by Tish Cohen
Before she finishes speaking, I’m standing in front of them with a Band-Aid in one hand and a travel-size bottle of peroxide in the other. I look to my left. Devon is standing there with a glow-in-the-dark bandage and a tube of triple-strength Polysporin. I inch closer. Devon inches closer still.
“My Band-Aid is waterproof,” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth.
“Mine has a nonstick pad!” she hisses.
It’s like a very polite, antibacterial swordfight.
The whole class is silent. They all watch as Mrs. Patinkin looks from me to Devon and back again. She has no idea what to do.
After school, I burst through the front door and dump my backpack on the floor. Mom won’t be home for another hour, which gives me just enough time to watch back-toback Garage Girls episodes before anyone nags me about achieving multiplication perfection, or hands me a scrub brush and tells me the toilet bowl is calling my name.
I kick off my shoes and lose my balance, knocking a pile of mail off the hall table. I bend down to pick it up and spy a beige envelope from Shady Gardens Home for Seniors. It’s stamped CONFIDENTIAL and URGENT.
Hmm. Right away I don’t like it. If it were only marked confidential or only marked urgent, I could relax. Confidential might mean Grandma was running out of granny panties or face cream. Urgent might mean Mom forgot to include the check in her monthly payment. Again. But confidential and urgent has me worried.
I turn the envelope over and notice, like all mail that comes from the senior home, it’s been taped shut. Which means two things:
1) Shady Gardens uses cheap envelopes that don’t stick, and
2) It would be really, really, really easy for someone to pry it open, read whatever’s inside, and tape the thing shut again.
I peel off the tape. Inside is a short letter.
Dear Mrs. Costello,
It has come to our attention that your mother-in-law, Jean Costello, snuck out of her room after curfew and exited the building. She was found waiting for her “special friend” inside the gazebo by the pond. We cannot know for certain, but we’re suspicious that she was meeting with the very person she claims to have shared a cigar with in the men’s room recently. We at Shady Gardens are concerned for Mrs. Costello’s safety and would like to discuss with you the possibility of moving her to the seventh floor, where she would be under the watchful eye of Helga Triste, our director of security. If we can separate Jean from this friend, we are confident her behavior will return to normal.
Please contact me at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely,
Julia Wilkes
[email protected]
I stuff the letter back inside the envelope. This is bad. I’ve met Helga Triste and her watchful eye, and I don’t want my grandma living too close to either one. They’re both mean.
Which means Mom can never see this letter. I race to Mom’s room and open up her e-mail.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Jean Costello
Dear Ms. Wilkes,
I’m sorry to hear my mother-in-law is misbehaving, but I know all about her trip to the gazebo. You see, my daughter, Zoë, ran away from home that day and hid in the Shady Gardens gazebo. Being the dedicated and loving grandma that she is and has always been, Jean was arranging to send her granddaughter home safe and sound. So as you can see, there will be no need to ship Jean up to the 7th floor.
Jocelyn Costello
Before I can change my mind about impersonating my mother, I hit send, which means two things:
1) Gram can stay on the main floor where the bird-watching is best, and
2) I’m officially a criminal.
“I’ll Be the Sandbar Beneath Your Feet” Is Not a Song
When I think about the mood I’d like the Icktopian people to have, I realize it’s the same feeling I have in Mr. Slobodian’s drama class—I’m never worried about running out of glue, the air smells like sugar cookies with pink frosting, and I’m actually encouraged to experiment with making monkey sounds. If you raise people with that kind of freedom—especially in a darkish room with brick walls and giant red-carpeted steps that spiral down into a stage in the center—none of them will ever think about becoming a bank robber. Or a reality-TV host.
Because the big election is next week, Icktopian fever has invaded the classroom. Boys are wearing Hawaiian shirts and girls are wearing plastic flowers in their hair. Normally I’d be excited about speaking in front of the entire school, but with Devon invading my life more and more by the minute, I get a stomachache every time I think about my speech. Which doesn’t even exist yet.
Icktopia is even on Mr. Renzetti’s mind. He went to an educational conference and learned about something called Pervasive Learning. Which pretty much means cramming whatever we’re studying into everything we do. So the cafeteria is offering “Island Fries” and “Beach Burgers.” And today in drama we’ve been divided into pairs and are meant to come up with a two-minute skit that involves three things:
jealousy,
shark bones, and
sand in your shoe
The good news is Sylvia is my assigned partner. The bad news is Riley is Devon’s partner. So as much as I’m trying to keep my focus on my number one client, it’s not easy, because Devon keeps showing Riley the handstitched sea horses on the toe socks her father probably knitted with his teeth.
“And this pretty little sea horse is meant to be me,” Devon says, giggling. Riley nods his head like he cares about pretty little sea horses and I try to catch his eye—to tell him he doesn’t. He almost looks over at me, but Devon takes his chin in her hand and snaps his face back toward her other sock.
“Did you see that?” I say to Sylvia. “She’s forcing him to look at her socks!”
“Wow,” says Sylvia, straining to get a closer look. “Look at all those sea horses. I’m not sure, but I think one of them has a head that actually nods—”
“Sylvia,” I snap, then smile sweet as seaweed. Sylvia looks so young today, the way her hair is pulled off her face by a headband. It actually does a decent job of paving her cowlicks. “It’s easy to get your mind muddled up with visions of ocean life. All the pretty coral can almost make you forget that the ground beneath your feet has totally disappeared and your oxygen tank is almost empty. Then one big sixth-grade undercurrent blows in and suddenly you’re swirling around in a flock of great white sharks.”
Sylvia scratches her nose. “Flock?”
“And even if those sharks have black belts in karate and are selling fake books from the trunk of their mothers’ cars, you’re never going to be yourself until you feel that algaecovered sandbar under your feet. Do you know what I mean, Sylvia?”
“Kind of.”
“Seriously?”
She nods. “You mean the ocean’s a dangerous place.”
Tears sting my eyes. I’m so happy I could burst. Five minutes alone with Sylvia was exactly what I needed to win back my number one client, my BCIS. Susannah looks at me from across the room and I give her a double thumbsup. Which isn’t so secret for, “It’s a Lamapalooza!” Which is confusing for, “I’m going to take Devon down!”
But here’s the thing about competition. It forces you to take a good look at how you do business. Basically, rethink everything. In other words, being a brilliant guide for Sylvia wasn’t enough to keep her from looking at other…sources of advice; I need to step it up.
I need to hold a Client Appreciation night.
“We should probably plan our skit, don’t you think?” asks Sylvia. “If I don’t practice, I’ll get nervous.”
“We’ll get to the skit. I’d like to tell you about a special event I have planned.”
Her eyes widen. “What is it?”
“Not so fast, little grasshopper. First I’d like to tell you that I value my clients very much. And when you’re a Zoë Lama client, well, let’s just say, you’re except
ional. There are others who might try to woo you with flash and dazzle, but here at Zoë Lama and Associates…”
“Wait…you have associates now?”
I fake a surprised look. “Oh, didn’t you get the memo? Yes. We’ve expanded.”
“You mean Laurel and Susannah will be offering advice, too?”
“No!” I smile. “There’s only one Zoë Lama. But they’re acting as my assistants. They’ve been promoted.”
“Promoted to what?”
“That’s not important. What is important is that we’re holding a Client Appreciation night and you are going to be our guest of honor.”
She glances quickly at Devon, who is sitting on a step beside Riley and laughing at something he said. Something utterly cute, I’ll bet, since everything that comes out of that boy’s mouth is totally and completely ador—
“Who else is coming?” she asks.
I really don’t like how close Devon’s pinkie is to Riley’s elbow. There’s only one person in this room whose pinkie deserves that kind of elbow intimacy. “It will be your night,” I mumble to Sylvia. “I only have eyes for you.”
“What about all these new clients? The ones you had to expand for?”
“They’re…busy.”
Devon stands up and reaches for a straw hat from the pile of props. Pinkie disaster has passed. For now.
“Shouldn’t we be planning our skit?” Sylvia says. “Mr. Slobodian only gave us ten minutes to practice. I really don’t like being unprepared.”
“We’ll be serving double chocolate chip cookies…”
“I really shouldn’t. Devon invited me over for something called MBF night.”
I knew it! Devon is grooming Sylvia for her #1 MBF spot! Which totally violates my Unwritten Rule #16: BFISs Must Be in Your Grade or Higher. Anything Else Is Called Babysitting. This MBF night must not happen. “Okay, Sylvia. This was supposed to be a surprise, but there might be actual trophies involved.”
She scrunches up her face and starts scratching like her nest is full of fleas. “Okay. Maybe for a little bit.”
Yes!
Just then, Mr. Slobodian comes over and puts his hands on our unbelievably unprepared heads. “Time’s up, everyone. Zoë and Sylvia, if you’d like to trot on down to center stage, we’ll begin with your skit.”
Sylvia peeps, “But we’re not—”
“I gave you twelve minutes to prepare. On you go.”
Sylvia glares at me and heads toward the stage. As she passes, Devon waves, then leans back on her elbows and crosses her legs. She swings her foot back and forth and something catches my eye. The heel of her sea-horse-coated toe sock is starting to unravel.
Frolicking Puppy Wallpaper Can Protect You from Exactly Nothing
Later that day Mrs. Patinkin is late coming back from lunch, which is never good. Smartin has his hand stuck deep inside the heat vent hoping to find things to snack on, Alice Marriott is drawing prancing kittens on the chalk-board and giving them names like Tea Bag and Spooner, and Stewie Buckenheimer has lost his retainer in the guinea-pig cage.
Devon comes in with extra-rosy cheeks, and a few moments later, Riley follows. They both hang up their jackets and wander over to the cage—like their coming in late together isn’t twisting one particularly tiny person inside out and back again.
Riley ruffles my hair and kneels down beside me. “What’s going on? Has Boris learned to speak French?”
I want to laugh, but then I spy it. One long blond hair hanging from Riley’s muscley shoulder. I force a smile. “Where have you been?”
“Nowhere. I just went home for lunch. No biggie.”
No biggie? I fake-smile wider and pluck her hair off his sweater. “What’s this?”
He looks down. “Dog hair?”
“You don’t have a dog.”
He grins. “But I do have a goldfish.”
“Must be some hairy goldfish,” I say, turning toward the cage, where Stewie’s hand is wrist-deep in soggy shavings. “And big. And ugly.”
“Actually, she’s kind of cute,” he says.
I’m too shocked to blink. I can’t believe this is happening. Devon has stolen my MUCGIS! My Riley! And he doesn’t mind one bit. “Cute? Maybe. If you don’t mind getting long blond hair all over your clothes.”
“I don’t mind a bit.”
His words slap me in the face. In drama class last month, he and I were paired up and forced to do the trust test—where someone closes her eyes and has to fall backward and trust that a certain cute boy will catch her. So after Riley caught me, he made this big deal about getting three long, curly brown hairs on his rugby shirt—laughing and saying if baldness runs in my family, he needs to know now so he can plan his escape.
So the question is—why is Devon allowed to go bald all over him and I’m not?
“Whoa!” says Avery now, watching Stewie. “You just missed a hu-uge intestinal nugget.”
“That wasn’t an intestinal nugget, Buckner. It was a food pellet,” says Stewie. “When are you going to get new glasses?”
“When your teeth stop growing sideways.”
“Real funny. Want me to make your teeth grow sideways?”
Avery shoves him and Stewie hurls himself on top of Avery and starts punching. The class is chanting, “Fight, fight, fight,” and Riley dives in the middle and pulls off Avery’s glasses.
“You’re the reason Boris turned cranky,” says Avery, trying to pull Stewie’s shirt over his head. “Your rotten fingers are always stinking up his cage!”
“Don’t label Boris!” I snap. “It’s bad for his self-image.”
“Well, it’s true. He never used to be cranky,” says Avery.
Suddenly Brianna gasps. She’s holding Bogus Boris belly-up and turns him around for us to see. Her face turns dark. “Boris never used to be a girl before either.”
Everyone leans closer for a good look. Except me. I step backward, and by the time I reach my desk, I realize I’ve made a serious mistake. I should have backed out into the hall.
Devon spins around first. She narrows her eyes and walks toward me. “You had him last weekend. And I happen to know he was a boy before that! Then you took him home. Where is the real Boris, Zoë?”
The room starts to spin.
Laurel and Susannah rush to my side. “Leave her alone,” Susannah says. “She took way better care of him than any of you ever have. She built him a circus.”
“It was more of a carnival,” I say under my breath.
“She built him a carnival,” Susannah repeats.
“Then what happened?” asks Devon.
“Yeah, what happened?” asks Avery. “Did he choke on a hot dog at the carnival? Did a roller coaster fall on him?”
Smartin asks quietly, “Did Boris die?”
The class goes silent as they wait for my answer.
“He had a little surgery,” Susannah says, looking at me. “That’s all. The vet needed to do a small procedure to keep him mentally healthy. That’s Boris all right. The real Boris. I know. I was with Zoë the whole weekend.”
“You were not,” says Brianna. “I saw you at the movies on Sunday afternoon. With your mother.” A few people snicker.
“That wasn’t me,” snaps Susannah. “We hired a look-alike to throw off the paparazzi—”
I put a hand on her arm. “It’s okay, Susannah. They should know the truth. Boris didn’t choke or get crushed by a roller coaster. He didn’t die.” I pause to take my final breath. “Boris ran away.”
Everyone gasps in horror.
“There was a hole in the wall and the phone rang and I looked away and he just…” Tears spill onto my cheeks. “I’m so sorry. You guys know I loved Boris. I feel horrible…”
“But not horrible enough to tell us the truth,” says Devon. “You know, losing our beloved class pet is one thing. We might have been able to forgive that. But buying another and trying to pass her off as Boris…?”
Riley steps closer to her and
stares at me.
At this very moment, Mrs. Patinkin rushes in. “Sorry I’m late, people. Traffic was atrocious.” She drops her bags and writes atrocious on the board. Then she looks around more carefully. “Did I miss anything?”
By some miracle, Mrs. Patinkin sends me to the office a few minutes later with the attendance sheet. No one said a word to her about Boris not being Boris. Which doesn’t make me happy in the slightest. Devon would adore ratting on me. The fact that she didn’t can only mean one thing—she has even worse plans for me.
I take the absolute longest way back to class because I want to stretch out my life as much as possible. Just as I pass the darkened hallway by the woodshop, I spy Annika Pruitt wrestling with a dented locker door. Wood chips, balled-up lunch bags, and forgotten sweatshirts cover the floor and Annika is sniffling.
“Annika, what are you doing in this part of town?”
She looks up. Her face is wet with tears. “Justin told me she was his second cousin!”
“Who?”
“Tricia Hemmerling. He told me she was coming over to help his mother choose carpeting for their laundry room.”
“No one puts carpeting in their laundry—”
“I know that now!” she snaps, then starts to cry. “You were right. Justin was a total creep all along and I didn’t want to see it.” She kicks the locker and it finally bursts open with a loud squawk. Inside, Annika’s books—carefully covered with pretty yellow paper—huddle together on the top shelf, which is falling down on one side. The whole inside of the locker is rusty and it smells bad. Real bad.
The girl is living in squalor. “So I guess the locker…”
“He kicked me out! He said it was his locker,” she sobs. “I put my heart and soul into that place. I wallpapered!”