The One and Only Zoe Lama (16 page)

Sunday morning,
Susannah and Laurel called to tell me to put on a tracksuit and sneakers and meet them at the public library. They said they had a plan to help me take down Devon, which is going to be harder than I’d originally thought. She got her hair streaked. I’d like to report that it looks perfectly awful, but the truth is, it looks awfully perfect.

The Icktopian election is this coming Friday and this I know for sure.
I will not lose to the dazzlingly highlighted Devon Sweeney, no matter how many golden hairs fall on Riley’s shoulder.
We’re meant to give our speeches before the Icktopian people vote, and Devon—who’s been working on hers with her dad—has been spreading rumors that hers is
so
good she just might publish
it,
too.

What Devon doesn’t know is that mine is going to be even better. As soon as I write it, that is.

I show up at the library to find Laurel and Susannah
seated around a table with a pile of water bottles and energy bars in the middle.

“What’s this?” I ask, reaching for a yogurt bar.

Susannah smacks it out of my hand with the long stick attached to the newspaper. “
Not
until after Round One.”

“You’re in training now,” Laurel explains. “We’ve gathered up every Dear Allie advice column from the last eight months. We’re going to ask you questions and you’re going to give us your very best advice.”

“Then we’ll compare it to Dear Allie’s to see how you measure up,” says Susannah. “It’s the only way to work your advice muscles. Get your edge back.”

“By the end of the day, you’ll be in the best shape of your Lama life,” Laurel says. “Olympic level.”

I raise both ends of the white towel hanging around my neck. “So why did I need to bring this? Brain sweat?”

“Exactly,” Susannah says.

I plunk my feet up onto the table, pull a bag of chocolate chip cookies out of my pocket, and cram two in my mouth. “Okay. Let the games begin.” I mumble through
the crumbs. Who am I to argue?
I don’t know if I’m losing my edge or not, but I’m definitely losing my mind.
Sylvia has been declared Devon’s #1 MBF, Mrs. Patinkin’s class is barely speaking to me, and Riley is getting more hair-covered by the day.

And whether I like it or not, moving day is one week away. I’m ready to try anything.

“I’ll go first,” says Susannah, disappearing behind the newspaper. “Dear Allie.” She pauses and peers over the top. “I mean, Zoë. My four-year-old granddaughter throws tantrums in the candy aisle of the supermarket, and when I tell her to keep her voice down, she hits me. What should I do? Signed, Battered in Boston.” They both lean real close and stare at me.

I smile. “That’s easy.
The kid obviously needs chocolate. Chocolate’s filled with tryptophan—a chemical that makes people happy.
If Grandma makes her kid happy, she won’t get whacked.” I lean back and pop another cookie. “Next.”

Susannah scrunches up her face. “That’s not what Dear Allie said. She said that the child is acting up because she needs an hour of focused attention from Grandma each day.”

“That’ll work, too,” I say.

Susannah and Laurel look at each other. “Okay, my turn,” Laurel says, looking through the advice column. “I have been dating my boyfriend for two years. Is it appropriate for me to phone him sometimes, or should I continue to wait for him to call me? Signed, Too Much Silence in Syracuse.”

I laugh. “You should wake up and smell the 1900s. And when you’re done with that century, take a whiff of the new millennium.
Put lover-boy on speed dial—stat—and harass his carcass every time he’s so much as sharing a subway car with another girl.”

They’re silent for a minute.

“Please tell me that’s not what you do with Riley,” says Susannah, shaking her head.

“No. I’m just saying she needs to be coaxed into civilized society. That’s all.”

Laurel bugs her eyes at Susannah.

“I totally saw that!” I say. The librarian shushes us.

“Zoë,” says Susannah. “It’s very possible you’re going through a lull. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Okay. This is my cue to take a break. I grab a water bottle and wander off into the aisles, running my fingers along the spines of the books and listening to the sound
it makes—like playing cards in the spokes of my bike tires.

This Lamarama training session isn’t going to help. In fact, I really don’t think anything is going to help me.
Could it be possible that Devon is actually the better Lama?
She does have youth on her side. Is it possible that rules look more official when they’re written down?

Maybe it’s over for me. I’ve had a good seven-, eight-year run. Most presidents don’t last as long. Maybe I should be thankful for what I’ve had and move on. I could always take up knitting. Or maybe I could collect souvenir spoons, like old Mrs. Grungen down the hall. I glance at the bookshelves to find I’m in the animal section. Which gets my brain clicking and whirring. Didn’t my mom say I could get a pet?

I bend down low and scan the books, crawling past the wild animals to the pet-care manuals. They have books for every kind of pet—from hedgehogs to potbellied pigs. Both of which would make my mom about as happy as the cockroaches.

No, what I need is something cuddly and friendly. Something that would help fill up space in that big old
house. Something like…I stop and pull out a book about Airedales. That’s exactly what I need. A puppy.

I sit on the floor and stare at one pouting puppy after another. They’re so cute it makes me rethink my whole frolicking-puppy-wallpaper stance. Maybe being surrounded by puppies
is
a solid way to build a relationship.

I reach for another book—this one’s on dog care. It’s a pretty good one, too. The puppies don’t look quite as bigeyed, but there’s lots of good information on things like how to teach your puppy to go down the stairs and how to keep him from eating out of the cat’s litter box. I look around to make sure no one’s looking before folding down the corner of that page. I might need the litter-box advice for Smartin one day.

Or maybe Devon will.

I sip from my water bottle and turn to a page about training. There’s this special program they use called LOVE. Hmm.
L
is for Learner—if you tell your new pal what you want, she’ll be a quick learner.
O
is for Open—open yourself up to your MBF’s fears and concerns and you’ll spend many happy years together.

V
is for Voice. Always speak to a new MBF in a calm,
soothing voice so she learns she can trust you. A calm, soothing voice…

I choke on my water.

This is
Devon’s
advice!

I tear back to the table, where Susannah and Laurel are taking some kind of coaches’ break and scarfing down all the energy bars. I slap the book down on the messy table, ignoring the shushing that is coming from every which direction. “How much do you dudes love me?”

Susannah snorts, “I’ll love you a whole lot more when you get that book off my new purse.”

“This training session is over,” I say.

“I hate to tell you, Zoë, but it’s barely begun. In case you hadn’t noticed, Round One completely blew. I’ve been thinking for our next round—”

“There’ll be no next round. Turns out that hooking your arm through your boyfriend’s and saying ‘Let’s go,’ then praising him lavishly isn’t actually the best way to get your boyfriend to go shampoo shopping with you; it’s how to avoid hesitation in your pet beagle! And putting meat tenderizer on Harrison’s submarine sandwich is not going to get him to lose weight, it’s how to get a pup to stop eating his own poop!”

Laurel and Susannah’s eyes bug out so far they just might drop out onto the table.

“That’s right,” I say.
“Devon’s advice comes from a dog-care manual. Every last bit of it
!
”

“Shut up!” says Susannah, grabbing the book from my hand.

“That’s not the best part. Flip to page 137.”

Susannah flips forward and starts reading. Then she stops and looks up at me slowly. “No…”

“Yes.” I turn the book around for Laurel to see. “
MBF
doesn’t stand for Major Best Friend at all. It stands for
Man’s Best Friend
!”

Laurel shrieks and grabs for the book. She scans the page. “Do you realize what you’ve just done, O Zoë Lama? You’ve not only won the Icktopia election, you’ve won your place back as rightful ruler of the whole school.”

A slow smile stretches across my face.

“Zoë,” my mother calls
from the living room later Sunday afternoon. “How’s it going in there? I hope you’re busy packing up your closet. The moving truck arrives next Saturday whether you’re ready or not.”

I’m lying on my bed writing my election speech, which will start out something like this:
What do choke chains, liver snaps, and student ID cards have in common? Everything if you’re a student at Allencroft Middle School—where you’re all being treated like DOGS!
I can already hear the whole school gasp. Especially Riley.

“Can’t hear you, Mom. I’m too busy packing up my closet,” I say. For effect, I crinkle a few sheets of paper.

“That’s wonderful, honey. I’m glad to see you’re coming around to the whole moving thing. Lorraine tells me there’s a girl your age living right next door. I’ll bet she smells way better than Mrs. Grungen.”

“I bet she doesn’t.”

The doorbell rings.

“Honey, will you get that, I’m busy—”

I roll off my bed. “I know, I know. You’re busy packing.” I open the front door to see none other than Lorraine the home wrecker. “Oh, hi.”

She shoots me a full-of-herself smile and breezes right past in a cloud of perfume that smells so horrendous it could probably clear the whole building of cockroaches. If cockroaches have noses, that is. And if they don’t, today they’re the lucky ones.

“Mo-om, it’s Lorrai-aine,” I call, but I should have saved my breath. Lorraine’s already following the sound of packing tape into the living room.

Lorraine flaps a handful of papers in front of Mom. “Guess what I’ve got for my very best client…”

“Our keys!” Mom jumps up and snatches them. She waves them in the air and smiles at me. “Look, Zoë. The signing papers for our very first home! Isn’t this exciting?”

“Hugely,” I say.

“Zoë,”
she warns.

I spin and head back to my room.

“I’m sorry, Lorraine,” says Mom. “She’s been so upbeat all weekend, I thought…”

Lorraine says, “Don’t drag yourself down. This is a real milestone for you, and you should enjoy it. Believe me, I’ve
seen more than one moving day dampened by the careless remark of a quarrelsome child.”

I mutter,
“Your
face
is the careless remark of a quarrelsome child.”

Lorraine looks around. “Did somebody say something?”

I disappear into my room, dive onto my bed, and pick up my speech.

Mom and the Evil One are talking so loud, I can hardly concentrate on destroying Devon. I get up again to close the door, and just before it clicks shut, I hear Lorraine say, “The Sweeneys were motivated to sell to you because they’re leaving the city…”

The Sweeneys?

Lorraine continues: “They have two little girls—Devon and Charlie, both beautifully behaved—and two golden retrievers. Terrible story. They’re staying with family for a couple of weeks before the father begins treatment in Boston. Without it, doctors don’t think he’ll live to see next Christmas. And even with it…well, let’s just say it’s iffy.”

Devon’s father is dying?

I cross the room and drop down onto my bed again. The weirdest things are swirling through my head—like
the way Devon’s unraveling sea-horse socks matched her ponytail holder. And the way she described her Icktopia drawing—“It was inspired by my father and all my hopes for him.”

It’s Devon’s house I’m moving into. Maybe even her bedroom. Lorraine’s words ring in my head. “Without this treatment, doctors don’t think he’ll live to see next Christmas.” I pull my knees in close and hug myself. I don’t know much about what it’s like to be Devon Sweeney, but I do know this much: I’ve never once stopped missing
my
dad.

This is starting to feel creepy. Like I’m moving into her life and she’s moving into mine.