Last-But-Not-Least Lola Going Green

by Christine Pakkala

  Jessie Chavez says in her TV commercial voice, “My mom bought me all new recyclable containers so I can have a trash-free lunch!” She grins at Amanda. “I just LOVE a trash-free lunch. Everyone should try a recyclable container today! They’re on sale for a low, low—”

  “Thank you, Jessie,” Mrs. D. interrupts.

  Everyone shares, and I am last, last, last. But I don’t mind, because going last means I have lots of time to think about stuff, like how to be a friend. Because to have a friend, you have to be a friend.

  And I need a lot of time to think about that one. Last, but not least, it’s my turn.

  I say, “We should have two winners of Going Green: me and Amanda.”

  “Amanda and me,” Mrs. D. says.

  “But you didn’t enter the contest,” I say.

  “I mean you and Amanda.”

  “That’s what I said!” I say.

  “Lola, I mean that when we speak proper English, we say the other person’s name first. So please say, ‘Amanda and me,’ not ‘me and Amanda.’”

  Fishsticks. That means that Amanda gets to go first even in proper English.

  “Two winners, please! Amanda and me!” I say.

  Mrs. D. nods. Amanda gets all pink like Wubba Dubba Bubba gum. And I feel Z–plus, zesty, zippy, zinger, Zuckerman.

  Ari Shapiro points at Mrs. D.’s lap. “Look, one got out.”

  Mrs. D. jumps up. “Help!” she yells. The worm flies through the air. I catch it.

  “She won’t hurt you,” I say. “She just wants to eat garbage.”

  I carry the runaway worm back to the compost bin.

  “But she can’t eat plastic wrap. Or juice boxes. So that’s why we should have Amanda’s idea, too, trash-free lunches!”

  “I like juice,” Dilly Chang says.

  “You can drink it. Just bring it in a thermos,” Amanda says, “or a stainless-steel water bottle.”

  “What about my sandwich?” Sam wants to know. “Mom puts plastic wrap on it to keep it nice and fresh.”

  “Put it in a container with a lid!” Ari says. “That’s what my dad does.”

  “Look! Another worm!” Sam yells. “Right by Mrs. D.!”

  I scoop up poor Mrs. Worm, and carry her back to Uncle Ken’s Kitchen Composter.

  “My dad says the only thing you have to fear is fear itself,” John Carmine Tabanelli says.

  “I don’t get it,” Harvey Baxter says.

  Mrs. D. sighs. “That means there’s really nothing to be afraid of. Come here, Lola. Let me take a closer look at the worm.”

  I bring the red wiggler up to Mrs. D.

  “If you want a closer look, you have to stand still,” I tell her.

  She stops shuffling around. I hold out Mrs. Worm on my hand. Mrs. D. takes a good look.

  “Okay!” she says. “Not afraid, all good.”

  Then she clap, clap, clap-clap-claps. I guess to calm herself down. Finally, Mrs. D. takes a big breath and says, “What do you say, Candy Corns? Should we have two Going Green winners? And two projects?”

  “Yay!” the class shouts.

  Amanda and I clap high fives. We do our secret Peanut Butter and Jelly handshake and say, “Ooga booga! Ooga! Booga!” ’cause we don’t care if Gwendolyn Swanson-Carmichael thinks we’re doodle heads.

  “Can I learn it, too?” Jessie Chavez asks. “That handshake?”

  Our secret handshake? No way! Three’s a crowd. That’s what I want to say. Also: go away, Jessie!

  Jessie is a big problem.

  But Mrs. D. tells us to be problem solvers.

  “How about a new one for three kids?” I say. “It could be a Bacon, Lettuce, and Tomato secret handshake.”

  Jessie squishes her nose. “Well, how about a Peanut Butter and Jelly and Banana handshake?”

  Amanda puts her hand on my arm. “That sounds—”

  “Not so good,” I say. I cross my arms right over my heart. “How about a Bacon, Lettuce, and Tomato secret handshake?” I stick my chin way out there, ’cause I’m not fooling around.

  “How about Tomato, Lettuce, and Cheese?” she asks.

  “You’re the Cheese,” I say.

  “Only if I’m Swiss,” she says.

  “Fine,” I say.

  Amanda heaves out a sigh. She wraps one arm around me and another one around that Jessie. And she squeezes us tight together.

  “Ooga booga! Ooga! Booga!” we three yell.

  Problem solved.

  Maybe.

  THE KIDS IN MRS. DEBENEDETTI’S SECOND GRADE CLASS (ALPHABETICAL ORDER)

  Amanda Anderson

  Harvey Baxter

  Dilly Chang

  Jessie Chavez

  Abby Frank

  Charlie Henderson

  Sam Noonan

  Sophie Nunez

  Olivia O’Donnell

  Madison Rogers

  Rita Rohan

  Ari Shapiro

  Ruby Snow

  Jamal Stevenson

  Gwendolyn Swanson-Carmichael

  John Carmine Tabanelli

  Timo Toivonen

  Ben Wexler

  Lola Zuckerman

  1. A JELLY-BEAN PLAN

  MY NAME IS LOLA ZUCKERMAN, and Zuckerman means I’m always last. Just like zippers, zoom, and zebras. Last. Zilch, zeroes, and zombies. Last.

  ZZZZZZZ when you’re too tired to stay awake. ZZZZZZZZ when a bee is about to sting you. Z. Ding-dong LAST in the alphabet.

  Every single day, my teacher, Mrs. D., lets us out in alphabetical order. Every single day, my best friend Amanda Anderson zips out the door first, and then Harvey Baxter, Dilly Chang, and Jessie Chavez. And guess what else? I’ll tell you. Every single day Amanda sits with Jessie on the bus going home. Even though they live on the same street and you’d think that would be PLENTY of time to spend together. But NO. You’d be wrong. Dead wrong.

  If only my name was Lola Adventure. Or Lola Amazing. Or Lola Awesome. Even if I was Lola Butterbean or Lola Bowling Ball, I’d beat out Chavez every time. But no. I’m stuckerman with Lola Zuckerman.

  BRIIIING! The last bell rings. Time to go home.

  Mrs. D. says, “Lollipops, time for dismissal,” and begins calling our names.

  I wait and wait and wait. I hang off my chair. Past the whole alphabet. Finally Mrs. D. says, “Last but not least, Lola, line up.”

  I skip to the end of the line, lickety-split.

  “Lola, stop breathing on my neck,” Ben Wexler says.

  “Lola, take a step back, please,” Mrs. D. says.

  Fishsticks! I take a step back.

  “Gumdrops, don’t forget to have your parents sign the field trip permission slip,” Mrs. D. tells us. “Our trip to Kookamut Farm is going to be a wonderful experience.”

  I double-check my permission-slip pocket on my Lola dress. Yep, safe and sound. I pat my marble pocket and peek inside. Except today I don’t have my lucky white marble that looks like a dead man’s eyeball zipped in there. I’ve got something else. A secret weapon.

  Mrs. D. leads us out the door. As we walk, I fish around in my pocket for a jelly bean. My hand sweated on them a little. But I bet they still taste good. I hold one out to Ben Wexler.

  “Can I trade places?” I ask him. He nods and takes the jelly bean. And I get in front of him. I pass a jelly bean to Timo Toivonen and take his place. I work my way up the line, past Gwendolyn Swanson-Carmichael, past Ruby Snow. All the way until I’m behind Jessie Chavez.

  “Hey,” Jessie says. “You cut.”

  “Did not. I traded.” I hold out a jelly bean. A nice green one. “Wanna trade? I stand in front of you and you get my jelly bean.”

  Jessie stares at the green jelly bean. Slowly she shakes her head.

  “Tell you what,” I say. I reach into my pocket and fish out another jelly bean. “I’ll make it two.” That second jelly bean is a real humdinger. It’s a weird one, a double jelly bean. It’s pink-pink, with tiny bits of light pink. It’s all the pink a pink stinker
could want.

  Jessie stares at the double jelly bean, plus the green jelly bean. “Fine,” she says. “Let’s trade.” She snatches those jelly beans and pops the green one in her mouth. Zloop. She pops the pink one in her pocket.

  I squeeze in front of Jessie Chavez and behind Dilly Chang and Harvey Baxter. I can see over them. Straight to Amanda Anderson.

  “Hi, Amanda!” I holler-whisper. ’Cause we have to use our inside voices even when we’re practically out the door.

  Amanda likes The Rules. That’s why she doesn’t turn around. I bet.

  “Amanda! Yoo-hoo!” I yodel-lady-who.

  She finally looks at me. Amanda’s brown eyes get big and her brown eyebrows pop up. “Lola, what are you doing!?” she says. “You can’t cut in line. ’Member?”

  “I didn’t!” I explain. “I traded my way up.”

  “Oh!” she says. Then she turns around and—OW OW OW—she smacks right into the closed door instead of following Mrs. D. through the open one.

  She stumbles this way and that way, holding her face.

  Mrs. D. whips around. “Amanda, are you okay?” Mrs. D. hollers it out loud and I holler it in my brain.

  “I’m fine,” she squeaks between her fingers in a Not-Fine and It’s-Lola’s-Fault voice.

  “Lola Zuckerman,” Mrs. D. barks. “We’ve already talked about this.”

  “Okay,” I say and slither to the back of the line. Lizards slither and snakes slither and so do kids who have to go all the way to the end of the line. Minus sixteen jelly beans.

  Finally, I climb on board bus one. Sure enough, Jessie and Amanda are nestled in tight like two baby kangaroos in one pouch.

  “You always get to sit with Amanda on the way home,” I tell Jessie. “Can I sit with her today? Pretty please?”

  “No way, José. You’re not supposed to get up once you sit down.”

  That’s true. That’s one of Sal’s bus rules. Also, two to a seat. Not three.

  Sal starts up the bus and we plant our tushies and glue our eyes straight ahead. Except I hear giggles so I sneak a look around and say, “What’s so funny?”

  Amanda shrugs and Jessie shrugs.

  “Nothing,” Jessie mutters like a toothless old man.

  “Your forehead is purply,” I whisper to Amanda. “Does that hurt?” Poor, poor, poor Amanda.

  Amanda touches her forehead and scrunches up her face. “That’s ’cause you distracted me when you cut in line.” Uh-oh. She sounds miffed. Miffed is mad but you’re not saying.

  Maybe it was my fault. My heart aches like it walked into double doors, and the rest of me doesn’t feel good, either. Something’s tickling me on the tip of my tongue and I think it’s “sorry.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I just wanted to sit with you.” I dig out a couple of jelly beans. “Here, Amanda. This’ll make you feel better.”

  I plop the jelly beans in her hand. One is purple like her head and one is black. It turns your teeth black when you chew it. Amanda will love that.

  She smiles at me with boring white teeth. “Thanks, Lola!”

  Jessie shakes her finger. “Jelly beans won’t make her head better! You’re lucky Amanda didn’t get knocked out.”

  I get up on my knees and lean over my seat. “You’re lucky I don’t take back that pink jelly bean.”

  “No take-backs, Lola Zuckerman,” Jessie growls like a vicious Chihuahua.

  “Lola!” Sal yells. “We talked about this!”

  “Okay!” I plant my tushie double fast. He means last week when I got up on my knees and we turned a corner and I fell into the aisle. It was fun except not for Sal.

  Sal zooms down the road. I twist around again. Amanda and Jessie are doing the Hand Jive. That’s an old-time hand game that Jessie’s mom taught her.

  “Can I play?” I ask. Sal drives over a pothole and I bounce into the air.

  “You can’t play,” Jessie says, “’cause you weren’t there when we learned it.”

  “Lola, face forward before you get in trouble,” Amanda says.

  “I can learn,” I say. “I learn fast.” I stick my hands in the middle of their Hand Jive.

  “OW!” Jessie screams. “You POKED ME!”

  Our bus whips over to the side of the road. And guess what? It’s nobody’s stop.

  “Lola!” Sal points to me. “Come up here and sit behind me.”

  I stomp up to the seat where you can count fourteen freckles on Sal’s bald head. Where bad kids sit. “Move over, Harvey,” I say.

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m glued to the seat. See?” Harvey grunts and pretends he can’t move.

  The bus starts up and Sal turns the big wheel. “Sit down, Lola,” he calls out in a mainly mean but tiny-bit-nice voice. “I don’t want to have to tell you again. That goes for you, too, Harvey.”

  I shove Harvey over and sit down partly on him.

  “Oof ! You crushed me. You weigh more than my dog!”

  Harvey is rude like that. He probably missed school on Be-a-Bully-Buster Day.

  Sal drives over another pothole and we bounce. Harvey shouts, “Yahoo!” And keeps on bouncing.

  Now he’s hopping and popping like popcorn in the microwave. “Hippety, hoppety, hippety, hoppety,” Harvey sings at the top of his lungs.

  “Quiet up there!” Jessie Chavez yells.

  “You be quiet, Jessie!” I holler back. “Stop it, Harvey! Stop!” I hiss.

  “Can’t. Stop,” Harvey puffs. “Got to. Break. World record.”

  “Record for what?”

  “Hopping in my bus seat.”

  Sal pulls up to the stop on Windy Hill Drive. Jessie and Amanda boing up and squeeze down the aisle.

  “Bye, Lola,” they call out at the same time, just like they practiced it.

  “Bye,” I say, all by my lonesome self.

  Amanda pauses at the top of the stairs. “I’ll sit with you on the way to school tomorrow.”

  I smile big as a slice of watermelon. Whew! I’m glad Amanda isn’t mad at me for distracting her right into the double doors. Amanda waves goodbye and hops one-two-three off the bus.

  And then I think of something.

  I get out of my seat and lean over the two teensy kindergarten kids across the aisle. I bang on their window. “AMANDA!” I yell. “AMANDA, WILL YOU SIT WITH ME ON THE FIELD TRIP TO KOOKAMUT FARM?”

  But Amanda and Jessie are skipping down Windy Hill Drive in front of Amanda’s mom.

  Amanda can’t hear me. Otherwise she would say yes.

  I’ll call her soon as I get home. We’ll make a plan to sit together on the field trip. We’ll pet chickens. We’ll learn about harvesting fall crops. We’ll pick apples, red for me and yellow for Amanda. We’ll get Friend-of-a-Farmer badges. And Jessie can sit with Gwendolyn.

  It’s the perfect plan.

  Christine Pakkala has taught seventh-and ninth-grade English. Born and raised in Idaho, she moved to Iowa to study writing at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Last-But-Not-Least Lola Going Green is her first novel. She now lives in Westport, Connecticut, with her husband, son, and daughter, and two golden retrievers who love a good compost pile. christinepakkala.com

  Paul Hoppe is an illustrator, designer, and author whose work frequently has appeared in the New York Times and the New Yorker. His books include Peanut by Ayun Halliday and his own Hat and The Woods. In the summers, he teaches at the School of Visual Arts. Born in Poland and raised in Germany, he now lives in Brooklyn, New York. paulhoppe.com

  BOYDS MILLS PRESS

  An Imprint of Highlights

  815 Church Street

  Honesdale, Pennsylvania 18431

  boydsmillspress.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  Reinforced trade edition

  ISBN 9781629792903 (e-book)

 
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