The Invisible Rules of Zoe Lama

by Tish Cohen

  “Zoë, I’m very tired. Please go finish your homework.”

  “Only if you promise to look into Dr. Milner’s medical school records.”

  “Zoë!” She pushes hair out of her face and reaches for a towel. “Homework. Now.”

  Back in my room, I lie on my bed and try to forget about Shady Gardens. Surrounded in pencil crayons, I’m drawing a picture of how I would look if I were tall. I draw my legs super long with gorgeous red boots and I draw a striped miniskirt instead of my usual plain old denim skirt, because I once saw a fashion model wearing a blue-and-white-striped miniskirt and, wow, did she look cool.

  Grandma swishes in carrying a cup of steaming cocoa with whipped cream and sets it on my night-stand. “Hello, dear. I thought you’d like a nice hot drink.”

  “I would!” I sit up on my knees and sip it as Grandma examines my drawing. It’s like having the old Grandma back. The one who knows when you need cocoa before you even know it yourself and she doesn’t glare at you when you drink it while kneeling on your bed.

  It makes this cocoa taste better than any she’s ever made.

  “This is a fine self-portrait. And the skirt looks French. Very chic, Zoë. I like the shading on the boots.”

  Another awesome thing about Grandma. She knows a good self-portrait when she sees one, even when the legs are drawn wishfully long. She does not deserve to be jumbo-smiled at by that Shady Gardens nurse, who really needs to get herself something better to smile about.

  “Thanks. I learned the shading part at school.”

  “Your teacher should give you an A.” Grandma snaps her teeth and sits down on the bed. “Did I tell you my Lawrence won the regional swim meet?”

  She’s told me hundreds of times, but I love this story. “No, Gram. Tell me now.”

  “It was just last week.”

  “Last week?” I ask, hoping she’ll correct herself. I really, really don’t want her thinking Dad’s alive again. It’s proof positive that she’s getting worse. He won that swim meet about a zillion years ago, when he was not much older than me!

  She looks at me like I’m dense and waves a hand toward the window. I notice now her hand is shaking. “Yes. Last week. At the rec center. The pool there is nearly Olympic size.”

  Okay, I don’t know what to do. Stop her and tell her that her son, my dad, is not only grown up, but actually no longer alive? Would she even believe me if I corrected her? Maybe I should just shut up and leave her to her happy memories. I put my cocoa down. My stomach doesn’t feel so good.

  The trouble is, and it’s very selfish trouble, I love to hear about him. I could listen to these stories all day, because it helps me build memories of him.

  Besides, it’ll give her a minute of something to think about besides Fiber Buds and Jeopardy! Wouldn’t sixty seconds of happy kick-butt over a whole season of Jeopardy!?

  “Oh yeah,” I say. “The swim meet last week. What happened again?”

  Her hands settle down and her face relaxes. Her eyes get all dreamy. “My Lawrence was so fast, from the moment the starting pistol fired, he was in the lead. He swam four lengths in freestyle and thought the race was over. He stopped and pulled off his cap before the photographers zoomed in for their victory shots. Well, the crowd went wild, because there were two more lengths to complete. The other swimmers were catching up and Lawrence was still fixing his hair. Finally, as his competitors somersaulted against the end and pushed on for the final two lengths, Lawrence realized his mistake and took off again. And do you know, he still won that race?”

  “Wow.”

  “They said he had time to eat an entire banana split while he waited for the others to catch up. But still, he won.” She shakes her head and wipes a tear from her eye. “Without so much as a bathing cap. He left it on the pool deck, at the photographers’ feet.”

  “Wicked,” I say. “I’ll have to congratulate him when he gets home.”

  She looks confused. “But he is home. He’s in the bathroom right now.”

  “No, that’s Mom. And she’ll be out any minute. So let’s just get you down the hall to your room before she gets out.” And hears our conversation, I don’t say.

  Grandma stands up and shuffles toward the door. “I’m quite certain it’s Lawrence. I’ll just knock.”

  “No!” I jump up and grab her arm. If Mom knows Grandma is talking crazy, it’ll only send her running to Shady Gardens to book a room with a view. “I think it’s much better if we get you straight to bed.” Gently I guide her down the hall toward her room, praying she doesn’t call for him—

  “Lawrence?” she calls as we approach the bathroom door. “Lawrence?”

  “Shh! Quiet, Gram, please!”

  “I just need to tell him about his college application forms,” Grandma says, stopping right beside the bathroom. Before I can stop her, she knocks. “Lawrence?”

  I hold my breath, waiting for Mom to fling open the door and Grandma to call Lawrence, and Mom to give me a look that says, It’s time, Zoë. Then I hear it.

  The blow dryer. Mom’s drying her hair. She hasn’t heard a thing!

  Grandma says, “I’ve heard that Harvard has a very good business school. I want to tell him to apply to Harvard first.”

  Oh boy. I pull her forward. “I’ll tell him when he gets out of the bathroom. But let’s hurry up. We’ve got to get you into your room quick!” She takes one step, then stops and turns back toward the bathroom, looking upset.

  The blow dryer stops and I hear Mom humming. I’ve got about thirty seconds before she opens the door.

  “Come on, Gram! Let’s go. Please!”

  Finally, Grandma turns to follow me. “I was just thinking,” she says as we walk. “A nice hot cup of cocoa sounds good. Can you go get my granddaughter? She’ll make it the way I like it.”

  I sigh, guiding her into her bed and flicking off the light. Then I kiss her forehead and pull the sheets up under her chin. “Close your eyes, Grandma. I’ll go tell her.”

  “Her name’s Zoë. She makes wonderful cocoa.”

  I smile what really doesn’t feel like a smile and close the door.

  Never Lift for Yourself What a Fifth-Grader Is Willing to Lift for You

  I hate trumpets. Not a Tuesday or a Thursday goes by without me wishing desperately that I’d fought harder for a flute in music class. Flutes are so pretty, and Laurel’s fingers look so delicate pressing its beautiful silver keys. But the best part is that you get to hold your mouth in a little kissy shape while you play.

  And it doesn’t hurt if you’re looking at Riley in the clarinet section.

  This doesn’t work with trumpets. First of all, you have to squeeze the keys hard because these school trumpets are more than a little banged up. Second, no delicate little kissy-shaped mouth is gonna make any kind of sound from a trumpet.

  The only way I can describe it is, if Avery Buckner was coming at you for a kiss, with his eyes closed romantically behind his smeary glasses, big cracked lips flapping, and the only way you could possibly push him away was with your mouth, you’d scrunch up your lips pretty hard, right? You’d push them as far out as you could, to keep his grimy glasses from touching your nose, and you’d suck in a deep breath all the way down from your toes and blow so hard you’d lose all feeling in your lips.

  That’s how you blow into a trumpet. It doesn’t say that in the music book, but it should.

  And I haven’t even mentioned the worst part. It’s impossible to see Riley while you’re playing because of the big old horn-shaped end.

  Mrs. Day claps her hands and yells that we better redo “Ode to Joy” or our parents will complain after the winter concert. We hold our instruments all ready, and as soon as her stick starts thrashing around, we play like crazy.

  My lips are tingling so bad it feels like my mouthpiece is full of miniature bees. I’m not sure I can take it anymore and glance at Sylvia Smye beside me. She isn’t doing much better. Her face is nearly purple from blowing and her
eyes shoot around wildly. But believe me, every single one of us knows exactly what will happen if we stop playing for any reason.

  Instant, nonnegotiable, ego-busting trip directly to the office. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.

  In the middle of the song, Sylvia folds. The bees got to her. She drops her trumpet to her side and puts up her hand.

  Mrs. Day swings her stick sideways, which means everyone better stop their lousy playing—and fast. She asks, “What is it, Sylvia?”

  “My lips are tingling real bad this time. And my cheeks hurt. I think I’m allergic to my trumpet.”

  “You can’t be allergic to a trumpet. And don’t interrupt while we’re playing. If you have a problem, kindly enlighten us at the end of the piece. And a, four, three, two, and…” She flails the stick around and we start to play again.

  This time, when Sylvia sucks in a big breath to begin the next bar, she drops her instrument again in a choking, sputtering fit.

  “Sylvia Smye!” Mrs. Day calls. “What did I tell you?”

  Between coughs, Sylvia whispers, “I can’t help it! I’m drowning in spit from Harrison”—cough—“Huxtable”—cough.

  “Nonsense. How could you possibly know whose saliva you’ve inhaled?”

  “Because it tastes like his cherry cough drops. I might be catching his cold, I feel like fainting.”

  Sensing a golden opportunity to rest my buzzing lips, which feel like they might explode, I shoot my hand up into the air. “Excuse me, Mrs. Day. You know it’s not like me to interfere in other people’s business, but I feel I must inform you that I have actually heard of a case of a severe trumpet allergy.”

  Mrs. Day’s eyes narrow. With straight dark hair falling down both sides of her face, she looks like someone’s closing the curtains on her. At any moment all we’ll see is a nose. “Oh?”

  “Yes. It was two years ago, in a middle school just like this. A student complained to her music teacher, who ignored her symptoms. This teacher, too, had never heard of a trumpet allergy. But mouthpieces are made of silver, and skin can react to the nickel content in some silver mouthpieces. The girl’s parents sued the school. Langstaff Middle School v. Alexandria Chutney.”

  Mrs. Day frowns. “Hmm. And what was the outcome of the court case?”

  “In the end, things turned out fine. Alexandria bought herself a gold-plated mouthpiece and her former teacher eventually found another job. In a poultry factory in a neighboring town.”

  As Mrs. Day sucks in a sharp breath, her nostrils flare, and the dark curtains part to show a very pale face. She points her baton at the door. “Take Sylvia to the school nurse right this minute.”

  Worked like spit!

  With Sylvia happily stashed away on the nurse’s cot, I beat it out of her office and nearly bump into Maisie, who is putting her name on a sign-up sheet for the track team.

  “Hey, Maisie,” I say. My lips are still buzzing from my trumpet, so I’d like to put off returning to music class as long as I can. “Going out for track?”

  She turns around. “Yeah. I love running. I want to run in the Olympics one day. It’s been my dream since I was, like, two. Why don’t you join, too?”

  “Nah. Running’s not my thing.” I sit down on Principal Renzetti’s bench and try to stretch out my lips.

  “Oh, please,” she begs, sliding onto the bench. “Then I’d have a best friend on the team. It would be so fun.”

  Whoa. “Did you say…best friend?”

  “Of course. You’re my friend, and if you joined, we’d be together nearly all the time, so you could be my best friend.”

  Clearly, Maisie has been operating under a misapprehension. Which means she’s dangerously confused. Susannah is my number one BFIS, Laurel is my number two. And everyone knows there’s no such thing as a number three BFIS. It’s Unwritten Rule #9. Everyone knows that. It would cheapen the status of number one and number two BFIS.

  But how do I tell her?

  Maisie smiles at me. I don’t want to hurt her feelings. The poor girl doesn’t even realize that it’s too early in her training for her to make her own decisions about things as important as best friends.

  Especially best friends like me.

  “Maisie,” I begin, very gently, “this crazy world we live in is full of rules. And while some rules, like no gum chewing in the halls, may seem lame and even cruel, other rules exist to keep some kind of order in our lives.”

  She thinks about this, then her eyes light up and she says, “Oh, I get it. Like coming to school at eight forty-five?”

  “No. That one is lame and cruel. I was thinking of different rules. Remember the Unwritten Rules?”

  “The invisible ones? Sure, I remember.” She sits up tall, sets her hands on her lap, and recites, “Unwritten Rule Number Five—Never Lift for Yourself What a Fifth-Grader Is Willing to Lift for You.”

  “Good girl. That’s right. They’re younger and more limber.”

  Maisie stares straight ahead, then nods her head. She looks down to scribble something in her notepad.

  I continue. “These Unwritten Rules create a map for us to follow, so we get through our school years with the tiniest amount of stress. Which brings us to Unwritten Rule Number Nine. See, Maisie, a girl should have a best friend in the school. She can even have two best friends in the school, but only as long as these friends never, ever confuse their status. Otherwise we have chaos. And chaos is not good. See what I’m saying?”

  “Sure. Every girl should have a best friend, like you’re mine.”

  This is going to be tougher than I thought. “Not exactly. See, I’ve been at this school a long time. And my number one and number two BFIS positions are, unfortunately, already filled.”

  Maisie frowns and stops taking notes.

  “It’s nothing personal, Maisie. If you’d been around all these years, you’d have had a pretty good shot at landing one of these spots yourself. Look at you, you’re a great candidate.”

  Maisie looks at her knees and nods a bit. “It’s true. I am.”

  “And you should have a number one BFIS who can offer you the time and devotion you so richly deserve,” I say, bopping her on the chin.

  She sniffs and nods a bit more.

  “Why, I’ll bet we get you a number one BFIS in no time,” I say. And I believe it, too. I really think Susannah is wrong. Yesterday in the cafeteria I saw Maisie give all her fries to a fifth-grader spazzing about forgetting his lunch. And then, when the kid scarfed down all the fries and respazzed about having no dessert, Maisie shared her glow-in-the-dark yogurt, too. It’s quite possible that Maisie hasn’t got a mean bone in her body.

  “You think?” she asks.

  “I know it,” I say. “Have you ever given any thought to Alice Marriott?” I lean closer. “I happen to know for a fact that she can spell lethargic.”

  She shakes her head no. “I’m not a prancing-kitten sort of person.”

  “Okay. What about Brianna Simpson? If you can look past the nasal congestion, I’ll bet you’ll find a really great girl underneath.”

  “The one with chewed-off fingernails?” Maisie asks, wrinkling her nose.

  “That’s her. Did you know her father once wrote a book about making cookies without butter?”

  “Really?” she asks.

  “Yup. Shortbread, chocolate chip, gingerbread, lemon snaps. All without a speck of butter.”

  “Wow.” A smile moves across her face. Very slowly, she begins to nod. “All right. I’ll give Brianna a try.”

  If You Love Something, Set It Loose in Math Class

  With only ten minutes left of fifth period, I figure it’s safe to return to music class. Slowly, I take the long way and play a game with myself as I climb the stairs. One step up, one step down. Two steps up, one step down. Three steps up, one step down…and so on. At this rate, I should be able to blow off Mrs. Day’s end-of-class hissy fit about replacing the instruments silently, since silence equals no dents.

&nbs
p; At four steps up, I hear a sighing sound from beneath the stairs. Leaning over the handrail, I spot a narrow pair of shoes that could only be described as exceptionally ugly bowling shoes. One of them is tapping. Tap tap tap tap. Then they pace.

  It’s Ian McPherson. Stats: wispy eighth-grader, turns beet red at the mere sight of a female, the founding and only member of Allencroft’s math club. As he paces, he tugs on his earlobes and says to no one, “Hi, Cassandra. I’d be honored—no, thrilled, if you would go to the Snow Ball with me. No. No good. Hey, Cassandra, did I tell you I named my hamster after you?”

  Let’s hope not. “Hey, Ian,” I say, heading back down the stairs.

  He looks up. With the windows behind him, his little veiny ears become nearly transparent. He adjusts his wire glasses. “Oh, hi, Zoë. I was just, you know, practicing.”

  “So I heard. Listen, Ian, can I give you a few pointers?”

  “I guess. It’s not going to cost me anything, is it?”

  Hmm. One day I’ll have to give some serious thought to compensation. This kid’s a Trump Industries waiting to happen. “No. My services are free. For now.” I walk around behind him and he spins to face me. “The thing is, Ian, you’re going about this all wrong. You’re too eager, too needy. This girl, Cassandra, is it?”

  He nods so hard his glasses nearly fall off.

  “This Cassandra is going to think you want her real bad.”

  “But I do! I told her in a cookiegram last week.”

  I don’t know who invented cookiegrams, but every time Allencroft has a cookiegram fund-raiser, I spend the next three weeks doing patch-up jobs on relationships that got stickied up by way-too-sugary intentions. “But you don’t want to want her real bad! Not in her eyes, anyway. You see, Ian, women are a truly sophisticated species. We can sniff out the foul stench of desperation two math classes away. And you know what it makes us do?”

  He shakes his head, tugging on his ears again.

  “It makes us run into the arms of the next boy who ignores us. If you want this girl to be intrigued enough by you to shop for a cute dress, paint her toenails, and, in Cassandra’s case, wax her mustache, you need to make her suffer.”