Last-But-Not-Least Lola and a Knot the Size of Texas Read online

  Text copyright © 2016 by Christine Pakkala

  Illustrations copyright © 2016 by Paul Hoppe

  All rights reserved.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, contact [email protected].

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Boyds Mills Press

  An Imprint of Highlights

  815 Church Street

  Honesdale, Pennsylvania 18431

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-62979-324-5 (hc)

  ISBN: 978-1-62979-745-8 (e-book)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016932219

  First Boyds Mills Press hardcover edition, 2016

  First Boyds Mills Press e-book edition, 2016

  The text of this book is set in ITC Novarese Std.

  The drawings are done in pen on paper, with digital shading.

  H1.1

  For Aunt Sue

  —CP

  For Piotr

  —PH

  CONTENTS

  1.Hush about the Bright Blue Brush

  2.Shopping at Swirlys

  3.Tally Mark, Get Set, Go Home

  4.Stall Number Three

  4½.Why I Haven’t Brushed My Hair in Thirteen Days

  5.Tally Ho!

  6.Stuck Like a Bullfrog

  7.Glum Chum

  8.Dog-Gone-It!

  9.Dinner of Doom

  10.Half Day of School, Full Day of Trouble

  11.Tam-o’ Uh-oh

  12.Ready, Set, Cook!

  13.Piling on the Pies

  14.Me to the Rescue

  15.Not Exactly My Plan

  16.Lots of Knots

  17.Bedtime Bugaboo

  18.Friendship Circle

  The Kids in Mrs. DeBenedetti’s Second Grade Class (Alphabetical Order)

  1. HUSH ABOUT THE BRIGHT BLUE BRUSH

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

  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.

  “FOR THE LOVE OF PETE!” I yell.

  “Lola, don’t cuss on the bus!” Amanda says. “Now, HOLD STILL, I told you.”

  “Yeah, Lola, hold still,” Jessie says. “You’ve got the WORST hair knot I’ve ever seen.”

  I hold still, all right. If I don’t, Amanda Anderson might just pull all the hair right out of my head.

  “I . . . almost . . . almost . . . almost—”

  “YOWCH!” I yell. “Stop that, Amanda!” I smooth down the big hair knot on the back of my head. “That’s good enough.”

  “Nuh-uh,” Amanda says. “It’s stuck in there. Your mom will get it out for you I bet.”

  “No, sir,” I say. “Right before the second grade play she almost killed my whole head.” Mom has a bright blue brush that can make curly hair straight. It can turn a poodle into a collie. That bright blue brush and I are best enemies.

  “Amanda, what did your mom say about adopting cats?” Jessie asks. She turns to me. “Amanda wants to adopt brand new deluxe rescue cats.”

  “I know that,” I say. “Remember? Amanda told us last week at our Morning Meeting.” I think about fibbing that we’re getting some rescue cats, too. And a rescue guinea pig and a rescue horse. Plus some rescue chickens. But I still remember fibbing about getting Savannah Travers a brand-new puppy. So I keep my trap shut.

  Except I ask: “Did your mom say yes?”

  “She said no,” Amanda says.

  Sal pulls our bus up to Amanda and Jessie’s stop.

  Amanda’s mom and Jessie’s grandma are waiting. Mrs. Anderson has a hold of Barkley, and Jessie’s grandma has Maizy, Jessie’s purebred West Highland Terrier. I have a burp in my heart ’cause I feel bad that Patches is the only dog at our bus stop. He’s all by his lonesome self.

  “BYE, AMANDA!” I yell before she climbs off the bus.

  “Bye, Lola,” she says.

  “Bye, Jessie,” I say.

  Pretty soon it’s my stop.

  “Adiós, amiga,” Sal calls.

  Mom waves to Sal. She’s in her car at the bus stop. Shucks. That means errands.

  I stomp over to Mom’s car and knock on her window. RRRR. Down it goes.

  “Get in, Lola Lou,” Mom says.

  “Why is Jack in the front seat?”

  Jack leans forward and gives me a Jack-o-Lantern smile. “Because I’m a big kid.”

  “Remember, Lola?” Mom asks.

  I’m not tall enough for the front seat, even though I stretch myself every night. I climb into the backseat right next to a big bolt of fabric and buckle myself up. “Where are we going?”

  “Shopping.”

  I groan. “For clothes?” All those itchy tags and sales ladies—blech! I don’t like shopping for clothes. No, sir.

  Mom says. “No, food shopping. And I have a surprise.”

  “What-what-what?” I ask.

  “I was going to wait to tell you, but Granny thought . . . ,” Mom says.

  Jack answers, “Granny and Grampy Coogan are coming for Thanksgiving. When they went home this summer and you bawled your eyes out . . .”

  “I did not!”

  “They bought tickets and kept it a big surprise,” Jack informs me.

  “Then how do you know?” I ask Jack.

  He just shrugs. “I’m older. I know stuff.”

  “They thought we would all enjoy their company,” Mom says.

  I forget about mad. “They’re coming?” I hop up and down in my seat.

  “In three days,” Mom says.

  “Grandma’s still coming, too? Right, Mom?”

  “That’s right,” Mom says.

  “Are we having olives?” Jack says. “I’m going to put one olive on every finger and eat them off.”

  “Me, too!” I hop up and down, up and down, like I do on Jack’s pogo stick when he says I can use it.

  Then my hop stops.

  I think of something bad about having ALL those grandparents at Thanksgiving.

  My grandmas ALWAYS ask me and Jack TWO HORRIBLE QUESTIONS. “How do you like my pumpkin pie? Is it the best pumpkin pie you ever tasted?”

  It’s like being the rope in a tug-of-war game.

  Jack told me to tell BOTH of them their pie is the best. I know that’s lying. I know one is better.

  I know one tastes like licking a candle. I’m not telling which. So I lie to one of those grannies. Now both grannies are going to be in one place. My house. What if they find out I’m lying? What if I get caught?

  Lying is bad. And so is getting caught.

  2. SHOPPING AT SWIRLYS

  BEFORE MOM CAN DRIVE OFF, two faces pop up outside the car. One is white and wrinkly (that’s Mrs. McCracken, our next door neighbor) and the other is white and fluffy (that’s Dwight White, her cat).

  I roll down my window.

  “Hello!” Mom says. “How are—”

  “I saw you parked here, so I came to ask—please keep Patches out of my yard! He was digging in my flower bed and doing his business on my grass and scaring poor Dwight White again.”

  “Oh, my goodness!” Mom squeaks. “I am so sorry . . .”

  But Mrs. McCracken just marches away with Dwight White peeking over her shoulder.

  Mom drums her hand on the steering wheel befor
e we pull away. I just know I’m about to get in BIG trouble. On account of the fact that walking Patches is my job. And sometimes he sees Jeremy Squirrel and takes off running. Right into Mrs. McCracken’s No-Dog zone. I tried to tell Mrs. McCracken that Patches is best friends with Jeremy Squirrel. She said fine but could they be friends in our backyard?

  Mom sighs. “Kids,” she says as she drives down the road. “This is a problem. What do you suggest we do about it?”

  “Maybe we could get Patches a treadmill,” Jack says.

  “That’s not happening,” Mom says.

  “We should keep Patches on a leash and never let him off even when he pulls so hard your arm is about to pop out of its socket,” I say.

  “Well, I wouldn’t do that,” Mom says. “But I think the two of you need to come up with a solution.”

  “Maybe I should walk Patches all the time, and Lola has to pick up the dog doo in the yard all the time,” Jack suggests. “Dog doo can’t get away from you.”

  “No thanks,” I say.

  “All right,” Mom says. “You two can work this out later. But just remember, Patches . . .”

  “Is our responsibility,” I say.

  We bump down North Avenue. I read the Thanksgiving menu that Dad made.

  • DAD: TURKEY AND SECRET CHESTNUT STUFFING, BUTTERNUT SQUASH PUREE, MASHED POTATOES, BROCCOLI WITH A CHEESE SAUCE, SALAD

  • MOM: DINNER ROLLS AND OLIVES

  • GRANNY AND GRAMPY COOGAN: PUMPKIN PIE

  • GRANDMA: PUMPKIN PIE

  “Why is Dad making the broccoli with a cheese sauce? And the secret stuffing?”

  “Remember?” Mom asks. “What we talked about last night? Big Lola dress order due just after Thanksgiving?”

  “Maybe Lola got thunked on the head at recess and now she has amnesia,” Jack says. “And she can’t even remember her own name.”

  “No, sir. My name is Lola Zuckerman.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Jack,” Mom says with a “one” tucked into her voice. Three means big trouble. “Lola, remember?”

  I sigh with extra breath so she can hear me loud and clear. “You have to sew twelve Lola dresses.”

  “Yes, that’s right, Lola. Let’s get back to our list. What else would make Thanksgiving wonderful?”

  “You not working so much,” Jack grumps out.

  “Cranberry sauce!” I say.

  “Ooh, glad you remembered,” Mom says.

  I take out my watermelon-smelling pencil from my pencil pocket. I add “cranberry sauce” to the bottom of the list. I love the way cranberry sauce is shaped like a can.

  “What are we doing here?” I pipe up. It’s not Swirlys.

  “You tell her, Mom,” Jack says. And he hops out.

  We wait for Jack to ring the bell. A lady I never even met waves at us before she lets him inside. Mom waves back. On the drive to Swirlys Mom tells me that Jack has an after-school job babysitting for that lady.

  “But he doesn’t even like medium-sized kids like me,” I say.

  “You know Jack loves you,” Mom says. Fishsticks.

  Mom turns into Swirlys’s parking lot. I skip over to the carts, pull one out, and ride it up to Mom.

  Right inside the store is a big display of flowers. Mom stops in front of them. “Lola, did you go to school with your hair like that?” She tries to smooth my hair down with her hand.

  “Sort of. But it picked up gusto during the day.”

  “You’ll have to give it a good brushing tonight,” Mom says, and I wince. Wince is when you worry and squint at the same time.

  “Now, let’s see,” Mom says while she’s looking over the flowers. “Would you like to choose three bunches? We can make a nice Thanksgiving centerpiece. While you’re doing that, I’m going to grab some onions.”

  I choose some orange roses, some yellow lilies, and some red carnations. I know lots of flower names ’cause Granny Coogan taught me. Just when I’m sniffing a real smelly plant, somebody pokes me.

  “Hi, Lola!” Jessie Chavez says.

  “Hi, Jessie!” We do our secret Tomato and Swiss Cheese handshake.

  “I sure hate shopping,” Jessie says. “It’s bo-oring.”

  “Me, too,” I say. We act like zombies until the flower lady zings us with a Mean Slicer look.

  “Uh-oh. Your hair is boinking up over there,” Jessie says.

  I pat my head. “These are just some springy curls,” I tell her.

  “Jessie,” her granny calls from the stack of bananas.

  “Gotta go!” she says. “That’s going to hurt really bad to get that knot out.”

  “No sir, IT WON’T!” I say, only it gets out of control into a yell.

  Everyone stops. Everyone turns. Everyone looks shocked. That was loud.

  Mom marches over. “Lola!” She yell-whispers. “No shouting.”

  Fishsticks.

  If you see Jessie Chavez coming, you better hide.

  She’ll get you all worried about a teensy little hair knot that won’t hurt at all when you brush it. Not one bit.

  3. TALLY MARK, GET SET, GO HOME

  “WHAT’S UP WITH THE BASE-ball cap?” Dad asks me at the bus stop the next day.

  “It might rain,” I say.

  Dad looks up at the sky. The sun is shining, big and yellow like a sunny-side up egg. Dad says it’s the warmest day ever on record just two days from Thanksgiving. Granny Coogan says it’s so hot down in Texas the hens are laying hard-boiled eggs. She can’t wait to get on an airplane in two days and come up here where hens lay regular eggs.

  “Lola,” Dad says. “Tell me the truth.”

  I think fast. “Dad, what’s the difference between happy and happy-go-lucky?”

  “Happy is Patches wagging his tail when he gets a treat. Happy-go-lucky is when he doesn’t get a treat, but he still wags his tail.”

  “Oh.” I need another idea quick. “Aren’t you sad Chuncle’s not coming for Thanksgiving?” I ask. Chuncle is my Uncle Charlie.

  Dad looks pensive. Pensive means you’re sad and you wish you had a pen to write it down. “Yes, I am,” Dad says. “I don’t get to see Chuncle nearly as often as I’d like.”

  “Did you play Blanket of Doom with him when you were kids?” I ask.

  Dad smiles. “Maybe not that game, but lots of other games.”

  “But then you got to be big and you had to stop,” I say. And that gets me thinking.

  “And the hat?” Dad asks again because he’s good at remembering.

  “I forgot to brush my hair under here,” I say.

  “Hmm,” Dad says. But the bus pulls up before Dad’s “hmm” can get somewhere.

  On the bus I take off my baseball cap and scratch my head. Whew. I sit down and wave to Dad. Dad waves goodbye to me. Suddenly, Dad frowns. He points to my head.

  I read Dad’s lips. “Your hair!” he’s shouting. He pretends to brush his head.

  “HUH?” I play dumb. ’Cause last night I just glided my brush over the top layer. That sneaky snarly knot hid underneath like a mean ol’ tumbleweed. Mom wasn’t watching me brush my hair good ’cause her sewing machine was bunching up all her thread. Plus, I was in a hurry to get to bed ’cause Dad was telling me the next installment of “Adventures of Dad and Chuncle” (and it was a good one, ’cause Chuncle got stuck in a heating vent). I guess that smooth top layer did a good hiding job. Dad didn’t notice the sneaking stinker knot.

  Now it’s big as a tennis ball. I try to smooth it down. I wave goodbye to Dad. He’s still pretend-brushing away at his head.

  Jessie and Amanda get on the bus.

  “You never brushed your hair, did you?” Jessie points out first thing.

  “Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t,” I say.

  “You didn’t,” Jessie says.

  Amanda doesn’t say anything. She’s looking kind of soupy.

  At school, they go into the bathroom to brush their hair. I barrel straight to my classroom because I love bein
g first in the room. And I love Mrs. D. And there she is, sharpening pencils. She LOVES sharp pencils.

  “HI, MRS. D.” I shout to get her attention. “I’m here FIRST!”

  “Good morning, Lola,” Mrs. D. says in her Milk voice. “You are early, aren’t you?”

  “Yep, ’cause Sal drives really fast.”

  “Well, he follows the speed limit, I’m sure,” Mrs. D. says.

  “Sal told me that his wife is making bittersweet chocolate pudding cake with vanilla gelato for Thanksgiving.”

  Mrs. D. smacks her lips. “Yum! I’d like to taste that!”

  “How ’bout homemade cranberry sauce?” I ask. “We’re making that.”

  “Homemade?” she says. “That would be nice.”

  “Ours is can-shaped,” I tell her. Also: “I can tell it’s going to be a good day.”

  “Glad to hear it,” she says.

  I wait for her to ask me why.

  And wait. And wait.

  She’s slurping down her coffee from her travel mug and reading something.

  “Wanna know why?” I FINALLY ask.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause it’s Tally Mark Tuesday.”

  “Oh! You like tally marks, don’t you, Lola?”

  I nod really hard so she gets my point. “They look like four people carrying one person who fell down and broke her leg.”

  “Hmm, I suppose so,” she says.

  First I go through my Morning Routine. I sign up for the hot lunch today because it’s ziti. Ziti starts with a Z and goes last just like Zuckerman. Poor poor poor ziti. I pass in my homework.

  I look up at the bulletin board. The bulletin board is handy in case you ever forget the month. Up there a turkey’s wearing a Pilgrim’s hat.

  Soon the classroom is filled with all the kids in Mrs. D.’s class. I have a whole lot of love inside me. So I hug Savannah Travers in her rainbow T-shirt. I hug Olivia in her fuzzy pink sweater. I hug Madison in her purple silk kimono all the way from Tokyo, Japan. And Amanda Anderson finally gets done looking in the mirror and I hug her and I can tell she still feels soupy. I smile our Super Goofer Smile. But Amanda doesn’t smile back.