The One and Only Zoe Lama (14 page)

I slip into the classroom
as stealthily as I can while carrying a three-foot-long wire cage wrapped in a red blanket. After setting the cage in its usual corner, I look around before peeling off the cover, folding it up, and stuffing it in the closet. Luckily, today we have gym right after morning announcements, so everyone is busy looking for lost sneakers and
SPIRIT
T-shirts.

Bogus Boris is too busy chewing on a carrot to notice he now lives in the crummiest place imaginable—a school.

After I slipped Bogus Boris into old Boris’s cage, I called my mother over to see how extra cute his toenails are—as a test. I figured if Mom scrunched her eyebrows and peered closer, I was doomed. On the other hand, if she took one look, scrunched up her nose, and asked when I was going to clean the cage, my plan was a success.

Thankfully, Mom’s nose won. She didn’t suspect a thing. She also didn’t suspect that I slept on the bath mat Saturday
and Sunday nights. Just in case. I woke up with a Band-Aid wrapper stuck to my forehead, but no Boris.

Here’s my hope for today: that nobody notices me or Bogus Boris
before Mrs. Patinkin comes in and asks about the “mesmerizing voyages” that were our weekends. Hopefully by then she’ll have ruined every weekend memory we have and no one will think to welcome Bogus Boris back to the classroom.

Just after the late bell rings, Mrs. Patinkin sweeps into the room and throws her coat over her chair. “Good Monday, class! I can’t wait to hear all about the exhilarating travels that made up your end-of-week.”

“Mrs. Patinkin,” says Kitty. “Does it still count as someone’s end-of-week if they had to spend the whole time cleaning the basement?”

I could kiss Kitty. She’s muddling up Mrs. Patinkin’s thoughts before she gets a chance to check Bogus Boris’s…

“Beverage container,” says Mrs. Patinkin. “I see Boris’s water is sparkling clean. To whom am I grateful this particular Monday morning?”

I pretend to organize the colored pencils inside my desk. But it doesn’t make a difference. Half the class rushes over to Bogus Boris’s cage to coo at him and ask him if he had a fascinating end-of-week.

Avery picks Bogus Boris up and kisses him on the chin. Then Avery scrubs his thick glasses with one finger and crinkles his nose. “Boris smells like rabbits. And he’s acting like he’s never met me.”

But then Smartin—who probably destroyed his sense of smell two years ago when he folded a Christmas-tree-shaped air freshener and stuffed it up his nose—says, “He smells better than you look, Buckner.”

Riley bends over and says,
“I think Boris looks awesome. Like he’s been getting extra-special good care all of a sudden.
Little dude looks five years younger.” He pretend-scratches his head and screws up his face. “I wonder who took home Boris-the-pig this weekend…”

“I don’t know, Riley,” says Susannah with a sly grin. “But he looks like the very best Boris he can be. I know I personally wish this person could care for him all the time. And I’ll bet young Boris does, too.”

“Boris doesn’t look young! He looks the same age he was on Friday afternoon.” Laurel winks way too obviously. “The
exact
same age!”

Susannah rolls her eyes. “I just meant that he looks like he had a spa weekend.”

“Or a face-lift,” adds Riley.

Mrs. Patinkin looks at the chalkboard and smiles.
“I think we have Miss Zoë Costello to thank for Boris’s transformation. Zoë, do you have any special animal-husbandry tips you’d like to share
with the class?”

Before I can answer, Brianna calls out, “Animal husbandry is a crime in this country. So is first-cousin husbandry.”

Mrs. Patinkin exhales and reaches for her coffee. “Animal husbandry means animal management, farming, Brianna.” Then she looks at me, hoping I’ll say something so she can pretend she’s anything BUT a teacher. Even for a moment.

I say, “I’ve actually come up with a few unwritten rules for rodents. First would be that bathrooms—”

“Ouch!”
says Avery, holding his hand. “Boris just bit me!”

Mrs. Patinkin hurries over to help Avery. “Oh dear! We’re going to need a Band-Aid and some disinfect—”

Before she finishes speaking, I’m standing in front of them with a Band-Aid in one hand and a travel-size bottle of peroxide in the other. I look to my left. Devon is standing there with a glow-in-the-dark bandage and a tube of triple-strength Polysporin. I inch closer. Devon inches closer still.

“My Band-Aid is waterproof,” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth.

“Mine has a nonstick pad!” she hisses.

It’s like a very polite, antibacterial swordfight.

The whole class is silent. They all watch as Mrs. Patinkin looks from me to Devon and back again. She has no idea what to do.

A
fter school, I burst through the front door and dump my backpack on the floor. Mom won’t be home for another hour, which gives me just enough time to watch back-toback
Garage Girls
episodes before anyone nags me about achieving multiplication perfection, or hands me a scrub brush and tells me the toilet bowl is calling my name.

I kick off my shoes and lose my balance, knocking a pile of mail off the hall table. I bend down to pick it up and spy a beige envelope from Shady Gardens Home for Seniors. It’s stamped
CONFIDENTIAL
and
URGENT
.

Hmm. Right away I don’t like it. If it were
only
marked confidential or
only
marked urgent, I could relax. Confidential might mean Grandma was running out of granny panties or face cream. Urgent might mean Mom forgot to include the check in her monthly payment. Again. But confidential
and
urgent has me worried.

I turn the envelope over and notice, like all mail that comes from the senior home, it’s been taped shut. Which means two things:

1) Shady Gardens uses cheap envelopes that don’t stick, and

2) It would be really, really, really easy for someone to pry it open, read whatever’s inside, and tape the thing shut again.

I peel off the tape. Inside is a short letter.

Dear Mrs. Costello,

It has come to our attention that your mother-in-law, Jean Costello, snuck out of her room after curfew and exited the building. She was found waiting for her “special friend” inside the gazebo by the pond. We cannot know for certain, but we’re suspicious that she was meeting with the very person she claims to have shared a cigar with in the men’s room recently. We at Shady Gardens are concerned for Mrs. Costello’s safety and would like to discuss with you the possibility of moving her to the seventh floor, where she would be under the watchful eye of Helga Triste, our director of security. If we can separate Jean from this friend, we are
confident her behavior will return to normal.

Please contact me at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

Julia Wilkes

[email protected]

I stuff the letter back inside the envelope. This is bad. I’ve met Helga Triste and her watchful eye, and I don’t want my grandma living too close to either one. They’re both mean.

Which means Mom can never see this letter. I race to Mom’s room and open up her e-mail.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Jean Costello

Dear Ms. Wilkes,

I’m sorry to hear my mother-in-law is misbehaving, but I know all about her trip to the gazebo. You see, my daughter, Zoë, ran away from home that day and hid in the Shady Gardens gazebo. Being the dedicated and loving grandma that she is and has always been, Jean was arranging to send her granddaughter
home safe and sound. So as you can see, there will be no need to ship Jean up to the 7th floor.

Jocelyn Costello

Before I can change my mind about impersonating my mother, I hit send, which means two things:

1) Gram can stay on the main floor where the bird-watching is best, and

2) I’m officially a criminal.

When I think about the mood
I’d like the Icktopian people to have, I realize it’s the same feeling I have in Mr. Slobodian’s drama class—I’m never worried about running out of glue, the air smells like sugar cookies with pink frosting, and I’m actually encouraged to experiment with making monkey sounds. If you raise people with that kind of freedom—especially in a darkish room with brick walls and giant red-carpeted steps that spiral down into a stage in the center—none of them will ever think about becoming a bank robber. Or a reality-TV host.

Because the big election is next week, Icktopian fever has invaded the classroom.
Boys are wearing Hawaiian shirts and girls are wearing plastic flowers in their hair. Normally I’d be excited about speaking in front of the entire school, but with Devon invading my life more and more by the minute, I get a stomachache every time I think about my speech. Which doesn’t even exist yet.

Icktopia is even on Mr. Renzetti’s mind. He went to an educational conference and learned about something called Pervasive Learning. Which pretty much means cramming whatever we’re studying into everything we do. So the cafeteria is offering “Island Fries” and “Beach Burgers.” And today in drama we’ve been divided into pairs and are meant to come up with a two-minute skit that involves three things:

jealousy,

shark bones, and

sand in your shoe

The good news is Sylvia is my assigned partner. The bad news is Riley is Devon’s partner. So as much as I’m trying to keep my focus on my number one client, it’s not easy, because
Devon keeps showing Riley the handstitched sea horses on the toe socks her father probably knitted with his teeth.

“And
this
pretty little sea horse is meant to be me,” Devon says, giggling. Riley nods his head like he cares about pretty little sea horses and I try to catch his eye—to tell him he doesn’t. He almost looks over at me, but Devon
takes his chin in her hand and snaps his face back toward her other sock.

“Did you see that?” I say to Sylvia. “She’s forcing him to look at her socks!”

“Wow,” says Sylvia, straining to get a closer look. “Look at all those sea horses. I’m not sure, but I think one of them has a head that actually nods—”

“Sylvia,” I snap, then smile sweet as seaweed. Sylvia looks so young today, the way her hair is pulled off her face by a headband. It actually does a decent job of paving her cowlicks. “It’s easy to get your mind muddled up with visions of ocean life. All the pretty coral can almost make you forget that the ground beneath your feet has totally disappeared and your oxygen tank is almost empty. Then one big sixth-grade undercurrent blows in and suddenly you’re swirling around in a flock of great white sharks.”

Sylvia scratches her nose. “Flock?”

“And even if those sharks have black belts in karate and are selling fake books from the trunk of their mothers’ cars, you’re never going to be yourself until you feel that algaecovered sandbar under your feet. Do you know what I mean, Sylvia?”

“Kind of.”

“Seriously?”

She nods. “You mean the ocean’s a dangerous place.”

Tears sting my eyes. I’m so happy I could burst. Five minutes alone with Sylvia was exactly what I needed to win back my number one client, my BCIS. Susannah looks at me from across the room and I give her a double thumbsup. Which isn’t so secret for, “It’s a Lamapalooza!” Which is confusing for, “I’m going to take Devon down!”

But here’s the thing about competition. It forces you to take a good look at how you do business. Basically, rethink everything. In other words, being a brilliant guide for Sylvia wasn’t enough to keep her from looking at other…sources of advice; I need to step it up.

I need to hold a Client Appreciation night.

“We should probably plan our skit, don’t you think?” asks Sylvia. “If I don’t practice, I’ll get nervous.”

“We’ll get to the skit. I’d like to tell you about a special event I have planned.”

Her eyes widen. “What is it?”

“Not so fast, little grasshopper. First I’d like to tell you that I value my clients very much. And when you’re a Zoë Lama client, well, let’s just say, you’re exceptional.
There are others who might try to woo you with flash and dazzle, but here at Zoë Lama and Associates…”

“Wait…you have associates now?”

I fake a surprised look. “Oh, didn’t you get the memo? Yes. We’ve expanded.”

“You mean Laurel and Susannah will be offering advice, too?”

“No!” I smile. “There’s only one Zoë Lama. But they’re acting as my assistants. They’ve been promoted.”

“Promoted to what?”

“That’s not important. What is important is that we’re holding a Client Appreciation night and
you
are going to be our guest of honor.”

She glances quickly at Devon, who is sitting on a step beside Riley and laughing at something he said. Something utterly cute, I’ll bet, since everything that comes out of that boy’s mouth is totally and completely ador—

“Who else is coming?” she asks.

I really don’t like how close Devon’s pinkie is to Riley’s elbow.
There’s only one person in this room whose pinkie deserves that kind of elbow intimacy. “It will be your night,” I mumble to Sylvia. “I only have eyes for you.”

“What about all these new clients? The ones you had to expand for?”

“They’re…busy.”

Devon stands up and reaches for a straw hat from the pile of props. Pinkie disaster has passed. For now.

“Shouldn’t we be planning our skit?” Sylvia says. “Mr. Slobodian only gave us ten minutes to practice. I really don’t like being unprepared.”

“We’ll be serving double chocolate chip cookies…”

“I really shouldn’t. Devon invited me over for something called MBF night.”

I knew it! Devon is grooming Sylvia for her #1 MBF spot! Which totally violates
my
Unwritten Rule #16: BFISs Must Be in Your Grade or Higher. Anything Else Is Called Babysitting.
This MBF night must not happen. “Okay, Sylvia. This was supposed to be a surprise, but there might be actual trophies involved.”

She scrunches up her face and starts scratching like her nest is full of fleas. “Okay. Maybe for a little bit.”

Yes!

Just then, Mr. Slobodian comes over and puts his hands on our unbelievably unprepared heads. “Time’s up, everyone. Zoë and Sylvia, if you’d like to trot on down to center stage, we’ll begin with your skit.”

Sylvia peeps, “But we’re not—”

“I gave you twelve minutes to prepare. On you go.”

Sylvia glares at me and heads toward the stage. As she passes, Devon waves, then leans back on her elbows and crosses her legs. She swings her foot back and forth and something catches my eye. The heel of her sea-horse-coated toe sock is starting to unravel.