Solving Zoe (4 page)

Tuesday morning Zoe was the second one up. (The first one up was Dad, who always left for his painting jobs before any other Bennett was awake.) Today Zoe was dressed for school and eating her breakfast at seven ten. Her plan was to get to school as early as possible, to find Lucas.

But just as she was finishing her waffles, her little brother Spencer marched into the kitchen. “Mom said make waffles for ME!” he yelled.

“Really? Why can't Mom do it?”

“She's ASLEEP. She said YOU had to do it, Zoe. This minute!” Spencer held out his arms like airplane wings and ran around the kitchen in little circles. “Waffles, waffles, waffles!” he sang. “With syrup, syrup, syrup!”

“Shh,” Zoe said, glancing at the clock. “You'll wake up everybody else.”

“Too late,” grumbled Malcolm, shuffling into the kitchen. “That little monster learned how to climb up into my bunk. Which he did at precisely four thirty, Eastern Standard Time.”

Zoe patted Malcolm's shoulder as he sat down in front of a bowl of Rice Krispies. Her older brother was a pain, but he was sharing a room with Spencer. That definitely earned him a few bonus points.

“Any chance you could make the little monster some waffles?” she asked hopefully.

“Why can't you?”

“Because I want to get to school early.”

“You?” He shoveled cereal into his mouth. Two wet Krispies clung to his lower lip. “What for? To hang out with Dara, you mean?”

“No. Actually, Malcolm, I do other things besides hang out with Dara.”

“Like what? Multiply colors? Feed frogs?”

“RIBBIT, RIBBIT, RIBBIT,” shouted Spencer. “I want waffles!”

“You're
getting
them,” said Zoe, burning her fingertips as she grabbed them from the toaster oven. “And Isaac doesn't even have frogs. And if you're going to tease me all the time, why should I tell you anything, Malcolm?”

“Because I am your lord and master. Bow down to me and confess all!”

“Oh, stuff it, Mal, all right?” She checked the kitchen clock again. Seven twenty-five. Now it was probably too
late to see Lucas before homeroom. Well, never mind; she'd confront him about the notebook during Ancient Civs. Or better yet, at lunch. Maybe in the hallway outside the cafeteria, where she wouldn't have to shout.

Once Spencer had been fed, and she'd cleaned up the mess he'd made pouring syrup all over the table, and she'd called good-bye to her mother through the shower door, she slipped the notebook back into her hoodie pocket and walked the four blocks to school. First period was English, taught this year by Gabriel, whose eyelashes were shockingly long for a grown-up male. Practically all the girls at Hubbard had crushes on him; they called him “Babe-riel,” even Isadora. Zoe was pretty sure she didn't have a crush, but her heart sort of skittered when he stopped her in the hall.

“You have that essay for me, Zoe?” he asked, smiling.

“What essay?”

“The one I assigned the second day of school. Writing a myth about yourself? Zoe-as-Olympian? You don't remember?”

“No, I do,” she said quickly. “I just…haven't done it yet.” The truth was, she couldn't figure out what to write. Briefly she'd considered turning it into a sort of joke—Zoe, goddess of color doodles, turns Malcolm,
god of obnoxious comments, into cherry pi (pie?). But of course Gabriel wouldn't have understood it. Or even have thought it was funny, probably. So she'd just tried to forget the whole assignment.

“That's not okay,” Gabriel said. He stopped smiling. “You know, I really don't think you're operating on all cylinders, Zoe, and I also don't think you and I are on the same page. To mix metaphors, for which I apologize. Maybe you should have a little chat with Owen.”

Owen Kimball was the Head of Middle Division. He was always cheery; the kids loved him.

Zoe peeked at Gabriel's eyelashes. “You mean,” she said carefully, “go have a little chat with him
now
?”

“Sure,” Gabriel said. He smiled at her again. “Why not?”

Then Mackenzie came running over to tell Gabriel how she'd nearly memorized some sonnet, and he turned his back to Zoe, as if it had all been settled. Well, fine, she told herself. She'd go see Owen. Kids did it all the time.

Owen's office was on the third floor, a few doors down from Signe's classroom. She tapped lightly on the door. “I'm on the phone!” he called out. “Just two more seconds, please!”

“Okay,” she called back, immediately realizing that
if he was on the phone he didn't want an answer. She looked around the tiny waiting area. The walls were layered with postcards and cartoons and incredible student artwork—abstract paintings (not doodles, though) and moody self-portraits of kids she sort of recognized. On a tadpole-shaped coffee table there were copies of the most recent editions of the
Hubbard News
, a three-times-a-year publication that bragged about all the awards and achievements of the “remarkable Hubbard community.” She picked up a copy and opened it randomly: “Barrett McKay's third book of poetry was recently nominated for a National Book Award—” “Jennie Godwin's work with Siberian tigers is the subject of a new documentary—” She closed it, returned it to the pile on the tadpole table, and tucked her hair behind her ears. A minute or two later Owen called her into his office.

He was grinning, as if he were thrilled to see her. He was a small, wiry man who raced in the city marathon, his head shaven, probably to reduce wind resistance. There was something about him that was so sharp, so energetic, so opposite-of-Dad, that Zoe immediately felt uneasy.

“Well, hello, Zoe Bennett,” he boomed. “Sit down and stay awhile!”

He gestured in the direction of two seating options: a
standard metal office chair pulled up alertly to his desk, or a red plastic beanbag chair squished casually against the wall. Zoe nearly dove into the friendly-looking giant beanbag, but something told her she'd be better off in the responsible-looking office chair. She sat down carefully, folding her hands in her lap.

Owen's smile flickered for a millisecond, and a strange thought flashed across her mind:
Were the chairs some kind of test? Did I just fail?

“So, Zoe,” he said, leaning way back in his own leather desk chair. “I was actually hoping you'd stop by. I'm hearing from Gabriel that you owe him some work. And Anya tells me you've been drawing pictures in Math. And Signe says she isn't seeing anything from you. Which surprises me, because kids here typically find her inspiring.”

“I'm sorry.” She'd been slumping. Now she forced herself to sit perfectly straight, which meant the back of the metal chair was digging into her spine.
I definitely should have chosen the beanbag!
she thought.

Owen studied her for a long, agonizing moment. “Here's my dilemma, Zoe,” he said finally as he leaned across his desk. “I just this minute had a phone call from a dad whose daughter is a world-class violinist. This girl wants to go to Hubbard, and I had to tell the dad that
we're at capacity. Which is terrific. It's our goal, in fact. But I have to ask myself: Are we filling our Middle Division with the most deserving students? The kind who'll make the most of everything Hubbard has to offer? Would you like a glass of water?”

“What? No, thank you.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let me make this plain, Zoe. You're not in Lower Division anymore. Expectations have changed. It's time to fully engage yourself in Hubbard, or else consider other options.” He pointed to a gaudy papier-mâché puppet slouching awkwardly on his bookshelf, and smiled in a way that was probably meant to be jokey. “Hey, you don't want to go through life like that guy over there. With us, but not really animate.”

He was calling her a
puppet
? “Okay,” she said stupidly. “I understand.”

He knit his eyebrows. “You all right, then, Zoe?”

“Terrific,” she said.

Then she got up out of the horrible chair and ran out of Owen's office, down the hall to the third-floor bathroom, where she burst into hot, humiliated tears. The day had started so normally: Waffles—frogs—eyelashes. And now Owen was—what? Calling her names? Threatening to kick her out? Where would she even go? Some normal
place that had bells and red pens? The only school she'd ever known—the only school any of the Bennetts had ever known—was Hubbard. Even Spencer went to Hubbard Preschool! What would Mom and Dad say when they heard:
Oh, Zoe, why didn't you? Oh, Zoe, how could you? Oh, Zoe, didn't you realize what a special, special place this was?

She turned on the tap and flooded her face with cold water. She had to see Dara. Dara would understand everything. Just talking to her would help Zoe think straight.

But first, somehow, she'd have to get through the rest of the morning.

At lunch Zoe didn't even bother getting her tuna-and-potato-chip sandwich. She just headed straight for Dara's table and sat there for a few seconds, unable to talk.

“Gasp,” Dara said, her big gray-blue eyes looking worried. “Are you okay, Zoe?”

“No. This is the worst day in my life.”

“What happened?”

Before Zoe could answer, Leg and Paloma came over with trays heaped with salad and sat down right next to Dara.

“Sorry,” Zoe said immediately. “This is private.”

“Hey, don't let us stop you,” Paloma said, trading glances with Leg.

Dara rubbed Zoe's arm. “Oh, come on, Zoe. If it's really important, you don't want to talk about it here, right? I mean, not if it's private. We'll talk about it later, okay?”

Zoe stared at her. This was The Worst Day in Zoe's Life and Dara wanted to talk about it
later?
How could she be so insensitive?

And then instantly Zoe realized Dara was right. Because even if those awful girls weren't sitting there, this was the stupidest possible place to be talking about Owen. Zoe would have to shout the entire story:
HE THREATENED TO KICK ME OUT. AND THEN HE CALLED ME A PUPPET
. Everyone in Middle Division would hear. What a fiasco that would be.

Dara was actually protecting her. She was a true friend, and Zoe, as usual, was a total idiot.

“Okay, sure,” she heard herself saying. “Later.”

Dara smiled, and Zoe could feel her own face staring to relax.

“So, Dara,” Leg said teasingly. “Have they posted the cast list yet?”

“Not yet,” Dara said. “Soon, I think.”

“Are you psyched?”

“A little. I'm trying not to get my hopes up.”

“Are you nervous? Don't be nervous.”

“I'm going to get some lunch,” Zoe announced. She stood up and glanced at Dara's empty tray. “You want anything?”

“No, thanks. I'm actually not that hungry.”

“Because you're nervous,” Paloma said, sticking out her tongue. “Or do you just want to look sexy in your costume?”

Zoe could feel her teeth clench at that. But now that Paloma mentioned it, she could see that Dara did look a little pale. “You should try to eat something,” she urged Dara. “I'll see what's in the kitchen.”

Leg smiled. “As long as you're up, Zoe, I'd like an apple. If it isn't bruised.”

“I'll look,” Zoe said, thinking:
No, I won't.

She walked into the kitchen and helped herself to the usual: sandwich wrapped in cellophane, bag of chips, pint of chocolate milk. She also took a big chocolate chip cookie to split with Dara. She was just about to get herself a straw when she noticed Lucas. He was sitting at the weirdo table, but obviously not to hang out with Ezra, who was listening to his iPod and reading one of his warfare books. Lucas was definitely on his own, all hunched over like a little—No. She'd been about to think
gargoyle
, but she stopped herself. That was Tyler's word, and it was horrible.

Suddenly she remembered that she still had Lucas' crazy notebook. It didn't seem very important anymore, not after everything that had happened this morning, but she needed to give it back. And she probably still needed to talk to him. And anyway, it wasn't as if she were in a huge hurry to get back to Leg and Paloma.

“Hi, Lucas,” she said, sitting down next to him. “I have something for you. Here.” She reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out the spiral notebook.

He snatched it from her. “How did you get it?”

“You left it behind. When you ran out of the lobby yesterday. After school. Remember?”

“Yeah. Um, thanks.”

“You're welcome. But listen. I noticed you were writing about me, and I really want you to stop.”

He looked startled. “What makes you think I was writing about
you
?”

“Because I read my name. I'm sorry,” she added. “I know your notebook is private property.”

He shook his head impatiently. “Where did you see your name? In my notebook. Exactly, I mean.”

“I don't know. There were all these weird drawings in the back and then in the front there were these, I don't know, languages, but on one page you wrote ‘Zoe'.
Z-O-E
. I'm positive I saw it.”

He was staring right at her now. “You read
ciphers
?”

“What?”

“You just said you read your name. Which was in cipher. See?”

He flipped through the notebook, then thrust it at her.
She stared at the open page: the same outer space gibberish as yesterday. Only this time, no “Zoe.” How was that possible? Had he written it in disappearing ink?

She shoved the notebook back at him. “I don't understand. When I saw it yesterday—”

“You deciphered your name!
Z-O-E
. Did you realize you can
do
that?”

“Of course I can't,” Zoe said, alarmed at his excitement. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“You're a natural cryptanalyst! Some people are just
like
that. It's actually a form of genius. Or brain damage, arguably.”

“Okay, Lucas, now you're totally hallucinating. And you'd better stop writing about me, all right?”

“So is this your new boyfriend, Zoe?” someone asked loudly. It was Leg; she was holding an apple. Paloma was right beside her, grinning. Dara was standing in back of them both, biting her thumbnail.

“Shut up, Leg,” Zoe snapped, feeling her cheeks start to burn.

For a moment no one said anything.

Suddenly Lucas laughed. “‘Shut up, Leg.' What a bizarre English sentence. Just think how that would translate into any other human language. ‘Shut-up-leg.'”
Then he stood and left the table without even emptying his tray.

Zoe started to giggle; she couldn't help it. Dara frowned at her meaningfully, but she pretended not to see.

Leg shrugged. “Well, he's certainly a sick little puppy,” she declared. Then she took a bite of her apple, examined it critically, and tossed it into the trash.