The One and Only Zoe Lama (4 page)

Pilar Bliss?

Lettice Weatherhead?

Cheever Duff?

The names just keep getting worse and worse, until finally Mrs. Patinkin finishes and puts her list into the attendance folder. I’m digging out chocolate chips for my new neighbors, when a singsongish voice calls from the back, “Mrs. Patinkin? You forgot me.”

Mrs. Patinkin opens her folder and scans the names. “Oops. I’m sorry. And you are?”

I turn around in my chair. A proud-looking blond girl is arranging a cupful of sharpened pencils on her desk.
She flicks something off her pink cardigan and says, “I’m Devon Sweeney.”

M
y mother always tells me it’s rude to stare. So I’m trying really hard not to. Correction, I’m trying really hard not to let anyone see me stare. I have this shiny chrome lip-gloss container I keep in my schoolbag, and if I hold it at just the right angle, I can see everything Devon does. The way she
licks the tip of each pencil before she writes. The way she gathers her eraser shavings into a tidy little pile then sweeps them into a Ziploc baggie. The way she tucks her wellbehaved hair behind her ears over and over so not one single hair ever gets the chance to roam free.

Then Laurel jabs me in the ribs and I look up. Mrs. Patinkin is waiting for me to answer some question I didn’t hear. She is pointing to the words
This week’s keeper of the pig
on the blackboard.

“I know you’ve been waiting for a chance to watch Boris for months now, Zoë. And this would have been your scheduled turn.”

Would have been?

Mrs. Patinkin continues, “It’s just that I’ve had a rather special request from one of our new classmates. Devon has a very important weekend planned and wants to bring Boris home to help her celebrate. Devon, why don’t you come to the front of the class and tell everyone your exciting news.”

I make a shocked face at Susannah.
Devon getting Boris is an Indescribable Indignation.
Which means it’s crazy annoying.

Susannah huffs out loud in agreement. You gotta love Susannah.

Devon swishes her skirt as she makes her way to the front. Then she spins around and smiles way too sweetly. Her cheeks turn all pink. “This is
so
embarrassing,” she says, and everyone giggles in sympathy. “I’m getting my black belt in karate this Saturday. There’s a big presentation where I have to chop a piece of wood in half and perform in front of a panel of tons of people. Anyway, my parents are making this huge, insane deal out of it and asked what I wanted for my gift.” A piece of blond hair falls down against her perfect chin and she tucks it back in place. “They were thinking I’d ask for an iPod or a portable CD player.” She laughs and crosses one coltish leg in front of the other. “But all I really wanted was to bring home my new homeroomclass guinea pig for the weekend.”

Her
class guinea pig? She’s only been in the class for about fifty-five seconds!
Who’s the one who’s been feeding him, watering him, changing his cedar shavings all year? Putting in his eyedrops when he scratched his cornea on a jagged piece of timothy grass? Trimming his toenails? Me, that’s who.

I put up my hand to ask the question that, I’m sure, is on
everyone’s mind. “Devon, what happens if you don’t break the board in half? I mean, what if you crush your hand, or wake up Saturday morning with food poisoning or chicken pox?”

The whole class is silent. Mrs. Patinkin’s smiles melts down her face.

Devon tilts her head. “My dad says that’s the thing about me. Once I set my mind on something, I don’t let
anything
stop me.”

Mrs. Patinkin claps her hands. “Well then, it’s all settled. Boris will spend the weekend at Devon’s house.”

Devon kind of bows; then, on her way back to her desk, she stops at Boris’s cage to pick him up and nuzzle him. Holding his brown, white, and black body in her palms, she kisses him on the nose. Then Boris lets out this happy little squeak—the kind of squeak he only ever makes when he hears a carrot being cracked in half—and the whole class goes, “Awww.”

Even Mrs. Patinkin!

When the recess bell rings,
the Sixers barrel out of the class like savages. Doesn’t surprise me. I have a theory about Sixers. Anyone under the age of seventh grade has not yet developed the part of their brain that turns them into actual human beings. They still don’t know enough to shower more than once a week, only half of them look like they’ve ever held a brush, and, if it’s raining, you can be sure that almost every Sixer will show up soaked to the knees from puddle-stomping.

According to my science textbook, in the theory of evolution, scientists believe there’s a missing link between fish and land animals. Which means that when early fishy lifeforms finally swam to the surface and looked around, wishing they could crawl out onto the beach and lie in the sun to dry out their pruney skin, some kind of half-fish, halfland animal should have evolved before actual land animals did. That missing creature is the missing link. But I don’t think it’s missing at all. I think the missing link is Sixers.

I watch Smartin pull off his shoes, sniff his wet socks, and tug on his sopping boots. He stomps out, making sickening squishing noises with each step.

I sigh. Of course there’s a chance I’m wrong.
The missing link could very well be Smartin Granitstein.

As I pull on my boots, I feel a timid little tap on my shoulder. It’s Sylvia.

“Hi, Zoë. Do you have a minute?”

See what I mean about the perfect-client thing? Sylvia doesn’t make it all about her. It’s all about
me
first, then, sometime later, we get to her. I like that.

“Sure,” I say. “Sorry about the holey stickers exploding.”

She tucks her chin into her shoulder and smiles. “That’s okay.” She holds up a stickercovered shoe. “They actually look good on my sneakers.”

They don’t, but I fake-nod to boost her self-esteem. I ask, “Did you get my e-mails while I was gone? About not using plastic in the microwave and taking the other route to school?”

“Yup. I cut through the townhouse parking lot, like you
said, and I got to school two and a half minutes earlier. Now I have time to stop in front of Brandon’s house and see if I can see him through the bushes.”

No. Spying on your crush is very bad. Especially if your crush is Brandon Skinner, Lord of the LameWizards—Allencroft Middle School’s gaggle of electronic gamers. “Actually, Sylvia…” I put my arm around her shoulders and guide her into the hall before Laurel and Susannah go outside and get involved in some sort of horrid winter sport in the playground. “You might want to put those extra minutes to better use. Like getting to class early enough to comb your bangs after pulling off your hat. You know what static cling does to thin hair…”

She nods furiously as we jog down the stairs to the foyer. “Right. That’s true. But he actually waved at me when he was getting into his mom’s Jeep last Thursday.”

I stop her. “There’ll be no more hedge-hiding for you. No amount of waving is worth the scratches and scrapes on your face. Or your pride.”

“But I’m waiting for the chance to ask him to my Scottish dance recital.”

Whoa. “I’d rethink that one,” I say, holding the door
open. Wind nearly blows off her hat and she grabs it.

“But why?” she asks. “I happen to know his ancestors are Scottish and Devon said—”

“What?”

Sylvia looks flustered. It’s so noisy in the playground, I can barely hear her.

“Well, I know
one
of his grandparents is from Scotland, anyway. Two of the others are from Ireland, but it’s still pretty close…”

From a snowbank, Laurel shouts, “Zoë, come see this!”

I wave to her that I’ll be a minute. “No, you said something about Devon.”

“Oh yeah. Just that she said I should get front-row tickets for Brandon and tell him I’ll leave a chocolate caramel on his seat.”

This makes my eyes clamp shut in horror.
Unwritten Rule #4—One Lama Per School.
No Exceptions—exists for a reason. Two lamas lead to a sticky, gooey mess. “No, no, no. That’s terrible advice!”

“She said it was romantic. Like something from a Hilary Duff movie.”

“It’s sappy and needy and…tragic!” I say, rubbing my forehead. “It’s not for real life. I don’t recommend you try that with any boy, but
especially
not a boy like Brandon.”

“Why?
Devon says his long eyelashes mean he’s passionate.”

I roll my eyes. I swear I’m never going into quarantine again. “Long eyelashes mean he has
dust allergies.
Brandon has a long, ugly history of not wanting girls that want him bad.”

She crinkles her nose. “I’ve never heard that.”

“Of course you haven’t heard it. That’s what you have me for. Don’t you remember last Valentine’s Day, when Alice sent Brandon a cookiegram that said, ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, buttercups have sunshine, and I have you’?”

“No.”

“He sent back a broken piece of cookie that said, ‘My dad’s a cop.’”

Sylvia looks sick. “Whoa.”

“Whoa is right.
The only way to land Brandon Skinner is to shatter his core first.
Nothing horrible, just enough to make him think you couldn’t care less about him. Then, and only then, you can think about inviting
someone else
to your dance recital right in front of him.”

“Another boy?”

“Sure. Or a girlfriend.” I reach down to smooth my scarf. “Someone who helps you out from time to time…”

Sylvia gets knocked sideways by a couple of sixth-grade boys having a snowball fight. She rights herself and adjusts her hat. “I already asked. Devon’s busy that day.”

“I meant me!” I squeak.

“Oh! I’d love to have you there. I just figured you might have rules about going to client events and stuff.”

I thump my fist above my heart, then start walking backward toward Laurel and Susannah. “For my best clients, I make exceptions.”

I catch up with the girls, who are stopping kids from trampling something that’s been written in the snow. It says:

I look around and see RS lurking in the bushes, grinning. His friends are teasing him. I give him a smile. Hedgehiding might not be allowed for Sylvia. Ever. But a boy as cute as Riley spying from the cedar bushes is definitely allowed. If he’s staring at me, that is.