-me-that Jason from entering our apartment. He’s due to arrive tonight at seven sharp, Grandma-stealing papers in hand.

  As I’m tripping my way across the school playground, I see Maisie running for the door. She’s late, too. “Maisie,” I call, “hold the door.”

  She holds it and smiles when she sees my cast. “You got the pink! I bet Laurel my chocolate milk you’d get the pink. She wanted you to get the—”

  “They were out of blue,” I say, staggering inside the school. “I’m glad I bumped into you. I was…kind of surprised to read your essay.”

  She beams and unzips her jacket as we walk to class. “It was exactly fifty-one words. I counted.” She pulls off her hat and smiles. “I was hoping I’d get extra points for going over word count.”

  “Yeah, word count wasn’t the problem…” She’s such a nice kid; I don’t know how to break it to her that she flunked her latest assignment. Maybe I’ll tell her at recess. I could share my butterscotch square before I hand back her essay, to sweeten the blow. As we get closer to our classroom, we’re stepping over white papers. Everywhere, on the walls, on the lockers, on the floor, are white sheets of paper.

  Kids are pouring into the hallway, all of them clutching white papers and shrieking. Comments come from beside us, behind us, in front of us…

  “Did you read it?”

  “I’m gonna heave!”

  “Is she here yet?”

  “Gross!”

  Two older girls reading from a paper pass by us and burst out laughing.

  A fifth-grader sees us and stops dead. Then he tears back the way he came.

  The Sixer couple who always make out by the garbage Dumpster look at Maisie and mumble to each other. Then the girl clutches the guy’s face and screeches, “Oh, Martin. Kiss me now!” Only her boyfriend’s named Rodney.

  I’m getting a very bad feeling.

  “What’s going on?” Maisie whispers to me. “Why are they making fun of us?”

  I shrug, dump my coat and backpack to the floor, and grab one of the papers floating around us. I turn it over and gasp. How can it be?

  It’s Maisie’s “I Love Smartin” essay.

  Dropping to the ground, I grab another. And another. They’re all the same. The school is snowing “I Love Smartin” essays.

  Uh-oh. An even worse feeling is suddenly replacing the very bad feeling…

  Could I have left the original in the copy machine? I don’t know; I can’t think! I look up at Maisie.

  She’s got two handfuls of essays and is looking at them one by one, her face horrified, and throwing each down to the ground. Eyes wide, mouth gaping, she looks at me and whispers, “What did you do?”

  “Maisie. Believe me, I would never—”

  “You set me up.”

  “No! It was an accident. I swear!” How could I have been so stupid? So careless—

  “You lied to me. You were never helping me at all!”

  “No, I swear—”

  “How could you do this?” Maisie steps backward, glaring at me. “I hate you, Zoë. I hate you. You’ve destroyed my whole life!”

  “Maisie, wait!” I watch her run down the hall as I sit in a lump, legs sprawled out in front of me, surrounded by proof. She’s right. I really have destroyed her life.

  For once, I have no answers.

  Then, from the crowd of whispering kids, out steps Bloomer Girl. Allegra of no-one-wants-to-play-with-me fame. Her tear-covered cheeks are pinker than my cast and she folds her arms across her chest. “Nice advice, Zoë Lama! I did what you said, made like I was having tons of fun, and now the entire fifth grade is calling me Schizo-Chick! They think I talk to myself!” She spins on her heel and slips on a love letter as she stomps away. “Remind me never to ask your advice again!”

  “Allegra, don’t go!” I call. “I didn’t mean for that to happen—”

  “Did you mean for THIS to happen?” Ian McPherson is stumbling toward me waving two torn-up dance tickets. “I waited until three days before the dance, just like you said. And then I asked her, just like you said. And do you know what she said?”

  From the look on his face and the way my day is going, I can probably guess, but I shake my head anyway.

  His little eyes flash with anger from behind his glasses and his ears stick out so far I almost wonder if they’ll pop off. “She said no. And you want to know why?”

  I really, truly, would rather not.

  He squeezes his little rodent lips together before shouting, “She said she thought I wasn’t going to ask her, so she agreed to go with Kevin Franklin. KEVIN FRANKLIN!”

  My eyes are starting to sting as I try hard not to cry. He really should have loaned her his Super Mechanic Stylo or whatever it was. I try to wipe my nose with my sleeve, but I scrape my face with my cast instead. And now my elbow really hurts.

  Laurel and Susannah have shuffled closer. But they look like they’re not sure they should admit to knowing me.

  Then a howl of laughter and whistling explodes from the other end of the hall, where someone, someone whitehaired and tall, is wandering along all by herself. It’s hard to see her through the crowds of kids, but she’s carrying a red purse and wearing…Oh no! Pink footsie pajamas!

  It’s Gram!

  “Which one of you children can tell me where my granddaughter’s classroom is?” she says as her head bobbles side to side. “It’s time to take her home.”

  I stand up. Love letters fall from my lap.

  Laurel puts one hand on my good arm. “Zoë, stay put! They don’t know who she is yet.”

  “She’s that old girl from Allencroft Boulevard!” someone shouts. “Grandma-in-Pajamas!”

  “Hey, Grandma! Wanna dance?” shouts an eighth-grader.

  Grandma beams and takes the jerk’s hands, letting him twirl her around as the whole school laughs at her. She laughs, too. She thinks they’re laughing with her. One of her footsies, I can see now, is torn away from her bare foot. Kids are pointing, laughing harder.

  My heart sinks into my stomach. The whole neighborhood’s going to find out about this. My mother’s going to hear for sure. And if Mom hears, Get-me-this-Get-me-that Jason will hear and everybody will say the same thing—it’s time. I start walking toward her, pulling my arm away from Laurel. Susannah grabs at me. “Zoë, no!” she whispers. “I can take her to the office. No one has to know! Think about your reputation!”

  With a sad smile I push Susannah’s hand away. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?” I walk, then run toward my grandmother. I push the eighth-grader away from her and take Grandma’s arm in my cast. Then, in front of the whole school, I say, “Come on, Grandma. Let’s take you home now,” and guide my beautiful old grandmother through the gawking crowd.

  Don’t Paint Spots on a Leopard

  When we get home, I get Grandma changed into regular clothes and into bed for a nap. Then I sleepwalk to my room, where I flop facedown on my pillow. I’ve never been so tired. So worn out.

  So alone.

  I just need a little…sleep.

  I open my eyes and blink. I don’t know how long I slept, but my room is completely dark. I have a sick feeling, but I don’t know why. Then it all comes back to me. Thoughts come gushing, pouring, flooding back into my head. And they all say pretty much the same thing.

  My life is over. I always knew that the moment my advice failed me, the moment my reign ended—and, boy, did I end it today—my own reputation would be smashed apart. Which is pretty much how I feel.

  But I don’t have time to think about that now. It’s nearly six o’clock and Grandma needs her dinner before Mom comes home with McDonald’s for me. Just to make this day complete, Get-me-this-Get-me-tha
t Jason is coming tonight to see my mother.

  “Grandma,” I holler as I start flinging open cupboard doors. “Do you want macaroni or tuna fish?” She doesn’t answer, so I pull a can of tuna from the cupboard and open it up. “You know what they say about fish, Grandma? They say it makes you smarter because of the schools. You know—schools of fish?”

  She still doesn’t laugh or answer, but I can hear the TV going, so I go see what she’s watching. In the living room, I find Jeopardy! on the TV, but Grandma is lying very still. Her mouth is gaping open.

  “Grandma?”

  She doesn’t wake up. I walk over to her and shake her shoulder. “Grandma?” Her hand, which had been lying on her stomach, drops onto the couch with a thud. A very heavy thud.

  “GRANDMA!” I shriek into her ear.

  Her eyes fly open and she sits straight up. “What the Helen Hunt are you doing?” Her hand starts patting around the couch cushions, looking for her teeth. Normally I try to avoid touching them, but I pick them up off the floor and place them in her hand. “I thought you were…”

  “Dead? Can’t I take a nap anymore, without strangers pulling out a shovel?”

  “But…I’m not a stranger, I’m your granddaughter.”

  She tilts her head and stares me up and down. “But I don’t have a granddaughter. Only a son.”

  I don’t know what it feels like to take a punch in the stomach, but I feel like I’ve been punched. And hard. Why am I not worth remembering? All those mornings with the crossword puzzles and the cocoa…how can she have just forgotten them? I know she can’t help it and I shouldn’t take it personally, but it’s nearly impossible not to when you’re the only one in the family being forgotten. I’m trying to decide if I should explain this to Grandma when I hear water. Not dripping either. More like pouring and splashing.

  “Is Mom home?” I ask, walking toward Grandma’s bathroom.

  “I’m pouring myself a little bath,” she says. Which makes me run, because she was sound asleep for who knows how long when I came into the room!