The Invisible Rules of Zoe Lama

by Tish Cohen

  Lucky.

  In about three seconds Susannah got hired to do a real commercial, and we celebrated by having a sleepover with five girls and a cake decorated with a movie camera made of icing. Then Susannah found out the bad part. The commercial that would make her world famous was about bed-wetting.

  Bed-wetting!

  It’s obvious, of course, but I’ll say it anyway: if you’re planning to be a World-Famous Child Star, the last thing you want to be famous for is wetting the bed.

  But Susannah did the commercial, because her Mom said, “It’s money in the bank,” and she hasn’t taken off the glasses since. Which is kind of dumb since we all know it’s her. Also, she hasn’t gone to the bathroom at school ever since, just to prove that she, unlike the character she played, has one mighty ferocious bladder.

  Riley is next in line, and because he’s a show-off, but a very cute show-off, he spins and then leans down on my desk real close. Riley Sinclair doesn’t know it yet, but he’s the boy I’m going to marry.

  The trouble is, I never get to see him after school. He has to practice, he always says. And I always say, “Practice what?” And he always says sumo wrestling, which I happen to know is a major lie, since Riley isn’t remotely fat and doesn’t like being seen in a bathing suit any shorter than his knees.

  Once I had a boyfriend I saw every day after school. Guy. Pronounced like Key, but with a G. And no last name. Well, probably he had a last name, but I never knew it, since I was about five and what five-year-old knows anyone’s last name? Guy was in my kindergarten class, and he used to call me on the phone every night and teach me how to say swearwords in French.

  Ooh-la-la.

  Anyway, Riley, who is not French but is still ooh-la-la, is wearing rumpled jeans and a shirt all shredded at the bottom from his falling off his skateboard. Also, his hair keeps flopping in his eye. He looks perfect, so that’s what I start to tell him—

  Suddenly Mrs. Patinkin, our language-arts teacher, glides in. “Good morning, scholars! Please take your seats. Are your minds open and ready to receive what the week has to offer?”

  No one says it, since it would make Mrs. Patinkin cry, but I guarantee we all think it. No!

  Somebody must have nodded or scratched themselves, because Mrs. Patinkin claps her hands and says, “Good. Let’s begin by copying this inspirational quote I found in the Sunday paper. It incorporates three of last week’s vocabulary words—monarchy, pedicure, and canine.”

  As she turns to write the inspirational quote on the board, I quickly tap Riley with a handful of chips. “You look exceptionally perfect—”

  “Ahem. Zoë Monday Costello?” says Mrs. Patinkin.

  Okay, so there might be a little more to this Monday thing than I’ve admitted to. But I’m twelve years old now. I’m way past asking why a perfectly intelligent mother would saddle her only child with a middle name of the one day of the week everyone can’t stand. I sure must have kicked and screamed a lot on my way out to make my mother that mad.

  I swipe all the hair accessories and chocolate chips into my desk and sit up tall. Well, as tall as I can.

  Mrs. Patinkin smiles. “Would you mind enlightening the rest of the class as to the topic of your private conversation?”

  She’s faking like she’s punishing me—to show the others it’s wrong to whisper during class—but she and I both know it’s a big act. She really wants to know what I whisper about.

  I smile to show her I don’t mind in the least, and stand up. “Mrs. Patinkin,” I say. People love to hear the sound of their own names. “I was simply informing my classmate that inspiring students is the hallmark of a great teacher.”

  A slow smile spreads across Mrs. Patinkin’s face. For a moment she doesn’t speak. Then she takes a deep breath. “You see, class? It is possible to use our vocabulary words in real life. It’s encouraging to see some students can reap the benefits of learning words like hallmark. Thank you, Zoë.”

  Mrs. Patinkin has a big thing about expanding our lousy vocabularies. She also has a big thing about saying the word reap and a very, very big thing about extra-small people who are extra slippery with compliments. She also has a very big thing about Stewie Buckenheimer going through the—

  “Garbage!” Mrs. Patinkin says. “How many times have I told you, Stewie Alan Buckenheimer, to leave the trash can alone?”

  “But I lost my retainer again!”

  “Oh, Stewie.” She sighs. “Didn’t we agree, as a class, that what the dentist puts in our mouths stays in our mouths?”

  “My gums were itchy.” Stewie pulls his arm out of the trash can and by accident dumps the whole thing onto the floor. A puddle of liquid oozes toward Mrs. Patinkin’s desk.

  Mrs. Patinkin closes her eyes. She tries really hard not to be the screamer type, but it’s not always possible with a class like ours. So every time someone drives her into the danger zone, she does this little meditation thing afterward, where she shuts her eyes and tries to pretend we’re not here. I once asked her what she thinks about when she’s trying to erase our rottenness from her mind, because if it were me I’d be thinking of three things, in the following order:

  Chocolate chips.

  Horses with snow on their muzzles.

  The way Riley looks when he gets water all over his chin at the drinking fountain and wipes it away with his sleeve.

  Mrs. Patinkin told me she thinks about absolutely nothing. But, honestly, I think that’s a lie. I tried it once, when Jamie Savage shared my seat on the bus. It was one of those dripping, melting early spring days—too winterish for sneakers, too springish for mittens—and Jamie had one boot resting on his other knee while he drummed some crummy song on his ankle. Big clods of dirty snow dripped from the bottom of his boot, and I had to move my backpack out of the way or risk total backpack rot.

  That’s when he did it.

  Took his grubby little finger, scraped a clump of slush off the bottom of his boot, and licked it.

  I scrunched up my face against the window and thought as hard as I could about absolutely nothing. But it didn’t work.

  Now Mrs. Patinkin’s eyes are open again, and she’s smiling and pressing her fingertips together like a spider doing squats on a mirror. She says, “Let’s pull out a crisp, clean sheet of paper and a sharpened pencil, shall we? We’ll write down five sentences about what life showed us this weekend. Then each and every one of us will share our own unique and magical voyage. Try to incorporate one of the new vocabulary words written on the chalkboard.” She taps the list with her wooden pointer. “We’ve got fifteen minutes, starti-i-ing now.”

  Stewie puts his hand up. “You said ‘we.’ Does that mean you’re going to tell us about your unique and magical voyage, too, Mrs. Patinkin?”

  “No, Stewie. I was simply speaking collectively to show you we’re all traveling on this journey together.”

  Sylvia Smye stands up, crawling in cowlicks. “My mother says I won’t be going on any class trips until I’m sixteen because of the wickedness of today’s society.” She sits down and folds her hands on her desk.

  Mrs. Patinkin’s eyes are closed again. “Thank you, Sylvia.”

  Up goes Brianna Simpson’s hand. “Mrs. Patinkin, is it okay if we use mechanical pencils?”

  “That will be fine, Brianna.”

  Up goes Brianna’s hand again. “Mrs. Patinkin, is it okay if my sheet of paper doesn’t have three holes in it? Because I ran out.”

  Mrs. Patinkin looks up at the clock. She’s not thinking about nothing. She’s thinking about 3:15. “Yes, Brianna.”

  It turns out to be the quickest fifteen minutes ever, because she tells us to put down our sharpened pencils and read out loud, starting with the vocabulary word of our choice. I’m only halfway through my third sentence and still haven’t even figured out how to work in the word mutilate.

  Riley reads first. He reads real fast and doesn’t stop for a breath until he’s done, because he hates reading out loud. “My
vocabulary word is blister. This weekend I went shopping forwed ding gowns with my oldest sister. She tried on thirteen puffy gowns, which she said all made her look fat. I said it was probably a good thing she’s getting fat before the wedding so her husband has a chance to change his mind before it’s too late. She said she’s never getting married now and cried and called me a Little Blister. Then the sales lady got all madand made us leave because my sister’s make up got cried all over the dresses.”

  Mrs. Patinkin looks confused. Then she says, “Wonderful, Riley. Harrison Huxtable, it’s your turn.”

  The whole class laughs and a few people snort like little pigs. Mrs. Patinkin swats at them in the air.

  It takes Harrison Huxtable a minute to stand up. He seems to have his thigh wedged between his desk and his chair. By the time he gets fully upright, the kids are howling. This is not acceptable. Harrison cannot help it, and besides, nobody who can draw perfectly shaded birds of prey like Harrison can should ever have to suffer torment from complete losers. I spin around and hiss at the hecklers and they finally cut it out.

  Morons.

  “My name is Harrison Huxtable. My word is luncheon. On the weekend my family had a garage sale. I sold my old bicycle, which was broken, and my old computer chair, which was also broken. I made 15 dollars but I had to miss luncheon. Thank you.”

  Mrs. Patinkin claps her hands because the morons are laughing again. I stomp my foot and glare until the class shuts up.

  “Not quite the proper use of the word,” says Mrs. Patinkin. “But thank you, Mr. Huxtable. It sounds like you’re turning into a real titan of industry.”

  Harrison Huxtable looks pretty pleased about that part. He sits down and beams pure pink.

  “Laurel, you can go next.”

  Laurel stands up, nearly blinding us all with her colors. She reads, “My vocabulary word is stupendous. My title is ‘My Weekend, by Laurel Sterling.’ “ She pauses to cough. “I had a perfectly stupendous time. First, I organized my sock drawer. Then I told my sister to keep her hairy, half-dead cat away from my beanbag chair or all the popcorn will pour out and she’ll have to buy me a new one. And I happen to know the store’s all out. I was supposed to go to a birthday party, but changed my mind. That is the story of my stupendous weekend. Stupendous.”

  Someone at the back laughs and calls out, “Why didn’t you go? Was the cake the wrong color?”

  Laurel sits down and covers her face, which is getting more colorful than her sweater. Laurel cries sometimes. It gets to be too much for her, all the problems about the blue food. It’s why she needs me.

  I spin around to find Martin Granitstein snickering. “Why don’t you shut your sticky face, Smartin!” I say.

  “Zoë,” says Mrs. Patinkin. Great. I slump down in my chair. See? You try to defend the masses—or even just your number two BFIS—and what happens? You are publicly shamed. Stripped of your dignity. This is the kind of thing that makes me seriously reevaluate my entire Lama career. I mean, Mrs. Patinkin is not and never will be a Lama herself, but I’d hoped she would know enough not to be dragged over to the dark side by defending Smartin, of all people! Why should I go to all the trouble—for no pay, I might add—if those in semileader-ship positions can’t even see the self-sacrifice?

  Seriously?

  Mrs. Patinkin continued. “Mr. Granitstein is on his way to Principal Renzetti’s office. And while I’m quite certain he knows the way, would you mind delivering the attendance book to Mrs. Delaney at the front desk? That way we can be sure Martin won’t get ‘lost,’ like he did last week.” Smartin groans and starts dragging his feet toward the door.

  Oh. Never mind.

  I shove the baggie into my pocket and stand up. If I have to walk in the shadow of the Beast, at least I’m doing it with chocolate.

  Mrs. Patinkin stops me when I’m halfway out the door. “Zoë, wait.” She shuffles to the doorway and leans closer to me. Then she smoothes out her purple stirrup pants and her shaggy sweater and whispers, “For Picture Day…is this suitable?”

  It isn’t, but I’m a girl who knows the right side from the wrong side of a teacher’s red pen. “It’s hot, Mrs. Patinkin,” I lie, and spin around.

  The office is full of gym coaches yelling at basketball players, parents bringing forgotten lunch boxes, and fifth-grade babies getting their bruises iced. And while I’d like to deliver Smartin and then bolt for the sweet smell of a hallway without Smartin in it, I have to sit on a bench outside of Principal Renzetti’s office and wait until his secretary, Gladys Stitt, gets off the phone to hand off my revolting delivery, who is starting to stink like blue cheese. I slide to the farthest end of the bench, stick two chocolate chips together by licking the bottoms, and plop them onto my tongue. If I don’t suck too fast, I figure I have enough chips to last me until Gladys finishes ordering her new curtains and her throw pillows.

  I never said it was easy being me. Not that I can’t handle this or anything, but some days the load is heavier—and smellier—than others.

  My friends I’ll deal with, since, really, what other option do I have? Without me, they’d still be playing with electronic puppies and laughing at knock-knock jokes. And the teachers I put up with for reasons of self-preservation and eventual college acceptance. You can never think too long-term. The pill-swallowing grandma, well, she’s the closest thing I’ve got to my dad, so I never complain about her.

  It’s Mom. I could handle everything else if she only had some kind of helper. Then I’d never have to worry, did she forget the milk again? Is she late for work and going to get fired? That’s exactly what Mom needs…an assistant.

  Grandma’s getting too old for the job. It’s not really fair to ask a seventy-five-year-old lady to hand-wash your Garage Girls T-shirt so the glitter doesn’t wear off, and I never get all the soap out. Mom needs a husband. Just think of it—two adults to do all the work! If one forgets to pick up butter, the other one chirps, “That’s okay, honey. I’ll get it on my way home!”

  And when Grandma makes a huge mess in the kitchen by dropping her applesauce jar on the floor, there’d be no more “Zoë, can you grab a few towels and mop up? Watch out for the broken glass.” No way. That would be the assistant’s job. I’d be too busy drawing in my room or talking Laurel through Christmas dinner on the phone.

  Life would be perfect.

  As I balance a chocolate chip on my nose, Mr. Lindsay, the math teacher, walks into the office hallway and thumbtacks a pink poster to the bulletin board. At the top, it says,

  VOLUNTEERS NEEDED FOR WINTER DANCE COMMITTEE

  Anyone up for a challenge and a laugh? Sign up below!

  A pen taped to a long string hangs from the poster.

  Mr. Lindsay would make a pretty good assistant for my mother. He’s always got important-looking math tools in his shirt pocket, and he sure put up that poster nice and straight. Plus, his face isn’t completely hideous.

  Scrubbing my hands on my jeans, I jump up and write Zoë Costello on the first line. I’m definitely up for a challenge and a laugh. Can I help it if it happens to get my mom a husband and me more time for The Garage Girls? I think not.

  You Can Step in a Load of Crap, but a Smart Girl Doesn’t Put Up with Any

  When I was seven, I discovered that eating spinach wasn’t ever going to give me bulging muscles, like my mother had always told me. Which meant she’d been lying to me my whole life. And that got me thinking about her lying about other stuff. Like my irritating cousin Risa really being related to me and my dad dying when I was little. If a woman could fake out her own kid about being able to lift a car off an injured squirrel by eating another forkful of drippy green leaves, then she’s probably capable of lying about the bigger stuff.

  I figured, since I couldn’t remember much about Dad and in his photos he looks exactly like the undershirt model from the Wal-Mart flyers, that maybe him dying was a hoax, too. And that maybe he was actually alive and well and working at Wal-Mart. In the underwear se
ction.

  I never said I was a brilliant seven-year-old.

  Then I overheard Mom talking to a neighbor, who said, “If I could do it all over again, I’d marry a plastic surgeon.” Then Mom laughed and said, “You and me both.” Which, I thought, was maybe her motive all along—to kill him off in my mind by leaving him at Wal-Mart one day while she went looking for the guy with the age-scraping knife.

  So I copied the Wal-Mart address from the phone book and wrote Dad a long letter, telling him about how I can wiggle my ears and how I just learned to do a one-handed cartwheel in gymnastics class. I also told him how my favorite picture is the one he took of me sitting on the steps of our secret place. The one not even Mom knows about—the Hunters Park gazebo where he took me the night we flushed my dead goldfish down the toilet. Dad’s not in the picture, but I still remember him taking it, laughing because snowflakes kept landing on the camera lens.

  It’s the one Dad memory I have.

  I also told him Mom didn’t have much luck marrying any kind of doctor at all. Then I thought I should include a gift, so before I licked the envelope, I stuck in the twenty-dollar bill I got for my birthday in case he felt like buying chocolate chips or a pair of hip waders.

  Then I wrote my address on the front of the envelope and on the back, just in case some dirt got smeared on the front and he couldn’t read it. Because he might want to thank me for the money. Or ask if it hurts my hand to do a one-handed cartwheel. He might even want me to give Mom a special message from him.

  You never know.

  For two months after that, I made sure to look through the mail before anyone else did. I didn’t want Mom to find his letter before I got to tell him the cartwheel only hurts my hand when I do it on very hot pavement or the gravelly sidewalk beside the library.

  Only I never got to tell him, since his letter never came.

  A little while after that, when Mom was in a really good mood because Grandma slept in, I asked her if she could take me to Wal-Mart. When we got there, I faked a stomachache beside the men’s underwear section, hoping my dad would come running out from behind a stack of tube socks to save the day. Only he didn’t. A short little woman with an accent came instead, and when she bent over me her glasses swung down from a chain and hit me in the eyelid. But what hurt more than that was when I asked her who else worked in her department and she said, “Nobody.” It had been her and only her for years.