She waves me in behind the COUNTER.
Uh-oh. Nobody ever goes behind the COUNTER in the Main Office unless Mrs. Katterman waves you in. Or you have a broken nose. Mika Sanderberg got a broken nose when a volleyball hit her in the face during gym period.
The nurse wasn’t in school that day, so Mrs. Shulman, the gym teacher who is lucky because she gets to wear sweatpants every day, took Mika to the principal’s office. Mrs. Katterman waved her in behind the COUNTER immediately!
Mika told Venus and me all about it. Her nasal septum got smashed. (Technically, that means the membrane thingie dividing her nostrils wasn’t ever going to be dividing anything again, unless she had an operation, which she did.)
Mika dripped blood on the COUNTER and also behind the COUNTER.
Having a broken nose and dripping real blood is the only reason I’ve ever heard of somebody getting waved behind Mrs. Katterman’s COUNTER.
Unless you are in really BIG trouble.
Mrs. Katterman is still on the phone.
“Well, yes, I will do that. …”
I’ve never noticed it before … but Mrs. Katterman has very big earlobes.
“Yes. Absolutely. I understand. I will get back to you shortly.”
I smile.
Mrs. Katterman doesn’t smile back.
She hangs up the phone.
She stares.
I clear my throat. Swallow. Whisper.
“I’m Zoey Zinevich.”
“WHO? Speak up. Don’t garble. All you kids garble. Speak clearly when you’re spoken to.”
“I’m Zoey Zinevich.”
“Don’t raise your voice, young lady. Didn’t I call your name over the loudspeaker?”
I nod.
Not too big. Not too little. Just right.
Mrs. Katterman nods back. An okay-you-nodded-back-correctly nod.
She opens her desk drawer.
She closes her desk drawer.
She puts a pencil in her pencil holder.
She sighs.
She gets up from behind her desk, very slowly.
Then she walks over to Mrs. Pappazian’s closed door even slower.
Mrs. Katterman knocks. She opens the door a little and peeks in.
Only her head does the peeking. The rest of Mrs. Katterman can’t fit.
“Do you want to see Zoey Zinevich now?”
I hear Mrs. Pappazian from the other side of the door: “Send her in.”
I power walk toward the door.
Suddenly, Mrs. Katterman stops me.
“You don’t have gum in your mouth, do you?
You know we don’t allow gum chewing.”
HST RULE #6:
Absolutely No Chewing Gum!
“I know. I don’t chew gum. I haven’t chewed gum for one year, two months, and twenty-four days … braces.”
“You kids always say that, but I know you pouch. I know you swallow, with or without those braces. Those braces are just an excuse. We know you chew. You can’t fool us.”
“I’m not fooling.”
I open my mouth.
Mrs. Katterman squeezes her eyes to itsy slits.
“Okay … well … go in.”
I walk into Mrs. Pappazian’s office.
It smells like … someone eating Chinese food at her desk? Are those duck sauce stains I see on one of those folders?
Mrs. Pappazian.
In Her Office.
With the Chinese Noodles.
She shuffles a stack of folders on her desk and smiles without looking at me.
“The reason I called you down to the office is because …”
I’m pretty much wondering that myself because—
I’m not chewing gum.
I’m not wearing my fedora.
I’m not dripping blood.
I have a hall pass.
And most important, how much trouble can I be in when Mrs. Pappazian hasn’t fallen face-first onto her duck sauce—stained folders after seeing me hatless?
I squeeze my eyes into itsy slits just like Mrs. Katterman and stare at Mrs. Pappazian. Then I stop because it’s really giving me a headache.
Sitting in the principal’s office is all curiouser and curiouser. Especially when everything smells like pork lo mein.
“… Miss Jazz Duval, the creative director of the magazine that was here several weeks ago taking photographs, called today to leave a message for … you.”
“… Me?”
“She would like to speak with you and your parents.”
“… Me?”
“She asked that you call her.”
“… Me?”
“… Yes. You … Zoey Zinevich.”
B-r-rr-rrrrr-rrrrr-inG
Stay tuned for an episode of
Phone Chat with Zoey Zinevich
with
Mother
Father
Brother
Aunt Rootie
… and Four-Year-Old Sister
Maddie: “I’ll get it!”
Mom: “I’ll get it!”
Stewart: “I’ll get it!”
Aunt Rootie: “I’ll get it!”
Me: “I’ll get it!”
Dad: “No. I’ll get it.”
“Hello? Miss Duval?
Yes. Yes, it is.
Well, of course. Uh-huh. Agree.
Yes. Uh-huh … Yes. Yes.
Of course …
Mrs. Zinevich?
Right here …”
“Hello? Miss Duval?
Yes. Yes, it is.
Well, of course. Uh-huh. Agree.
Yes. Uh-huh … Yes. Yes.
Of course …
Aunt Rootie?
Aunt Rootie.
Yes. Right here …”
“Hello? Miss Duval?
Yes. Yes, it is.
Well, of course. Uh-huh. Agree.
Yes. Uh-huh … Yes. Yes.
Of course …
Mr. Zinevich?
Right here …”
“Hello? Miss Duval?
Yes. Yes, it is.
Well, of course. Uh-huh. Agree.
Yes. Uh-huh … Yes. Yes.
Of course …
Zoey?
She’s right here …”
“Hello? Jazz? …
Yes. It’s me, Zoey.”
Twelve
Too excited to even remember
how many days till you-know-what.
Really quick update:
So, this is what I’m thinking. …
I really can’t do much thinking. Or dot connecting.
I have to go to bed muy pronto.
(Venus told me that’s Spanish for “very quick.”)
Tomorrow morning I am going to NYC (New York City) to meet with Jazz and her magazine people. (I didn’t even know she had “people.”) Actually, she’s picking me up in a limousine, which I know isn’t environmentally correct, but Jazz said it was a hybrid, so my carbon footprint will still be neutral.
So I’m not thinking so I can go to sleep.
Except, I can’t stop thinking …
so I keep thinking.
I don’t really know how this all happened.
I only know that it happened, and when it happened, it was all Molto exciting!
Jazz’s note said she would call at 6:00.
From her office.
And exactly at 6:00 she actually called, and it was all Molto exciting!
She asked me to come to her office and meet her people because they want to do an article on ME, which—I know!—is Molto Molto exciting!
(Did she really say “article”?)
Well, I can’t remember exactly what she said, or what she called it, only that she said something, and it was all Molto exciting!
Venus and Aunt Rootie are coming with me too (because my parents won’t let me go alone, blah blah blah), but they also think it’s all Molto Molto!
And luckily we have a day off from school for something or other—so we aren’t
even breaking any Harry S. Truman Rules.
Jazz said for me to wear my bowling shirt, great-grandpop’s fedora, my Chucks, and not to even comb my hair …
which, actually …
when I keep thinking about it, doesn’t sound very exciting.
In fact, it sounds sort of weird.
But, Venus says, her sister says it’s because Jazz is probably going to give me a complete, total, and unbelievably cool
Motto
Chic makeover—which is Molto exciting!
Which makes me think, even though I shouldn’t be thinking because I should be sleeping, that maybe … just maybe …a fairy godmother somewhere out wherever FGs hang out connected my dots.
Molto exciting!
“Here I am! FG #11-288! Good to go with an incredible, cool makeover for one Zoey Zinevich.”
“R-r-r-r-ead-d-d R-r-r-r-d-d R-r-r-ead-d-d-dd-dd-d-d-d-d”
“Ready, Zoey?”
“Jazz? … Jazz!” I should have guessed. Lightbulb Momento: She’s way 21st century.
Hair?
Feet?
“Get ready for one La-di-da Incredible, Chic Makeover!”
“Cool.”
“J-j-j-j-aa J-ja-aa-zzz-z-zz?”
“J-j-j-j-aa J-ja-aa-zzz-z-zz?”
“J-j-j-j-aa J-ja-aa-zzz-z-zz?”
Tune in tomorrow. (That’s called a cliff-hanger. It’s very dramatic.)
Thirteen
TA-TA-TA-TA!
I knew it was all very logical. Connect that dot to this dot to that dot, just like Mrs. Helferich always says.
When you wish for something really hard, it can really, most definitely happen: There is most definitely a limousine in front of my house, 156 days to sixth grade. Ha! Cool Police!
Jazz gets out of the car, and there’s lots of introductions with my parents, blah blah blah, blah blah blah; then good-byes, etc. etc. etc.; and finally Aunt Rootie, Venus, Jazz, and I get into the car.
It’s a hybrid Hummer, so I think I’m still EC.
Our driver, Howard, closes the door. He’s sort of like a Cinderella chauffeur but in a regular suit and tie, with a gray mustache that is very bushy. We all buckle up and are good to go.
“We have juices, breakfast tacos with guacamole, strawberries, and …” Jazz holds out a box. “Donuts.”
Howard starts the car (I mean Hummer).
Venus looks at me and grins. It’s a very chic breakfast. We take one of everything.
The heated seat (or maybe it’s the taco) gets to Aunt Rootie, and she falls asleep before we get to the turnpike. Luckily she doesn’t snore, and she’s wearing her big sunglasses so none of us can see her eyes flutter. Which they always do when she sleeps.
Aunt Rootie misses seeing the Statue of Liberty. (It’s sort of far away, but Venus has binoculars.) She wakes up just as the car goes through the toll plaza and heads into the tunnel. It’s really quite unbelievable. We are underwater even though it doesn’t feel like we’re underwater.
Walter Colson should definitely do an extra-credit report on it. It is a totally major engineering phenomenon.
(Walter is very good at building things. Last year he built a model of the Roman Coliseum out of sugar cubes.)
We drive out of the tube, which is another name for the tunnel, and Howard makes a left turn at the traffic light. Aunt Rootie, who is now very awake, starts shouting.
“Howard. Howard! Turn right at this next light! You beat the traffic that way. I’ve been driving in this city for years. Trust me.”
Howard nods, but I don’t think he needs help from Aunt Rootie. He drives right between a bus and three taxis. Molto amazing. Venus and I look out the windows and count how many people Howard almost runs over before we get to Jazz’s office.
Howard zigs, zags, and then makes a right turn. Our people count is eighteen and a half.
Jazz reaches into her bag and pulls out her phone. She flips it open. Howard turns the car closer to the curb.
“Hey, Hoyt. JD. We’re pulling up. Tell everyone to get ready.” (“JD.” Jazz is so you-know-what.)
“Ready for what?” I ask.
Jazz smiles. “You’ll see.”
Venus leans closer to me and whispers, “The incredible, cool makeover.”
I nod and smile as Howard gets out of the car and walks around to the sidewalk, where he opens the door.
“Okay. Everybody out,” says Jazz. “Thank you, Howard.” She glances at her watch. “We’ll see you again in about a little over an hour.”
(An hour? Magazine people can do an incredible, cool makeover in only an hour? They are almost as fast as a real fairy godmother.)
“Follow me, everyone,” Jazz says as she turns to go into the building.
I look up. This building is really, really, seriously really tall.
“Did I ever tell you girls about the time I was almost a Rockette?” says Aunt Rootie, as she follows us through the revolving doors into the lobby.
“You were almost a Rockette?” we all say. Our voices echo. This lobby has acoustics way more bene than even the hallway at HST.
Aunt Rootie laughs as Jazz gathers the three of us by the long security counter.
(It’s something like the one Mrs. Katterman has in the office, only this one is marble and Mrs. Katterman’s is plastic. The security guard looks like he’s even harder to get past than Mrs. Katterman.)
“They’re with me,” Jazz says, showing him her identification badge. “Come with me, ladies.”
We snake through the red velvet ropes and head for a long double row of elevators.
One of the doors in the middle right row opens and we step inside. Jazz pushes a button that lights up with the number forty-two.
My ears pop.
Bing
The door opens. “Welcome to U Grl!”
We step into the reception area and face the name of the magazine in big orange and purple letters on the back wall.
The walls are painted the same color as my wicked green stickies.
Venus whispers, ’Very cool.”
A girl gets up from behind a desk and takes our coats. (Luckily my mother didn’t make me wear my poofy coat.)
Jazz crooks her finger for us to follow. We go down a hall with lots of offices and turn left. Then right. Then left. Right. Left.
We finally reach a door at the end of a long hall that says Conference Room.
Jazz smiles at me. “Ready?”
“Ready!” (Coolability meter, get ready to boing.)
Jazz opens the door.
Aunt Rootie gasps.
Venus gasps.
I think I have to go to the bathroom.
If this is my makeover, it’s going to be very weird. Everyone is wearing fedoras, sneakers, and bowling shirts with names embroidered on their pockets.
…They all look like me!
(Especially the one who looks like she hasn’t combed her hair.)
Fourteen
Jazz puts her arm around me.
“This is our Zoey!”
Everyone applauds.
(Applause? Getting weirder.)
“Hello, Zoey. I’m Cindy Fowler, the executive editor of UGrl. So nice to meet you.
The lady with short, white hair shakes my hand. “We are so excited to have you here.”
“You are?”
Jazz laughs. “Can’t you tell?”
I look at everyone wearing fedoras that look just like mine (or technically my great-grandpop’s).
Well, actually … no.
The Executive Editor Person picks up a magazine from the conference table and opens the pages to where the green sticky notes are stuck.
“Zoey, I’m sure by now you’ve seen all the photographs of you in the issue of U Grl.”
“You mean, my hat … and bowling shirt … and …”
“sneakers!”
A girl named China comes forward and twirls in purple Chucks.
That taco isn’t feeling too good right about now. The orange
juice is doing slosh-dancing in my digestive tract too.
The Following Is a Public Service Factoid: Complete digestion actually takes a while to occur in the human body. After swallowing, food goes down the esophagus in approximately five seconds, but it hangs around in your stomach for a couple of hours. Then travels on.
(No need for further explanation)
“Zoey, when we put our last issue together, we never thought we would get the kind of response that we did—but we did.”
I look at Jazz and hear my stomach grumble. “You didn’t? I mean, you did?”
“We did. And most of the responses were about you.”
Grumble. “Me?”
“In fact, we received so many emails, it crashed our server.”
Venus sucks in more air. “It did?”
“It did,” says Jazz. “We had questions about the hat, bowling shirt, frogs, crossword puzzles—we must have gotten hundreds of questions from girls wanting to know about Louisa May Alcott.”
“Well, she is a very good writer.”
“Yes, we know,” says EEP. “And now a whole lot of other girls, who perhaps didn’t know before, know that too.”
Jazz points. “Do you see that huge pile of letters at the end of the table?”
I nod and stomach-grumble. Stomach-grumble and nod.
“Well, those are only a sampling of the ones we received from girls all over the country. Go on, Zoey. Read a couple.”
I do.
She’s right.
They did.
This is now:
OFFICIALLY WEIRD.
“I’m not sure I understand any of this.”
The Executive Editor Person with short, white hair laughs. (Weirder, because none of this is funny.)
“Zoey, U Grl celebrates girls who are unique. Girls who are thoughtful. Curious. Girls who are inventive. Smart. Girls who do. Girls who think. And girls who have their own style and flair while doing it. Since the last issue came out, our readers have been telling us—that’s you.”
Geek Chic Page 4
