by Clare Hutton
“We can make posters tonight and put them up in the halls tomorrow morning,” Zoe suggested. In her mind, she could see fun posters in primary colors, eye-catching enough to convince anyone, with any kind of problem, to write in to— “Guys!” she said suddenly. “We need a name for our show.”
“What, like Max and Noah’s Sports Talk?” Natalia asked. “You want to be Zoe and Emma’s Advice Talk?”
Emma made a face. “I don’t like ‘Advice Talk,’ it sounds weird.”
Zoe had a flash of inspiration. “I know,” she announced. “How about Zoe and Emma to the Rescue? Because we’ll be fixing people’s problems.”
Emma smiled and Zoe knew she was starting to get excited in spite of her nerves.
“Zoe and Emma to the Rescue,” Emma said, as if trying the name on for size. “I like it!”
“It’s the moment of truth,” Zoe said on Sunday afternoon. They’d set up a box in the school library with a slot on the top so that anyone who wanted to could drop in a letter anonymously. She’d taken it home on Friday, so she and Emma could prep for their show. Now Zoe held that box in her lap, and she shook it gently, listening for the sound of paper moving inside. It was hard to tell if there was anything in there, and she exchanged a glance with Emma. Her cousin was nervously twisting her hands together and biting her lip.
Downstairs, she could hear thumping and loud bursts of laughter as Natalia played lava floor with their little brothers.
Had Zoe and Emma inspired anyone to write in with a problem? Would they be able to come to the rescue?
“Here we go,” Zoe whispered, a thrill of excitement running down her spine. She couldn’t wait any longer. The box top was taped down—so that no one could peek inside—and now she ripped off the tape and threw the box open.
“People wrote in,” Emma said faintly, staring down at the pieces of paper inside. “There’ve got to be fifteen or twenty questions in here. I can’t believe it.”
“Apparently, we’re fabulous,” Zoe told her, feeling light-headed with surprise. She couldn’t believe it, either. “Okay, I’m going in.” She picked up the first note and unfolded it.
Dear Zoe and Emma, My only problem is that I’m so amazing no one can handle it. How can I destroy the haters? PS You guys are laaaammmme.
“Oh,” Emma said, disappointed. “It’s a fake letter.”
“Boys,” Zoe said dismissively. Twelve- and thirteen-year-old boys could be amazingly immature, she told herself. It didn’t mean anything. But a small knot formed in her stomach. What if they were all joke letters?
“Well, let’s try another one,” she said, trying to sound upbeat.
Dear Zoe and Emma, My parents let my older sister get away with everything. They have to know where I am every second, but she gets to go out with her friends as much as she wants. I have to go to bed way before she does, and they are always nagging at me about my homework and grades and how clean my room is, and even when she does way worse than me at school she doesn’t get in trouble like I do. It’s not fair! Signed, My Parents Like Her Better
There was a small warm glow in Zoe’s chest. This was a real letter. Someone who wanted Emma’s and her help.
“What do you think?” she asked Emma.
“Some of this is just normal older sibling stuff, right?” Emma said. “I mean, if her sister’s older, of course she gets more freedom and is allowed to stay up later and stuff.”
Zoe nodded. “Yeah. I wonder about what she says about them not being fair about the grades thing, though. Do you think it’s true? Like, I feel like my parents pick on me and let Natalia get away with stuff sometimes, but it’s probably just that it feels like a bigger deal to me when they’re mad at me or making me do something I don’t want to, right?”
“I’m sure.” Emma laughed. “I don’t have a sister, but I think they treat you and Natalia the same.”
“But even if they do treat them differently about school, there could be good reasons,” Zoe said thoughtfully. “Like, maybe school is more difficult for her sister, and they know she’s working really hard. Or she’s taking much harder classes. Or maybe the younger one who wrote in has more trouble in school, and their parents keep on top of her to help her.”
“How do you know it’s a her?” Emma asked, raising her eyebrows.
Zoe read the letter again. “Oh, you’re right. I guess I just assumed, because I have a sister. It sounds like a girl to me, though.”
Emma tucked her feet under her, thinking. “Okay, so what would you say if you were answering the letter?”
Frowning, Zoe looked up at the ceiling as if she might find the right words there. “Well,” she said slowly. “I’d point out all the stuff we were just talking about—that older kids do get some freedoms younger kids don’t, and that also if she—I mean, she or he—thinks about it, they might see that there are reasons their parents might treat them differently that aren’t unfair.”
Emma nodded. “Fair doesn’t always mean exactly the same.”
“Exactly,” Zoe said, smiling at her. “That sounds great. But are we just going to tell them their parents are right? What if she—or he, jeez—thinks about all that and still feels like their parents aren’t being fair? I mean, maybe they’re not. Parents aren’t always perfect.”
There was a thump and a squeal from downstairs, followed by a burst of laughter, and Zoe and Emma exchanged amused looks: Natalia had clearly just fallen into some “lava.”
“Okay.” Emma brought them back to the question. “What if the parents aren’t being fair? The kid should talk to them. But not, like, yell at them and accuse them of liking her—or his—sister better. Being mad and loud won’t make them listen.”
Zoe nodded. “And not right in the middle of an argument about homework or bedtimes or whatever. Instead, like, a reasonable conversation when everyone is calm, and maybe the letter writer could just talk about how they feel about things instead of making accusations. They could say, ‘I feel like Cleopatra doesn’t have as much pressure from you about her grades as I do’—and talk about something specific, don’t just be like you’re never fair. And ask: ‘Is there a reason you didn’t crack down on her like you do on me?’”
“Cleopatra?” Emma asked.
Zoe shrugged. “I needed some kind of name.”
Emma smiled. “I think that’s a good answer! And this is nice”—she waved a hand back and forth between them—“I like talking about what we think and figuring out an answer together. Maybe we should pick the letters we want to do on the show together and then come up with our own answers and not talk about them till we’re doing the show. The show might be more interesting that way. We’d be having this conversation about what we each think on the show.”
“Huh.” Zoe thought. It did sound like it might be interesting. “But what if we don’t agree?”
“So?” Emma said. “We’ll talk about what we’re thinking. The person will get two kinds of advice.”
“Okay.” Happiness and anticipation were bubbling up inside Zoe. It was going to be a great show, she could feel it. And they had so many letters to choose from. “Let’s go through and pick two for Wednesday. We can probably do two in ten minutes, right?”
There was another loud thump from downstairs, followed by Abuelita’s scolding voice. Emma and Zoe looked at each other again and giggled. Zoe turned back to the letters.
“Okay, we’d better pick two letters before Abuelita breaks up whatever’s going on down there and sends Natalia upstairs. She would absolutely get us playing some kind of game, and we’d never figure this out.”
Emma ended up staying for dinner. Zoe’s dad had cooked, and the big kitchen was fragrant with garlic and spices. Everyone gathered around the table, Zoe next to Emma and across from Natalia and Tomás. Mateo loved Emma, and he insisted on sitting on his big cousin’s other side.
“My friend Robert wanted to play with the red car first this morning,” he told her. “And I was great at sharing and l
et him instead of grabbing it.”
“Good for you,” Emma said supportively, handing him a napkin. “You’re an excellent sharer.”
Zoe looked around the table contentedly. It was dark and cold outside, and the windows rattled when the wind blew. But here, the lamp over the big kitchen table gave a golden light, and everything seemed warm and cozy. Her mom and dad were at one end of the table, talking about the lesson plans her dad was working on for the high school English classes he taught, while Natalia and Tomás, across from Zoe, were quickly and quietly stacking their food into towers, higher and higher, glancing up occasionally to make sure the adults hadn’t noticed.
Splat. A lump of Natalia’s chicken toppled off its tower and landed on the floor. “Whoops!” she said, and Tomás laughed.
“Kids,” their mom said severely, “Stop playing with your food.”
“It was Natalia’s idea!” Tomás said immediately.
“Traitor,” Natalia muttered jokingly, and, when her dad looked at her sternly, quickly turned the table’s attention to Zoe and Emma. “Hey, how did it go, you guys? Did you get good advice questions?”
“We got so many,” Zoe said immediately. “And about all kinds of stuff. Friends, parents, brothers and sisters, teachers. Romance, even.”
“Sounds like a lot of rich material to work with,” their dad said, looking impressed. “You know, it might be a nice activity for my students sometime, writing answers to advice questions.”
“More fun than grammar, anyway,” Natalia agreed.
Abuelita served Mateo another large spoonful of stir-fry. “Just be careful, girls,” she said, shaking her head.
“What do you mean?” Emma said, sounding alarmed.
“Sometimes people ask for advice and they’ll take it, especially if the advice they get happens to be the same as what they already want to do,” Abuela said. “But if things go wrong for them after they take your advice, they might blame you. Even if it’s good advice.”
“Don’t worry, Abuelita,” Zoe said. She sat up straighter, throwing back her shoulders confidently. “No one’s going to get mad. We’ll be giving excellent advice.”
On the next Wednesday morning, the school bus rattled and bounced as it turned down the road toward Waverly Middle School. Zoe held on tightly to the folder in her lap. In it were the two letters they’d chosen to answer today, covered with carefully written notes about how she thought they should be answered. She knew Emma, sitting beside her, had a similar folder in her backpack.
Looking over, she saw that Emma’s face was mostly milky pale, with bright spots of pink high on her cheekbones. She was staring fixedly at the back of the bus seat in front of them, and Zoe could see her lips moving slightly. “What are you doing?” she whispered, nudging Emma.
“I’m practicing what I’m going to say,” Emma said tightly. “I want it to sound natural.”
Zoe wrapped an arm around her cousin and squeezed her into a side hug. She tried to make her voice reassuring, even though her own throat was dry with anxiety. “Relax. It’s just going to be us talking about problems people wrote in to us about, like we did at home. There’s nothing scary about talking to each other, right? It’ll be fun.”
“Personally, I can’t wait for the show,” Natalia said from across the aisle. “Juicy personal problems instead of sports? Yes, please! Everyone who’s not a total sports nut is going to be dying to watch this after a month of playoffs and, um, talking forever about who’s going to win what game, or why they didn’t win the game. Ugh.” She reached over and patted Emma on the knee. “Relax. The only way it could go bad is if you actually fell off your chair. Or I guess if we couldn’t hear you guys at all or something. But I’m sure they have microphones. Or, ooh, like, if maybe you threw up.” There was a wicked little twinkle in her eye.
“Natalia! Stop it! You’re being mean!” Zoe couldn’t help laughing.
Emma closed her eyes, shutting Natalia’s teasing out. “Game face,” she muttered.
The morning announcements were streamed from the student council office on the second floor of the school. As soon as they poked their heads through the door of the office, Charlotte jumped up from where she had been sitting at a long table with several other people and hurried toward them. “Hi!” she said. “Right on time!” She waved a hand at the others around the table. “This is Shoshanna, Mark, Ava, and Oliver.”
Everyone said hi, and Zoe smiled at her friend. “We know Ava,” she said. “Hey.”
“Hi,” Emma said. She looked more relaxed now, but Zoe could see how tightly she was holding her bag still, her knuckles white.
“Okay, so, as you know, Oliver and I do the announcements,” Charlotte said, speaking very quickly as she waved a hand at the table. “Mark, Ava, and Shoshanna are the crew; they’ll figure out any problems you have. Did you bring a script or something?”
“Sort of.” Zoe handed her the sheets of questions and notes.
“Okay,” Charlotte said, glancing at them. “This is great, but figure out what you want to begin and end on, too. You could do the same thing every week. That way, Shoshanna will know when to turn off the camera. Maybe decide who’s going to say what?”
“Sure.” Zoe cocked an eyebrow at Emma. “Maybe at the beginning, we can introduce ourselves and say, ‘This is Zoe and Emma to the Rescue,’ and at the end, thank them for watching and say, ‘This has been Zoe and Emma to the Rescue’ again?” She felt awkward repeating the name of the show—was it clever, like she’d thought?—but no one seemed to think it was a strange thing to do.
“Sounds good,” Emma said. She was standing straighter now, and her knuckles weren’t white anymore. Emma, Zoe knew, felt more confident when she was actually doing something. It was sitting around thinking about what could go wrong that made her nervous.
“Charlotte, we need to get ready,” Oliver called over.
“Okay.” Charlotte shot them another gleaming smile. “When Oliver and I finish announcements, we’ll get up, and you take our seats at the table and start, okay? If you’re not sure about something, Mark will tell you.”
She hurried back toward the table, and Ava came over to them.
“Hey!” Zoe said, grinning at her friend. “How’s working on the crew going?” Ava had started helping with the morning announcements at the beginning of the week.
“Pretty well,” Ava said. “I’ve learned to use all the equipment, so I’m starting to feel like an old hand at this. Here, let me clip these little microphones to your collars.”
As Ava fiddled with the microphones, Zoe looked around with interest. She’d never been in the student council office before. It was so small that there wasn’t room for much other than the table and chairs, the digital camera on a tripod that Shoshanna was peering at, long cables connecting it to the computer on a nearby desk, and the seven of them. The walls were covered with brightly colored posters advertising everything from the eighth grade Valentine’s dance to the school T-shirt design contest.
“Shh!” Mark said, suddenly, waving everyone in the room to silence. Zoe looked over to see that Charlotte and Oliver were sitting at the table, smiling at the camera. Mark held up three fingers, counting down silently, then pointed to Charlotte and Oliver as Shoshanna zoomed in with the camera.
“Happy Wednesday, Waverly Oysters!” Charlotte shouted happily.
As she and Oliver began the Pledge of Allegiance, Zoe looked through her notes again. Was she sure of her answers to the questions that had come in? Would she sound natural giving them? Beside her, Emma was doing the same thing, frowning thoughtfully.
Charlotte and Oliver’s words washed over them, and then suddenly Ava nudged Zoe and pointed to the table.
“And now,” Oliver was saying, “our March Wednesday show, Zoe and Emma to the Rescue.”
The next minute or two was a blur, and suddenly Zoe found herself sitting behind the table, Shoshanna pointing the camera at her. For a moment, her mouth went dry and her mind went bl
ank. Mark pointed at them.
“Hi!” Emma said suddenly, a fraction too loudly. “We’re Emma and Zoe, and this is Zoe and Emma to the Rescue.” She paused, and Zoe’s mind raced. Was she supposed to say something? How come Emma, who had been so nervous, now seemed totally confident about what she needed to do?
Before Zoe could work out what to say next, Emma went on. “We got some great letters asking for advice. Zoe, do you want to read the first one?”
“Sure,” Zoe said. Her mouth was still super-dry, and her voice sounded raspy at first. “Here we go. Dear Zoe and Emma, How do I get people to stop teasing me? On the first day back from winter break, I slipped and fell off my chair in the cafeteria. My skirt flew up, and I spilled my fruit juice all over my clothes, so I had to walk around with a huge orange stain on my skirt all day.” Zoe heard her voice get more relaxed as she read. “Kids in my class are still making fun of me. Sometimes they imitate the look on my face, and how I flailed my arms around as I fell. I try to laugh it off, but my friends tease me about it. I get just as embarrassed every time I think of it as I did when it happened. What should I do?” Zoe looked up at Emma. “So, what do you think?”
“Wow, that does sound like it was really embarrassing,” Emma said. She looked into the camera. “I’m sorry that happened to you. But embarrassing stuff happens to everyone. It’s not as big a deal as it might feel like. People think it was funny, but they don’t think you’re dumb or ridiculous. It was just something that happened.”
“Yeah,” Zoe agreed. “Every single person who teases you, or who even just saw it happen, has had stuff just as embarrassing happen to them. I know I have.” She shuddered, remembering getting locked in the bathroom backstage at theater club during the intermission of The Wizard of Oz and having to shout for help loudly enough that everyone, even the audience, had heard her.
“Sometimes the best thing to do when something embarrassing happens is just to laugh it off,” Emma said thoughtfully. “That way, it’s still something funny that happened, but you’re laughing with other people about it, not getting laughed at.”
