The One and Only Zoe Lama (7 page)

I feel an invisible fist punch me in the stomach and I can hardly breathe.
Here before me is walking, talking proof of how my life was supposed to be.
I try to look away, think of something else—just like I do when the class has to paint lousy picture frames for Father’s Day—but it doesn’t work.

“That’s so nice of him,” gushes Laurel.

“I wish my dad cared enough about me to design my entire wardrobe,” says Susannah. “On second thought, with his taste, I’d rather he didn’t.”

Everybody laughs, except me. “Wow,” I say in a voice that sounds high-pitched and scary and sarcastic, even to me, “dedicating your life to crushed velvet and rhinestone trim. Now,
that
is fatherly love!”

They all stop smiling and my nastyish-sounding voice hangs in the middle of us like a big ugly burp. No one knows what to say.

Just then Janna Knudsen trots up wearing
two different boots—a dark brown sheepskin boot on one foot, and a cream sheepskin boot on the other.

Looking at no one in particular, she says, “Haley’s selling knockoff boots. Only nineteen dollars a pair. Which boot goes better with this outfit?”

I want to kiss her for interrupting us. I try to focus on her question, looking her over from mismatched boots straight on up to her dingy blond hair. She’s wearing a dirty white ski jacket with faded jeans. It’s a no-brainer.

I say, “Dark brown,” at the exact same time Devon says, “Cream.”

I look at Devon, shocked. Again, no one says a word.

The end-of-recess bell rings and kids scatter. Janna waves thank you and goes back to the small pile of boxes in front of Haley Reiser. Then Devon waves good-bye and disappears into the school.

“Can you believe that Devon?” I say to Laurel and Susannah. “Janna was totally asking
me
! Janna has been asking me for fashion tips since the year she wore her skirt backward during school assembly. Besides, the poor kid’s dingy from head to toe; can you imagine how a pair of dirty-after-two-days, fake suede boots are going to look?
You might as well call her Dingy Girl. You have to train the eye
away
from all the dinginess, not add to it!
Just because her father designs fashion doesn’t mean Devon is qualified to take over!
I’m going to have a talk with Janna right after—”

“Uh, Zoë?” says Laurel, nodding toward Janna. “I think it’s too late.”

My mouth drops open as I watch Janna counting out money and placing it into Haley’s hand. Tucked under Janna’s arm are the cream boots.

Friday morning
I’m the first one in the classroom. We ran out of milk this morning, so my mom had to drive us to a coffee shop for hot chocolate and croissants to go. So not only did I get to eat breakfast in the car, I got chauffeured all the way to the front doors of the school like Susannah will be when she’s in the movies.

I have to turn on the classroom lights because Mrs. Patinkin isn’t even here yet. After I hang up my backpack and my coat, I blow Boris a kiss that I hope he’ll remember when he’s at Devon’s house all weekend, then I head for my desk. Which I just now realize has something shiny and hot pink on it. And so does Laurel’s. And Susannah’s. And every other desk in the entire class, including Mrs. Patinkin’s.

I scoot into my seat and pick it up. It’s a fancy folder and it says, “Devon Says.”

She wrote down her crappy advice and had it professionally bound? In pink?

I refuse to open it. In fact—I drop it on my desk—I refuse to even
touch
it.

Riley thunders into the room and tugs on my hair twice as he passes me. “Whoa,” he says. I don’t turn around because I can hear him picking up the…thing. “Devon wrote a book!”

I cross my arms across my chest, but don’t turn around. I huff out a little puff of air. “It’s not a
book,
it’s a folder.”

He whistles. “Still. Kind of fancy. It has all her rules in it.” Then he pokes me in the back with the thing. “See? Someone beat you to it. I’ve been telling you for years to write down your rules.” He makes a hissing noise with his tongue. “Now it’s too late. It’s
all
over.”

I don’t respond.

His head pokes over my shoulder. “Why so silent? You’re not jealous of Devon Sweeney, are you?”

I toss my hair, which might not behave as well as Devon’s, but definitely has more personality. “Not a chance.”

He grins slyly and drops back into his seat. “I’m not sure that twitching eyelid of yours agrees.”

M
rs. Patinkin is the last one in the classroom. She waves hello with her fingers, then picks up her copy of “Devon Says.” First she looks at the cover, then she flips it open and thumbs through the crummy pages. “Well, well, well. We have a published author in our midst. Tell me, Miss Sweeney—would you be willing to sign my copy after class?”

Devon blushes—for a change—and nods. Then she holds up a sparkly pink pen that’s hanging from her neck. “I brought my favorite gel pen. Just in case.”

Ugh. Susannah, who hasn’t touched her copy out of respect for me, leans close and says, “Don’t worry.
No one who’s anyone autographs in pink anymore. It’s so grade school.”

Then Mrs. Patinkin says, “Well, it’s all very professionally done. It makes Devon’s unique points of view very official, don’t you think, class?” Then she turns around and writes
Official
and
Published Author
on the chalkboard. I don’t have to turn around to see Devon beaming. Her smile is spreading through the air like tuberculosis.

I hiss to Susannah, “My rules are every bit as official as hers! I just chose the less traditional and more mysterious route of refusing to print mine. Writing them down makes them overly accessible.” Which means people want to throw up from hearing them over and over.

Susannah lowers her glasses to show this is, in fact, one very serious conversation. “It is my personal belief that you have much more prestige by refusing to publish yours, and that you are, in fact, every publicist’s dream.”

I rub Susannah’s shoulder. “You’re good people, Barnes.” Then I look over at Laurel to make sure she agrees and actually catch her peeking into Devon’s book—I mean, folder! I smack my hand down on it and Laurel jumps back and shrugs as if to say she couldn’t help herself.

My eyelid twitches even harder.

Mrs. Patinkin taps her ruler against her desk. “Zoë Monday Costello! I’ll thank you to share your secret musings with the rest of the class.”

Normally I don’t mind when she does this. I just whip a superslippery compliment out of my sleeve, Patinkin practically weeps with appreciation, then she forgets all about whatever I got Zoë-Monday-Costello’d for in the first place. But today is different. My brain still hasn’t stopped
stomping its feet about pink folders. “I was just saying I’ve very recently discovered a new word that I hope to use in a sentence one day.” I question-smile at Mrs. Patinkin. “With your permission, I’d like to try.”

Mrs. Patinkin nearly levitates with excitement. She holds her stump of chalk up to the board so she can write down my word as fast as spit. “Go ahead, Zoë,” she says with her breath.

I stand up. “The word I’ve discovered is
usurp.
It means to seize. Or to steal.” I turn slightly to my left so I can see Devon out of the corner of my hair. “To dethrone or eject. And if one were to use it in a sentence, he—or she—might say,
‘To help out is human, but to usurp is going to get your precious toes stomped on by very small, but very furious boots.’”
I sit and fold my hands on my desk. Mrs. Patinkin’s face clouds over. She really wants to reward my effort but she can’t figure out how. My bet is she’ll fake it.

I’m right. “Yes. Good. Yes. Nice…sentence, Zoë.” She writes
usurp
on the board and turns around to face us. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, you should all take Zoë’s sentence as
inspiration to reap the bounty of words that surround you. Now, everyone come over to the back carpet and sit cross-legged. I have a wonderful surprise for the entire class.”

By the time the Fronties get to the carpet, most of the spots are taken except for a big empty circle around Smartin. With our noses begging us to sit
anywhere
else, Susannah and Laurel and I have no choice but to plop down beside him. We’re mortally disgusted to see he’s coloring his entire right arm and hand with blue highlighter. Even Laurel isn’t impressed.

He nudges me with his inky arm. “Come on, Costello. Wanna hold hands?”

“You’d have to chop it off, sterilize it, and sew it onto someone else’s body first.”

“For you, I’ll do it.” He starts to lick the highlighter off his skin. Everyone falls over, groaning in toxic horror. Vile!

“Martin Seth Granitstein,” says Mrs. Patinkin. “If you can refrain from swallowing your own tissue, I won’t keep you in for recess. When you’re outside in the field, under the playground monitor’s care, I invite you to consume whatever you like.
In my class,
however,
I ask that you swear off human flesh.”

Martin shrugs—“Okay”—pops the lid off his highlighter,
and bites off the felt tip. Blue drool oozes from the corner of his mouth as he swallows.

Mrs. Patinkin screeches, “Martin! To the office. And have the nurse examine you while you’re there.”

He stands up and points at me with a blue finger. “Can I have an escort? Sometimes I get lost.”

I bury my head in my hands and squeeze my eyes shut.
Please say no! Please!

“No!”

Once his sorry carcass is out of sight, Mrs. Patinkin closes her eyes for a moment, then smiles like she’s never seen or smelled Smartin in her life. “I have very exciting news. The entire school is going to participate in a political-science experiment.
Each class will be developing an imaginary island and will be holding mock leadership elections.
Students in every class will be divided into two political parties, each with their own name and belief system. And each party will elect a leader.”

Devon’s hand shoots up. She doesn’t wave, just holds it up with her fingers flagpole straight, pointed at the ceiling. When Patinkin nods, she chirps, “I hope to be a leader because my father always says me and my sister should strive to be number one in every endeavor.”

I try not to groan out loud and Mrs. Patinkin says, “Hurry, Brianna. Go write
endeavor
on the board.” She smiles at Devon. “That will be our final vocabulary word for the week.”

Tall Paul puts up his hand. “Does that mean we don’t have to speak in full sentences until Monday?”

Mrs. Patinkin closes her eyes, then opens them. “Absolutely not.”

“My parents want me to be an orthopedic surgeon, so I don’t have to be a leader,” says Avery.

“You’re never operating on me, Buckner,” mutters Riley.

Avery looks around, trying to figure out who dissed his future surgical dexterity.

Kitty, a plumpish Sixer with purple braces, says,
“My parents don’t want me to have beliefs until I’m at least eighteen.”

I jump off the carpet and hurry over to Mrs. Patinkin’s desk. She’s looking about five years older than when she arrived in the morning, so I bring her her coffee mug to remind her there
are
still things worth living for. Her mouth is too exhausted to smile, so she smiles at me with her eyes, then gulps the whole thing down.

“As I was saying, two leaders will be elected in each class, and will campaign for the presidency by making their political plans for the island public. This will prepare them for the schoolwide election, where they will make a speech in front of the entire school. Then students will vote for the leader of their class. Any questions?”