The One and Only Zoe Lama (17 page)

It’s Friday.
Election day. Every kid and every teacher are jam-packed into the auditorium to watch each class pick a leader. Then, once the leaders are elected, their names get engraved on a special plaque that will be hung outside of Mr. Renzetti’s office for evermore. I think it’ll be like having a permanent Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card, because you can’t exactly punish someone who’s the leader of their very own island.

Lolly Rosen and Katie Carney are onstage now. They’re second-graders and to hear them talk about how they’d run their island is pretty funny. Lolly says the trees would be made of Tootsie Pops and the sun would never set because she’s afraid of the dark. Katie doesn’t give a darn about the sun; she just wants the whole place to be crawling with puppies so she can tickle them all day.

Susannah smirks. “I can recommend the perfect book for Katie’s island’s library. So she can make sure they all become her
MBFs
.”

Laurel pulls the dog book out from under her blue hoodie. “Man’s Best Friend. This crowd is going to go crazy when Zoë cracks the news.”

Susannah and I look at each other. “It’s
break
the news. You can’t crack news,” I say.

Laurel bugs her eyes. “You can when the news is
this
big.”

“Are you ready, Zoë?” whispers Susannah. “Do you want me to look over your speech before you go up?”

“Nah. I’m good.” What I’m about to do will surprise even Susannah and Laurel.

The whole auditorium is dark except for the stage, which is lit by spotlights—one over each podium. Behind the podiums, the red velvet curtain is pulled open all the way to show off each grade’s sign. Our gigantic Icktopia banner is way over to the right, where you can hardly see it. Which is good, since if you look real close you can see a yellowish smear in the shape of Smartin’s body—from when he tried to lie down on the sunniest spot on the beach.

We’re sitting in the front row—Laurel and Susannah got here real early so they could watch Devon’s reaction up close and personal. Both are sitting up tall, nearly shaking with excitement as they wait for Paula McAdams
in sixth grade to finish her speech so I can take Devon down and restore world balance at school.
Laurel says ever since I got quarantined with chicken pox, it’s been like the earth started spinning in the wrong direction like it does in Australia.
Susannah and I didn’t have nearly enough energy to explain that one.

Finally, Mrs. Patinkin steps up onto the stage. “Thank you, Paula. And now it’s time for the candidates from my class to take the stage. Please give a warm welcome to Devon Sweeney and Zoë Monday Costellooo.” Then, because she’s starting to enjoy speaking into the microphone, she says again, “Devon Sweeney and Zoë Monday Costellooo.”

A few people giggle about the Monday thing. I make a mental note who, so I can remember to snub them later.

“Don’t worry that she announced Devon first, Zoë,” whispers Laurel as I stand up. “You’re almost always first with us.” Susannah elbows her hard.

Up onstage, the lights are hot and it’s hard to see anyone in the audience through the squinty glare. Mrs. Patinkin sends me over to the far podium and sets Devon up at the other. While Mr. Renzetti threatens to lock up
anyone who keeps talking, I look over at Devon. She’s wearing a soft pink suit with intricate pink embroidery on the cuffs of the sleeves and up one side of the skirt. It’s beautiful. Her father made it, although she admitted this morning that it’s been a while since he’s made her anything new. Even I have to admit, she looks every bit the leader of our little island.

Mrs. Patinkin isn’t ready to give up the microphone just yet. “My class has named their island Icktopia.” The whole crowd busts up laughing and someone throws a balled-up paper onto the stage. “Now, now. Simmer down, people. These two young ladies have worked hard—”

Mr. Renzetti clears his throat and points at his watch.

“Oh yes!” says Mrs. Patinkin. “Devon, you may start…”

Devon squints into the lights and tilts her microphone up higher so she doesn’t have to stoop. “My name is Devon Sweeney. I plan to create a society of people who know how to work for what they want, but aren’t afraid to take a little time off to enjoy it. My Icktopia will be one of environmental respect. Where humans and nature exist in harmony, not at each other’s expense. We’ll have solarpowered buildings, and we’ll work extra hard to make sure the beautiful waters surrounding our island don’t get
polluted. A portion of every person’s paycheck will go toward making sure no one goes hungry, no one is homeless, no one goes without medical care.
My Icktopia will have the very best hospital in the world. It’ll be a place that can cure all people.”

She stops here and slips her cue cards into her pocket. “My father always tells me I can do anything I want in this world. He told me that people who succeed aren’t smarter, stronger, or more special. He told me that I have all the tools I need to achieve my dreams and that all I need to do is work harder and want it more than anyone else.” She smiles, but under the spotlight her smile looks more like a frown. “I want to win this election more than anyone else. I want to win it for my father. Thank you.”

Everyone in the audience claps like crazy and Mrs. Patinkin dabs her eyes with Kleenex. Laurel and Susannah start chanting, “Zoë, Zoë, Zoë…” The plan was for me to announce my vision for Icktopia, quickly veering off into how great we’d treat all the dogs, then expose how Devon would treat the
people
like dogs. At that point, Laurel would slide the dog training book onto the stage so I could hold

it up for all to see. This would make Devon confess and cry all over her clothing, then take off because the kids of Allencroft would run her out of town.

The room goes silent and I tilt the microphone down lower so I don’t have to stand on my tippy toes. “My vision of Icktopia is all about people. Because without family and friends, all the pollution control and respect for nature in the world won’t make for much happiness. My Icktopia is about sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers.” I look at Devon quickly. “What I want more than anything else is for Icktopia to have a leader who lives that vision every single day. In what she wears to school, in the inspiration for her artwork, in the effort she puts into everything she does.”

Kids are starting to mumble and shift around.

“So if you agree with my vision for Icktopia, you’ll do like I’m going to do and vote for the best leader possible.” I place my ballot on the podium and make a big black
X
in one box. Then I fold my vote in half and look at the audience. “You’ll vote for Devon Sweeney.”

I burst through the front door
Friday after school and stop dead in my tracks. Mom is leaning against the hall table with her arms folded across her chest. She’s wearing a coat, boots, and a major frown.

“I just got a call from Shady Gardens,” she says as I toss my backpack into the corner and start to tug off my jacket. “Keep your coat on, miss. You can tell me all about a certain mystery e-mail on the way to your grandmother’s nursing home.”

Uh-oh. It’s going to be a long drive.

A
s soon as we get to Shady Gardens, Mom points me in the direction of Gram’s room and hurries off to discuss Grandma’s teenage behavior with Julia Wilkes. I knock on Gram’s door, and when she doesn’t answer, I tiptoe inside. Just in case she’s napping.

She isn’t. She’s sitting in her flowered chair
looking every bit as angry as my mom. When she sees me, she looks up. “He’s late again,” she snaps, shaking her head from side to side.

I say hello and kiss her powdery cheek, then plop down on the ottoman beside her. There’s a crystal bowl full of chocolate-covered cherries on the windowsill, so I cram a big one in my mouth before asking, “Who?”

“That Fritz.”

That Fritz.
That Fritz is really starting to bug me.

“
He’s spending more and more time with Mrs. Knowles
in room 136.” Grandma leans closer and whispers,
“She bribes him with Liver Snaps.”

Ugh. I’ll never understand boys. Or old men.

“Grandma, we need to talk about Fritz. They want to separate the two of you. Mom’s meeting with the administrator right now arranging for you to move to the seventh floor.”

Grandma’s mouth drops open a little and her blue eyes glisten. “But Fritz isn’t allowed on the seventh floor. I’d never get to see him.”

Which confirms what I already knew. That Fritz is trouble. “Grandma, he’s not good for you. Not only does he get you into trouble, but he takes off and lets you
take the blame. And now he’s cheating on you with Mrs. Knowles!”

“Cheating on me? I wouldn’t call it cheating…”

Gram is too sweet and innocent for her own good. “Believe me, Gram, if he’s so much as
looking
at another woman’s Liver—”

“Shh! He’s coming!” Grandma sits up taller and smoothes her gray curls. A pretty smile spreads across her face and I realize she’s actually blushing. Two seconds later, the old collie who sleeps under the nurses’ station walks in with a rubber toy in his mouth. He pads across the floor and sits in front of Gram, his feathery tail sweeping across the floor in pleasure. “Isn’t Fritz magnificent?” she asks me.

“That’s a dog, Grandma. It’s Frisbee.”

She snorts. “Ridiculous name for a dog.” She scratches him behind the ear. “He prefers to be called Fritz.”

Fritz’s tail wags faster and he bites down on the toy in his mouth, which lets out a high-pitched squawk. Then he drops it at Gram’s feet and I realize it’s a rubber cigar.

I also realize
my grandma’s special friend is no aging bad boy with a tobacco habit.
He’s a beautiful old dog who obviously makes her very happy. She should be allowed to spend every moment with him.

But she can’t do that from the seventh floor.

I grab Fritz’s collar and coax him toward the hall.

“Where are you going with him?” Grandma calls out. “He’s only just arrived…”

“We’ll be right back, Grandma. There are a couple of people Fritz needs to meet.”

Saturday morning
is moving day. Not only do I have to lug suitcases and plants down to the car, I have to carry them down eight flights of stairs because the elevator is broken again. The moving men are grumbling and groaning, and one of them keeps swearing this is his last move. He’s going to win the lottery and retire to an island in the Caribbean where someone can wait on him for a change. I stay away from him, since I’m pretty much all islanded out for the year.

Devon’s family has moved out of the house. They haven’t left town yet. I overheard my mom say they’re staying with Devon’s grandparents a few days before heading off to Boston for Mr. Sweeney’s treatment. Of course, I haven’t told anyone a thing. As far as the kids at Allencroft Middle School know, Devon Sweeney is here to stay.

Another person who’s staying put is Grandma. Once the
people at Shady Gardens found out Gram’s special friend is a collie, even Helga decided she’s best off in her little bird-watching room with Fritz and his squeaky cigar.

I head back into my room to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. It’s a good thing I did, too, because one of my favorite stuffed animals—Effie the elephant—is lying on the floor of my closet. She must have fallen out of a box. I lean over to scoop her up and catch sight of Horse on my wall.

I’ll never get over how perfectly Dad painted Horse’s head. The ears look all velvety like a real horse’s ears, both of them pricked forward—like he’s listening to the sounds in my bedroom. There’s a white blaze zigzagging down the horse’s face, and you can actually see every individual hair. It must have taken months for Dad to finish this.

Knowing that some other kid—or adult—will move into my room and probably paint right over Horse makes my stomach flip over. A painting like this deserves special protection. It needs a rule. Preferably an unwritten one.

It’ll be
Unwritten Rule #19
and it will go something like this.
If your father loves you enough to paint
a thundering-hooved, flaring-nostriled, galloping stallion on your wall where you can see it each and every night when you go to sleep—and you don’t have him around to paint you another—you should never, ever move away and leave it behind.

“Zoë,” calls Mom. “It’s time to get going.”

It’ll be the first unwritten rule I break the minute after I make it.

I stare at it real hard so I can remember every single detail. Mom walks into my room. “There you are. The new tenants are moving in here this afternoon, so we have to skedaddle, sweetheart. We’ll stay at the hotel tonight—did you pack your bathing suit?”

I nod.

“Good. We’ll swim, then go back to the room and order pizza; we’ll even watch one of those overpriced movies in the hotel room. Then, tomorrow morning, the lawyer will give us our keys and the house will finally be ours. We’ll move in.” She comes closer and puts her arm around me. “Sound good?”

It sounds terrible. All of it. But she’s so excited, I don’t say so. “Mom?”

“Mm?”

“Is it possible to get the chicken pox twice? Because my head feels all swimmy again.”

“No, babe. It’s not possible.”

Tears fill my eyes and I try to blink them back so she doesn’t see.

“So, all set?” she asks.

I look at my horse again. “Can I take one last picture of it? I like the way it looks without all my furniture around it.”

She smiles, then pulls her camera from her purse and hands it to me. I back up all the way until the far wall, aim, and snap. I’ll never see Horse again in person.

As we head into the hall, we hear a scritch-scratching sound coming from the bathroom. “Wait, what’s that?” I ask.

“Probably a whole family of cockroaches waiting to move in. Let’s get going before they get our new address and follow us.”

“But maybe it’s…”

She shakes her head. “Not possible, sweetheart. He’d never have survived this long living in the walls of this old building. The mold alone would have killed him.” Then she sees my horrified face and smiles. “Oh, I’m sorry. Boris is probably alive and living in the Dumpster out back.”

I had to come clean with Mom about the whole guinea-pig
swap when, a few days ago, I saw her heading into our bathroom with a can of bug spray. The last thing I want is for Boris to find his way home, starved and exhausted, only to have him perish by pesticides.

There goes the scratching again.

This time it sounds like it’s coming from the bathroom cupboard. I rush into the tiny room, dive down onto my knees, and yank open the cupboard door.
Two beady eyes and a quivering nose are pointed up at me.

Boris!

T
he next morning, me, my mom, and purring Boris pull up in front of the new house. It’s been blizzarding all night, so the house is all covered in a big puffy blanket of snow and looks kind of cottagey and delicious. Like a gingerbread house covered in frosting. I can see that it would look kind of nice if smoke were coming out of the fireplace.

Dad would have loved this place.

Mom turns off the engine and hands me an envelope.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“You’ll see.”

I rip it open and pull out two keys. One is a boring old silver one and the other is purple and covered in mod daisies. I look at my mother.

“Don’t even think about taking the silver one,” she says with a wink. “Because that one’s mine.”

I have to admit, my key is the coolest key I’ve ever had in my life.

“Go on,” she says, nodding toward the house. “Go open your new front door.”

I scoop up Boris’s box and wade through the snowdrifts to the front door. Unlike our front door locks at the apartment, this lock turns easily and the door swings open. Inside, boxes are stacked against the walls and furniture sits facing in wrong directions in the middle of each room. I kick off my snowy boots and wander from room to room, showing Boris my new house. There are so many things I hadn’t noticed the first time. Like the secret cupboard under the stairs. And the bookshelves in the den. And the way the stairs creak when you step on the middle of them—but not if you creep along the edge.

The upstairs hallway is dark, except for at the very end, where light is pouring out of my bedroom door. I slip and slide along the wooden floors in my socks, anxious to show
Boris my new room. In the doorway, I stop breathing so fast I make a sharp squeak.

There on my navy wall, staring down at me like he’s waiting to see how I’ll react, is Horse.

I start to laugh and cry all at once as I step closer. It’s hard to see through my tears, but there’s no question it’s real actual Horse. I set Boris’s box on the floor, rest my head against Horse’s chest, and drink in the smell of him. I run my hands against the bumpity texture that is his legs, his strong shoulders. With my eyes closed, I move my hand up until I feel the smooth, ripply muscles of his neck.

I don’t know how, I don’t know who, I don’t even know when, but somebody, somehow, cut away the wall in my old bedroom and hung it up here. And whoever did this for me didn’t just give me a painting of a horse.

They gave me my dad back.

Suddenly Mom’s arms wrap around me from behind and she rests her head against Horse, too.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

She kisses the top of my head. “Your dad will always be with you, sweetheart. No matter where you go.”