Once everyone gets here, Mrs. D. says, “Good morning, Tootsie Pops!” She does the roll call and then she announces, “Morning meeting!”
We run to the carpet because we want to sit next to Mrs. D.
“Today we’re going to make Thanksgiving Day cards for our relatives and friends.”
Sam’s hand shoots up. “When are we having our party?”
“After recess,” Mrs. D. says.
At recess, I line up for the swings with Savannah.
Harvey Baxter points at my head. “You look like an alien!”
I pat my hair knot and stick out my tongue. “So! I’ll zap you with my alien laser.” It’s handy having an older brother. I know just what to say.
But my face feels droopy. Savannah puts her arm around me. “I like your hair style,” Savannah says.
“It’s not really a style,” I say. It’s no fun having a hair knot. And getting all my hair chopped off is going to be no fun, too.
“Well, I think you’re lucky to have curly hair,” Savannah says. “My mom curls my hair and mousses it up and sprays it on picture day. That’s N-O fun.”
I pat my curly ol’ head. And I give Savannah a hug.
When it’s our turn for the swings, me and Savannah have a contest to see who can go the highest. I don’t have to keep slowing down and pushing up my glasses like Savannah does. I slow myself down and let Savannah win. It gives me a good feeling inside. I bow to the cheering crowds and get a gold ribbon for goodness. After recess, we kids go pouring into the classroom.
Ari’s dad is there. He gives Ari a high five. Fishsticks. My dad doesn’t have time for anything fun. He’s making lots of stuff ahead of time today, like cheese sauce and brine. I never ate brine before. I hope. He also forgot to wash the cloth napkins and Mom said no to paper towels.
“Mommy!” Amanda yells.
“Hello, sweets,” Amanda’s mom says. My tummy feels slimy like leftover salad. And my heart feels flat as a burnt pancake.
“Did you bring the pumpkin muffins?” Amanda asks.
I eavesdrop in case she forgot, and Amanda wings out of the room, bawling like a little tiny baby that I have to burp.
“Of course I did,” Mrs. Anderson says.
“All right, Jellybeans,” Mrs. D. says. “Take a seat. We’re going to make Thanksgiving Day cards.”
“You’re trying to get us under control.” Harvey Baxter pogos over to his desk.
“Yes, I am.” Mrs. D. hands out brown and orange paper.
“When everyone is finished with your Thanksgiving Day cards, it will be time to enjoy the nice feast prepared by Mrs. Anderson and Mr. Shapiro.”
Sam is the first one to finish his card. He wears his paper plate as a hat. Everyone lines up at the Thanksgiving buffet. Mrs. Anderson and Mr. Shapiro help the kids to not slop the cranberry sauce everywhere and only take one turkey-shaped sugar cookie.
“What key won’t open any door?” Mr. Shapiro asks. “A turkey!” He’s got lots of funny jokes like that.
“Lola,” Mrs. Anderson says when I get up close. “Your mom told me that Barkley was a surprise. I know you meant well, sweetie. But next time you really need to let the moms and dads in on the action. Okay?”
I nod. One time Patches ate a whole bowl of brussels sprouts right off the table. Now I know how he felt. No matter how hard I try to be a grown-up kid, I just keep on being a smelly rat baby.
Mrs. Anderson leans forward and whispers, “Now, don’t be sad, Lola. You’re such a good friend. It’s much nicer knowing our pets will be taken care of by friends.”
Next, I sit on the carpet next to Amanda and Savannah. “Barkley likes to be petted, but not when he’s eating,” Amanda says. “And he likes wet food mixed in with his dry.”
“Fishsticks,” I say. “Anything else?”
“Barkley will eat food off the counter if you don’t watch him, and if he does, he’ll be a real stinker.”
“A toot stinker?”
“Yes.”
“I’d better make a list,” I say. I shove the rest of my turkey sugar cookie in my mouth and run to my desk.
I grab a piece of paper and my watermelon-smelling pencil. I write
• Pet Barkley
• But not when he’s eating
• Mix wet dog food and dry food for Barkley
• Don’t let him eat off the counter
“Is that it?”
Mrs. Anderson comes over and looks at the list. “Excellent,” she says. “Amanda, it’s time to say goodbye. We have to catch our flight.”
“Gumdrops, let’s wish Amanda a wonderful Thanksgiving in Cancún!” Mrs. D. says. She lifts her travel mug.
“Bye, Amanda!” all the kids say.
I hug Amanda goodbye. I whisper, “Don’t worry about Barkley. I’ll take good care of him.”
After our party, we have Independent Reading. But I keep reading the same line over and over.
And instead of it saying Margaret walked down the country lane, it says Bald Lola got put in jail by her parents for ruining Thanksgiving.
Pretty soon it’s time for all the kids to pack up and go. Mrs. D. dismisses everyone from the classroom alphabetically. “Last but not least, Lola,” Mrs. D. says with a friendly smile. “It was very sweet of you to take care of Amanda’s dog. It’s a lot of work. You probably made Amanda feel very happy about her trip.”
I don’t feel sweet. I feel sour as a pickle. Sour as a rhubarb. Sour as a rhubarb and pickle sandwich.
11. TAM-O’ UH-OH
DAD HAS A SOY SAUCE LOOK ON his face at the bus stop.
“Hi, Dad!”
“Lola Katherine Zuckerman,” he says. Uh-oh. All three names again.
“We have some big holes in the backyard.”
I hang my snarled-up head. “Sorry, Dad. I thought it would be okay since you and Mom love animals.”
“Oh, Lola, we do love animals. And I know you did this out of the kindness of your heart. But Lola, Mom and I told you that we have a lot of extra work right now. My company has been really generous about letting me work from home this week. And we’re hosting Thanksgiving.”
Dad and I walk up the road. In the kitchen, Patches, Maizy, and Barkley are playing tug of war with one of Jack’s gigantic smelly socks.
“What’s your plan, Lola?”
“I’ll give them plenty of exercise before the relatives arrive. And I’ll set up a Pet Palace in the basement so they’ll be as happy as can be.”
The Soy Sauce look leaves Dad’s face, a little at least.
“That might work,” Dad says. “What we don’t want to do is create more work for Mom. Not when she’s in the middle of her big project. Right?”
“Right,” I say.
“Why don’t you start by tidying up your hair? It looks like it got a little messy at school,” Dad says.
I zip upstairs and brush my hair. Sort of. Then I do the hokey pokey, and wish I was in Cancún with Amanda. I spy with my big ol’ eye a beret that Grandma got for me. I stick that beret right on top of my head and squish all my snarls inside and bam, bam, bam back downstairs.
I grab Barkley by the collar. “I think I’ll take them for a walk.”
“I don’t think you can take all of them at once,” Dad says. “Why don’t you take Maizy and Barkley?”
“But . . .” And then I shut my “but” up.
I follow Dad to the kitchen and get Maizy’s and Barkley’s leashes. I can hear Mom’s sewing machine rrring away in the guest room. I fasten their leashes to their collars, and Barkley snatches that beret right off my head. I go back out the door just as Jack is getting home on account of his half day being bigger than mine.
“Hey, Barkster,” Jack gives Barkley a friendly scratch. “Why does he have a hat in his mouth?”
I sigh loud so he knows I had a hard day. “It’s a long story.”
Barkley is excited to be back in his old neighborhood. It’s very hard holding on to the leash. Maizy is scared to be here. Sh
e thinks every blowing leaf is a mini-monster out to get her. It takes me four hundred hours to take four steps. Too bad Patches isn’t here to make her feel better.
Mrs. McCracken is sitting on her front porch cuddling with Dwight White.
“More dogs?” she calls out.
“Yep! I’m watching them for my friends. It’s Maizy. And Barkley. Remember him?”
“How could I forget?” Mrs. McCracken says in a Dry Pancake voice. “What’s he got in his mouth?”
“My beret that my grandma gave me.”
For some reason my voice gets all wobbly.
Mrs. McCracken looks at me for a minute. Mrs. McCracken has a Maybe-Style smile on her face. “Dogs really like hats.”
“Yes. I told my friends I would watch their dogs while they go on deluxe vacations and I stay home, but they keep causing trouble. Not my friends. The dogs. And my mom and my dad are both really busy. My mom isn’t making her broccoli with a cheese sauce and so my dad has to make all of the extra stuff and the turkey and . . . Hey, Mrs. McCracken, are you cooking a turkey?”
“No, not this year,” Mrs. McCracken says. She looks kind of sad. I try to think of something to say.
I feel the back of my head. The knot is now about the size of Rhode Island.
“Hold on there.” Mrs. McCracken rushes off, old-people style, and then she comes out with a hat shaped like a big circle with a pom-pom on top.
“It’s called a tam-o’-shanter or a tam hat.”
I put it on my head. “It looks darling!” Mrs. McCracken says. She smiles a regular-sized smile. I smile at Mrs. McCracken. And Barkley wags his tail.
“That’s his way of saying sorry,” I explain. “Do you forgive him?”
“I guess I do.”
“And Patches too?”
“Patches too.” This time Mrs. McCracken’s smile is as sweet as pie. Not lemon pie. Coconut cream pie.
Then I start to wonder. What is Dwight White going to do all by his lonesome at Thanksgiving? And Mrs. McCracken, too.
12. READY, SET, COOK!
DAD SAYS IT’S A DOWN-TO-THE-Wire afternoon. That means me and Jack have to be on our best behavior while Dad runs around and around the kitchen. Timers are going off and things are bubbling on the stove. It smells like butter and cinnamon and sugar and warm bread. I run upstairs to wash my hands, take off Mrs. McCracken’s tam-o’-shanter, and wet down the puffed-up part of my hair.
Mom comes out one time and says one helpful hint about how Dad doesn’t have to hand chop all the celery and onion for the stuffing. Then Dad says if she wants to do it, she’s more than welcome to. And guess what? He doesn’t yell it but I hear a yell stuck in his throat. Mom says he’s doing a fine job. She gives him a kiss and me a kiss and Jack a kiss, and she heads on back to her rrrrr-rrrrr-sewing.
Chop-chop-choppety-chop.
Jack’s job is to mash the potatoes. Tomorrow we’ll heat them up. He pounds away at them. “Take that!” he yells.
It’s my job to set the big dining room table. I do it as fast as I can because I can’t take my eye off Patches, Maizy, and Barkley. I’ve thrown the ball to them so many times my arm feels like it’s loose in the socket.
At dinnertime, we have pizza in the kitchen, and Dad nods off at the table. Me and Jack bring the pizza box to the recycling bin in the garage. Then we wipe all the crumbs off the table.
I bring the dogs down to the basement and tell them a good-night story.
“’Twas the night before Thanksgiving, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even you three dogs. You kind of missed your own mom and dad, but you were mostly fine and a little bit glad. You had each other, three best friends, what more could be better? And that is the end.”
Barkley whined when I finished my story. “I know, Barkley. I miss Amanda, too.”
Then Maizy howled. “Jessie, too. And Savannah. But we’ll get to see them soon. Now I want the three of you to snuggle in tight and be good dogs.”
I leave the dogs to cuddle together, and I head upstairs. Mom sews buttons on a bright green Lola dress while I take my bath. Then I brush my teeth, and kind of, sort of brush my hair. And Mom doesn’t say a word. Because we both know: If I don’t get this knot out, it’s Lola Chopperman for me.
I climb into bed and wait for Dad to come in and tell me a Chuncle story.
But he doesn’t. And he still doesn’t after I count to ninety-six.
Jack comes in. “Do you know what monsters put on their Thanksgiving table? Knives, forks, and goons.”
“That scares me.” I pull the covers to my chin.
“Hmm. Why did the turkey cross the road?”
I pull the covers up higher. “A monster was chasing him?”
“No, it was the chicken’s day off!”
I laugh, and Jack laughs, too.
13. PILING ON THE PIES
THE NEXT MORNING I WAKE UP to the smell of YUM. I hurry downstairs to let the dogs out in the backyard to do their business and have a dog playdate. While I’m out there, I find my beret where Barkley must have dropped it. After I pull it on my head, I use a shovel to fill in some dog holes, and I pick up some dog doo with special plastic bags. PEE-YOO. I bring it to the special can in the garage and put away the shovel.
That’s when I hear somebody yelling. I run back inside.
“Where’s my grandkids? Where’d you hide my grandbabies?”
Grampy and Granny Coogan come through the door hooting and hollering. They wear matching white cowboy hats and matching sweatshirts that say “Texas A & M.”
Granny Coogan takes off her hat. She has red hair just like Mom, only with lots of silvery parts. She’s plump—that’s when you’re pretty and lumpy. Grampy Coogan has big ears and likes to whittle.
“Holy Guacamole! My little Lola grew up!” Granny Coogan says. She gives me a kiss on my head and a hug. “How’s my peanut?”
“I grew a whole inch since summer, Granny Coogan,” I say.
“That’s wunnerful,” Granny Coogan says. “And guess what I brought you, Lola dear? A pumpkin pie! Because who makes the best pumpkin pie in the whole country?”
“You do, Granny Coogan,” I say.
“You got that right,” Grampy Coogan says.
“Brought two pies, frozen solid, but they’re starting to thaw out. I wouldn’t want to let my Lola down. Now, where is that brother of yours?” Granny Coogan asks.
“Here I am.” Jack barges in. He has been helping Dad bring in the extra chairs from the garage.
“Who’s that big fellow?” Grampy Coogan says.
“It’s Jack,” I tell him.
“He’s gone and grown as big as an oak tree!”
Jack stands up very straight.
“Bye,” Dad calls. “I’ll be back soon with Grandma from the train station.”
“Got any coffee, dear?” Grampy Coogan asks Mom.
“Sure, Dad.” Mom is grinning so big. She pours him a cup. Grampy Coogan drinks coffee all day. It doesn’t make him hyper.
Grampy looks out the window into the backyard. “You got yourself a few more hound dogs?” he asks. The dogs are running around and around and barking.
“It’s a long story,” Mom says. “But Lola, you know what to do.”
“Sugar, why are you wearing that beret? Can’t we get a look at that bee-yoo-ti-ful hair of yours?” Granny Coogan asks. “It’s the exact same color mine was at your age. I just love it.”
Mom gives me The Look.
Uh-oh. I think fast. I say quickly, “I’ll be right back, Granny.”
The dogs sure don’t want to come inside. But they follow me because I have three pieces of deli ham that I’m holding way up high. I bring the dogs down to the basement and give each one of them a slice. Even though Barkley tries to take them all. That stinker.
“I expect you all to be on your best behavior. We have company.”
Patches scratches behind his ears. Barkley slumps onto the floor. Maizy barks.
At
the top of the stairs, I say, “I think I’ve made myself clear.”
Dad is just pulling into the driveway with Grandma. I run outside. “Grandma!” I yell. Grandma steps out of the car in her high-heeled shoes. She wears all black because that’s what people from Brooklyn do.
“Oh, Lola,” Grandma says. “You’re wearing your beret that I brought you from Paris. How wonderful!”
“Yep,” I say and give my beret a pat. It’s a little wettish.
Grandma hands me a package. I hope there’s fudge inside but it’s a ribbon. A red velvet one that Amanda Anderson would love.
“That will look just splendid in your hair, Lola dear,” she says.
“Thank you, Grandma,” I say.
Grandma has a box in her hand.
“My darling girl, guess what I have in this box?” Grandma says.
“Chocolate cake?” I ask with wishful thinking. Wishful thinking is when you tell a whopper but just to yourself.
“No, pumpkin pie! Who makes the best pumpkin pie in the whole world?”
“You do, Grandma,” I say.
“Lola, my darling girl,” Grandma says. “I can’t wait to serve you a slice of my delicious pumpkin pie!”
“I can’t wait, too,” I say-lie.
Poor, poor Grandma. She doesn’t realize that her own granddaughter is a fibber. I hate ribbons. And HER pumpkin pie is the one that tastes just like licking a candle.
Lying is bad. So is getting caught. And I’m about to get caught. Because only one pumpkin pie can be the best.
14. ME TO THE RESCUE
I TAKE OFF THE BERET UPSTAIRS and tie up my hair in my new big fat red ribbon. Jack says I look like a Christmas present, and that isn’t nice.
For about a hundred years, the adults sit around talking. We eat hors d’oeuvres. Those are fancy snacks pronounced ORR DURVS. Grandma taught me. Not horse doovers like Grampy Coogan says.
Last-But-Not-Least Lola and a Knot the Size of Texas Page 4
