Last-But-Not-Least Lola and the Wild Chicken

by Christine Pakkala

  Fishsticks.

  “Oh, never mind, dear,” Grandma says with a yawn. “We’ll take care of it in the morning. We wouldn’t want you to miss that field trip. It sounds simply wonderful!”

  11. DIGGING IN THE DARK

  RING! MY FUZZY PETE THE SHEEP alarm goes off. I shut it fast before Grandma wakes up. She wouldn’t like it if she woke up without coffee and a bran muffin—and morning. ’Cause it’s midnight.

  Slurp! Slurp!

  “Patches—get off me! Patches!” I groan.

  Slurp! Slurp!

  “Okay, I’m up, I’m up.”

  I roll out of bed. It’s black-dark in my room and brown-dark outside. I get out my mini flashlight and squish my feet into my sneakers. I tiptoe down the hall. Patches goes into the bathroom. He drinks from the toilet. “Patches, get out of there!” I whisper.

  Now comes the scary part. Downstairs. In the dark.

  The kitchen is shadowy and spooky. The coffeepot looks like a little goblin sitting on the counter.

  “I know, I know,” I tell Patches. “It’s scary. But it’s okay, I’ll protect you.”

  I run past the coffee goblin and so does Patches.

  Opening the back door, I tiptoe out to the garden, Patches at my heels. The moon helps me see a little. And so does my mini flashlight. But all the rows in the garden look exactly alike. Where did Jack and I plant that note? Then I remember! It was somewhere near the baby turnips. I grab my spade from the picnic table where I didn’t put it away and that’s no way to take care of your gardening tools. I dig a hole. No note. I dig another hole. No note. I dig and dig and dig. And finally I find the note.

  “Presto,” I say.

  Just then, Patches takes off running across the yard.

  “Patches, no!” I whisper as loud as a whisper can go. “Come back here, Patches! Leave that squirrel alone.”

  The poor squirrel probably thought it was safe to walk around the yard at night.

  Patches runs this way and that way. I jump when he runs by. I catch him by the tail. He lets out a howl. I grab him by the collar.

  “That will be enough!” I march Patches into the kitchen. “You lie down right now!”

  Suddenly all the lights turn on.

  Grandma stands there, holding Jack’s hockey stick. “Lola!” she yowls.

  “Hi, Grandma.” I hang my head. And that makes me see that I’m covered with dirt from knee to toe.

  “What in the world are you doing up at …” She looks across the room at the kitchen clock.

  “Midnight,” I say. “And … ?”

  “I buried the permission slip when we were digging.”

  “Lola, why?” Grandma asks.

  Why gets stuck in my throat.

  I cough it out. “I thought it would say I was bad because I stuck my tongue out at Savannah and I got sent to Principal McCoy’s office.”

  “Lola, you didn’t need to bury anything! I knew about your trip to the principal’s office.” Grandma sighs. “And the playground accident. Lola, you don’t have to keep secrets from me.”

  “I’m sorry, Grandma,” I say. “I won’t anymore.”

  Except it’s a tiny fib. Because I can’t tell Grandma that she’s a terrible cook.

  12. REGULAR BERRIES

  AMANDA ANDERSON WON’T LOOK at me. She won’t talk to me. I’m see-through, like hot stinky Patches breath. She stomps past me on the bus and squeezes in tight with Jessie Goat Gruff who has stitches under the bandage on her chin.

  Jessie won’t talk to me, either. I can’t say, “You were shoving me, too!”

  Because she’s the one with the stitches, not me. She’s got the right of way.

  When we get to school, Amanda skips into Mrs. D.’s class, holding hands with Jessie.

  “Oh, my heavens!” Mrs. D. exclaims. “Oh, Jessie! You poor thing!” She cozies right up to Jessie and kneels down in front of her. A whole bunch of kids crowd around, too.

  I slink in like an old raccoon that’s heading for the garbage cans. I slap my permission slip in Mrs. D.’s basket and slug over to my desk.

  What if I were the one with stitches all over my face? And a broken leg? The whole entire school would be weeping and carrying on ’cause I just about killed myself on the playground.

  I have a little smile on my face. Until Mrs. D. calls, “Lola, time for morning Share!”

  I see that everyone is sitting on the carpet. I skunk on over there.

  “Here, Lola!” Savannah says. She pats the seat next to her. She is wearing sparkly blue glasses. Why is Savannah so nice? I wouldn’t be nice to me.

  But I sit down next to her anyway. “I like your new glasses,” I tell her.

  “They’re my spare pair.”

  Amanda could think of a good song to go with that. We’re the spare pair, the double-daring spare pair. Not some old underwear.

  Well, better than that. I give Amanda a little wave but I’m still see-through.

  “Who would like to share?” Mrs. D. asks.

  Gwendolyn Swanson-Carmichael’s hand shoots up like a rocket. So does Savannah’s. But Gwendolyn starts talking. “I have something important to say. My mother is picking me up after school for a special trip to New York City. We’re having dinner with my father at Tavern on the Green.”

  My head sinks so I use my fist to prop it up. I stare as hard as I can at Harvey’s shoe, which has a wad of gum stuck to the bottom. I swallow some air and hiccup. I haven’t seen my mom for a hundred years. Or my dad.

  “How wonderful, Gwendolyn,” Mrs. D. says. “Savannah?”

  Savannah has her arm flapping in the breeze. I feel her big eyes on me from behind her spare pair. Her arm falls down.

  “Um … I forgot,” she says.

  Jessie’s hand pops up. “I went to the emergency room and got stitches,” she says. “My doctor said I was very brave.”

  “They always say that,” Harvey says.

  “I’m sure you were brave,” Mrs. D. says. “Any more Shares?”

  There are more Shares. Loads more.

  But I don’t have anything to share, so I just keep my mouth shut.

  Finally it’s time for Writing Workshop. I get out my purple notebook and my watermelon-smelling pencil and I write a story:

  Once upon a time there were two puppies who were best friends. Then an old skunk came along and tried to squirt the puppies. And a koala came along and tried to hang on to them. But the puppies ran away and left the skunk and the koala alone to squirt and hang on to each other.

  By the way, the puppies were named Amanda and Lola.

  The End.

  We have math and Spanish and then it’s time for recess.

  “Savannah, be careful with your glasses,” Mrs. D. says. “Your mother called to say that they are your only extra pair.” Mrs. D. gives Savannah a Sugar Bun smile. “And I’m sure you’re very glad to have her back, aren’t you?”

  Savannah nods her head like a Savannah Bobblehead. And I am Mom-sick and I can’t even remember what she looks like. What if she decides to stay in California forever? What if she’s got on some purple cowboy boots and she’s sitting on a palomino pony and she never wants to come back? What if every kid in California wants a Lola dress and Mom has to stay and make them?

  Mrs. D. calls us in alphabetical order. Except she skips over Jessie and me.

  The class and Miss Nimby head out for recess. Mrs. D., Jessie, and I stay put.

  Jessie raises her hand. “Am I in trouble?” she asks. “Or are you looking out for my chin?”

  “Come here, girls,” Mrs. D. says.

  We go up there.

  “Who would like to explain what happened on the playground at recess yesterday?”

  “I’m the one with stitches,” Jessie quivers. “Tell Lola to explain. It’s all her fault.”

  “It is not! I was there first, trying to say sorry to Savannah. And you shoved me. You made me lose my balance.”

  “You didn’t have to grab me!”
/>   “I didn’t mean to.”

  “But I got hurt!”

  “Well, so did I. On the inside.”

  “Jessie, is it true that you pushed Lola?”

  Jessie folds her arms tight. “Well, maybe. It’s Savannah’s fault for swinging with sharp cowboy boots.”

  “What do you have to say to each other?” Mrs. D. says.

  “Watch where you’re going?” I ask. “Try again, Lola.”

  “Sorry, Jessie,” I say.

  “Sorry, Lola,” she says. Then, “You’re lucky you didn’t get stitches,” Jessie adds on to her I’m-not-sorry sorry.

  “You’re lucky the whole class doesn’t blame you, including your own best friend that you’ve had your whole life.”

  “My stitches hurt,” she says.

  Mrs. D. stands up with her travel mug. “Let’s go to Nurse Ramirez’s office and get you some ointment. Lola, you may now join the class for recess.”

  They wheel out of the room. But I stand there sputtering like Grampy Coogan’s lawnmower. I go over to the window. Fishsticks. There’s Savannah swinging Double Dippers with Amanda.

  This whole mess is Savannah’s fault. She’s the best-friend-hogger. She’s the Spare-Pair-Wearer and Pointy-Purple-Boot-Attacker. Now Amanda thinks I’m bad. Maybe I AM bad.

  I walk over to Savannah’s desk and look at the picture of Savannah’s mother taped there. She still has a photo, even though her mom got out of California. My mom’s stuck there.

  Maybe she likes it there better. Maybe she’s getting a golden tan and she’s surfing.

  Maybe the girls there are nice and whispery like Savannah and don’t have to be told twice to clear the table.

  Now Savannah has her mom back. And I still don’t have my mom back. Or my dad.

  Picking up a fat black pen, I give her mom glasses, just like Savannah’s. Plus, a fat mustache under the mom’s nose. Dot, dot, dot: freckles.

  All the air squelches out of me. I drop the pen and run out of the room.

  13. LOLA STINKERMAN

  WHY DID I DO THAT? WHY OH WHY oh why oh?

  I’m the worst, most mean person in the world.

  I have to go back in there and get rid of that picture.

  I turn around to go back in the room, but Mrs. Sweeney, the reading specialist, yoo-hoos me out to the playground. Fishsticks.

  As soon as I get out to the playground, Savannah runs straight up to me.

  “Wanna swing Double Dippers?” she asks.

  “Um, maybe later,” I tell her purple sneakers ’cause no way am I going to look right at her and show off what a ball-face liar and rotten stinkerman I am.

  One of her purple boots kicks a rock. “Okay,” she says.

  And she runs off.

  All during recess, I stay far away from Amanda and Savannah and Jessie, when she comes out with her chin greased up. I keep my eyes fixed on the door for when Mrs. D. hollers for us to line up. I’ll have to use magical powers on her or something so she lets me go into the classroom first.

  “LOLA! Get over here!” Gwendolyn yells. She, Ruby Snow, and Rita Rohan are sitting on the hopscotch square.

  I scoot on over, keeping one eye on them and one eye on the door.

  “It’s time for the Girl Power Club meeting,” Ruby reminds me.

  Gwendolyn looks at me with a scowl. “You can’t be president today, Lola Zuckerman.”

  I fold my arms up real tight. “Why not?”

  “’Cause we don’t want you to give us stitches.”

  “I didn’t give Jessie stitches. The doctor did.”

  “You know what I mean,” Gwendolyn says. “You gave her the cut and THAT gave her stitches.”

  “I did NOT give her the cut,” I say. “Savannah’s pointy-toe boot did.” That reminds me to look at the door. Mrs. D. didn’t come out yet.

  “A) You pushed Jessie. Therefore, B) she ran into Savannah’s foot. Therefore, C) she got stitches,” Gwendolyn says.

  “Could she be the secretary?” Ruby asks.

  Gwendolyn thinks for a minute. “Okay,” she finally agrees. “You have to write down everything we say at the meeting.”

  “But I don’t have anything to write with,” I say. I look at the door again because that might be more interesting than writing down everything Gwendolyn Swanson-Carmichael has to say.

  “Then you’ll have to memorize what we say.”

  That doesn’t sound very fun. But I don’t say anything, ’cause I’ve already got loads of kids mad at me.

  Guess what? It’s not fun. My brain runs out of room right after Gwendolyn calls the meeting to order. I have some opinions, but I’m supposed to just listen and not talk and that sounds a lot like school.

  My brain gets sleepy and I forget to pay attention.

  The bell rings. Oh, the bell just rang, I think. Then I think, THE BELL JUST RANG! I have to get that picture before Savannah sees it!

  I run to the front of the line. “I have to cut in line,” I tell Jessie. “I have an emergency.”

  “Lola Z-for-Zuckerman, get to the END OF THE LINE!” Jessie hollers.

  “But, but, but—”

  “Motor boat, motor boat, zoom away,” Harvey Baxter chants.

  Mrs. D. opens the door. Her face looks like she accidentally ate a Hot Attack Mouth Whack candy when she expected to eat a Jeffrey Yum Sugar Bun.

  “LOLA!” she barks.

  But instead of sending me back to the end of the line where I really wish I was, and where I never ever want to get out of again, Mrs. D. hustles me right past Amanda Anderson.

  “Miss Nimby, please stay with the children,” Mrs. D. says. Then she hurries my I-want-to-go-slow feet down the hall and into the classroom. She shuts the door.

  I am throwing up inside my stomach. She holds up the picture of Savannah’s mom that looks like a business guy.

  “Did you do this?” Mrs. D. says in the world’s quietest voice.

  I hang my head because it weighs a whole lot. “Yes, Mrs. D.”

  “Oh, Lola,” Mrs. D. says. “Why?”

  “I had a rotten moment,” I whisper. “But I wished I could erase it. But I couldn’t.”

  “This is a very big problem, Lola,” Mrs. D. says. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Tell Savannah I’m sorry? Because I am.”

  “That’s a start, Lola. Have you ever heard the expression, ‘Actions speak louder than words’?”

  I nod, except that’s a tiny fib.

  “Maybe showing Savannah you’re sorry will be better than only telling Savannah you’re sorry.”

  “I should only show her?”

  “You’ll want to find a way to do both, I think. Meanwhile, Lola, I’m going to put this picture in my desk. We’re not going to show this to Savannah or talk about it now, so that Savannah won’t be upset by it.”

  I nod up and down, up and down. Good old Mrs. D. That’s what I would do if I were the teacher.

  “And you are going to visit Principal McCoy again. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes,” I whisper. Because now I understand her. And I don’t want to be a teacher anymore.

  She puts the photo in her desk and lets in the rest of the class.

  “What happened, Lola?” Harvey asks. “What did you do now?”

  “That’s enough, Harvey,” Mrs. D. says in her Strike Three voice.

  And guess what? That is only Part One of Bad. Part Two of Bad is right around the bend.

  14. PART TWO OF BAD

  SQUAWK.

  It’s Savannah. Her squeak became a SQUAWK.

  “Where’d the p-p-p-p-picture of m-m-m-my m-m-m-mom go?”

  My whole body turns red.

  Savannah’s lower lip tucks in. Behind her spare glasses, I can see her eyes up close. They are getting wettish.

  Mrs. D. rushes over. “Savannah, dear! Something happened and your photo was ruined, but don’t worry! I called your father. He said he had an extra copy and that you could bring it tomorrow.�
�� She gives Savannah her Cinnamon Roll smile. Warm and sweet.

  I wrap my arm around Savannah. “You okay?” I ask in a Mommy voice. Because she doesn’t know I’m the something that happened to her photo.

  Savannah nods.

  But Mrs. D. gives me the Lime Popsicle look. Cold and sour. “You know what to do next, Lola,” she says.

  I am going to the principal’s office again. On my way, I pass my own desk. Something is taped to it. An envelope. It says:

  Lola,

  Please deliver to Mrs. Zelda Zuckerman. Have her sign it and return it. I need it before our field trip.

  Mrs. DeBenedetti

  That seems like the worst part of bad. But the other worst part of bad is Savannah.

  At the end of the day, Savannah slips a packet of jelly beans in my hand. “Those are from California,” she says. “When you miss your mom, you can eat one of those and feel better.”

  If I did eat one, I just might be the saddest bad girl in the whole world.

  15. A ROTTEN TOMATO

  Dear Mrs. Zuckerman,

  Your granddaughter is NOT ALLOWED on our class field trip. She is a rotten tomato. She’s a real stinker. She drew all over Savannah’s picture of her mom. Even though Savannah is her friend now. Please send her to prison. She needs to learn manners.

  Also, she’s not the Number One Granddaughter like you said. Not by a long shot.

  Sincerely,

  Mrs. D.

  Well, I haven’t actually read the note. But if I do read it, it will say that.

  Lucky for me Grandma is TOO busy singing to read it. I hand it over to her, and she sticks it in her pocket and swings my arm.

  “I’ve got a girl named Lola! Don’t want to boast, but I know she’s the toast of Cloverdale.” Grandma croons and then she pulls me up the street. Click, jog, click, jog. “We’ve got to hurry, Lola,” Grandma puffs. “I’ve got all SORTS of tasty things cooking for dinner tonight.”