Last-But-Not-Least Lola and the Wild Chicken Page 2

  “Lola,” Grandma whispers at my door. “How would you like to hear a bedtime story?”

  My voice scratches out a “Yes, please.”

  Grandma nestles into my bed. She’s got her hair pinned back and white stuff smeared on her cheeks and a scarf wrapped around her neck. She’s wearing fuzzy socks and a leopard robe.

  “Once there was a chicken. A beautiful fluffy chicken with feathers the color of a Florida orange. And that chicken was named Lola.”

  I sit up in my bed. “The chicken had my name?”

  Grandma nods. “Well, this chicken, Lola, laid an egg. A perfect egg. And so Lola …”

  “Not me. The chicken,” I say and snuggle into my bed and not a chicken’s bed.

  “Yes, Lola was a lovely chicken and perfect in nearly every way. But she was impatient. She couldn’t wait for things to happen. She wanted them to happen now. This was a problem for Lola because she needed to sit on the egg and keep it warm so that it would hatch.”

  “She was a broody hen,” I say. “Granny Coogan told me that.”

  “Yes, indeed, she was. She worried and she worried and she worried. When would the egg hatch? She got off the egg and she called the doctor. The doctor told Lola to sit on the egg.”

  “Was the doctor a chicken?”

  “Yes. Next, Lola went to the scientist and he told her to sit on the egg.”

  “Was the scientist a chicken, too?”

  “No. The scientist was a hound dog. She went to the baker, the dentist, and the teacher.”

  “Was the teacher Mrs. D.?”

  “No, this teacher was a palomino pony. And the teacher told Lola to be patient. To sit on the egg.”

  Jack leans around the corner. “What happened?”

  I sit up in bed again. “Jack, what are you doing?”

  “I want to hear what happens to the egg.”

  “Come here, boychik,” Grandma says, patting the bed. Jack comes in and phlumps on my bed.

  “Did the baby chick die?” Jack wants to know.

  “Did it?” I ask.

  Grandma takes my hand and Jack’s hand and gives them each a squeeze. “Lola listened to the advice she was given. She returned to her egg …”

  “Was it dead? Did a fox steal it?” Jack asks.

  “Nooo,” Grandma says. “It was still there, waiting for her. So Lola settled herself on her egg.”

  “Did she smash it by accident?” Jack asks.

  “No, she knew just how to sit on it,” Grandma says. “And after … a few days …”

  “Twenty-one days?” Jack says.

  “Exactly,” Grandma says. “Lola’s egg hatched. She had a beautiful chick.”

  “What did she call it?” I whisper.

  “Well, that’s a good question, Lola. What do you think she called the chick?”

  “Stinker,” Jack says.

  “Amanda,” I say.

  Grandma kisses my forehead and huffs out of my bed. “Off to bed,” she says to Jack. “It’s past your bedtime, too.”

  “Way past,” Jack says.

  “Grandma?”

  Grandma pauses at my door. “Yes, Lola?”

  “Twenty-one days is a really long time.”

  “I suppose so,” Grandma says.

  “Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday isn’t a long time.”

  “It’s seventy-two hours,” Jack says.

  “That’s a lot of hours,” I say.

  “It’s just enough time for me to spend with my beautiful grandchildren, cooking wonderful food from Grandmother Coogan’s vegetable patch. Tomorrow I’m going to make something very special indeed.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see.”

  I don’t like waiting and seeing. Me and Lola the Chicken.

  4. THE WORLD’S BEST SMOOTHIE

  THE NEXT DAY JESSIE CHAVEZ and Amanda Anderson miss the bus. I see them running down Windy Hill Road.

  “SAL!” I jump up and wave my arms and holler.

  “Lola,” Sal says. “SIT!”

  Fishsticks. I don’t get my turn sitting with Amanda. I don’t get to forgive and forget that she never called me back yesterday.

  Maybe it’s going to be a bad day.

  I’m the first in the classroom, along with our aide Miss Nimby. I sign up for hot lunch. It’s pepperoni pizza. I sit at my desk and wait for Amanda.

  I take out my watermelon-smelling pencil and purple notebook and write:

  Why Amanda and I Are Best Friends

  1. Amanda tells stories about ghost towns with her black flashlight under her blankets and then you can’t sleep in case the Dead Cowboy is coming to get you.

  2. Amanda knows real yoga like Down Dogs and she’ll teach you if you listen up and stop acting silly.

  3. Amanda knows you didn’t mean it when your Down Dog crashed into her bookcase and broke her genuine Hummel doll.

  The new girl, Savannah Travers, comes in. School started four weeks ago and she just showed up last Friday ’cause her dad got transferred. She came all the way from California. She’s got on her sparkly purple glasses and purple shorts and Goshdango purple cowboy boots with metal tips like real cowboys wear. Savannah luh-huvs purple. She has a picture of her mom taped to the top of her desk. Not me, even though my mom is far away. I wish there were no such thing as California.

  “Hi, Lola.” She squeaks like a mouse. “Whatcha doing?” I close my notebook ’cause those are my private thoughts.

  “Nothing.”

  “I like your dress.”

  “My mom made it. It’s a Lola dress. I’ve got bunches in all different colors.”

  Savannah looks down at her purple cowboy boots. “My mom bought my boots for me. In California.” Her face sags.

  Jessie runs into the room. “Missed the bus!” she yells. “My mom drove Amanda and me to school …”

  “Oh,” I say, and my oh goes low. Sometimes when Amanda lived next door to me, we missed the bus. My mom would drive us to school so Mrs. Anderson could get to her hot yoga class. Amanda and I would play Miss Mary Mack and holler like there was a fire and Mom couldn’t hear NPR. I hope she doesn’t play Miss Mary Mack with Jessie or holler like there’s a fire. ’Cause Amanda was my friend first.

  Amanda skips into the room. She’s the best skipper in our class. “Lola-Ba-Mola!” she yells.

  “Amanda-Fo-Landa!”

  Amanda skips right up to my desk. She’s wearing a pink Lola dress. It has a matching pink ribbon and pockets for extra ribbons. It’s the perfect Lola dress for Amanda Anderson.

  Amanda and I smile our Super Goofer Smiles. Mine is a Pucker Your Lips. Amanda’s is a Hang Your Tongue Out.

  “How come you never called me back?”

  Amanda talks with her sound turned down. “I went out for Chinese food with Jessie,” she says. “And when I got home, it was time for bed.” She turns red all over her face. Even her ears turn red, just like my Grampy Coogan’s.

  “Oh,” I say, and that oh stands for sad. But at least they didn’t go out for Italian. That’s my favorite. Italian reminds me of spaghetti and spaghetti reminds me of Mom. And Dad singing

  “O sol mio” when he smells the meatballs.

  “I had Chinese food for dinner, too,” I tell Amanda. “Well, first I had vegetable stew. My grandma dug vegetables out of the garden and then we washed the mud off, chopped them up, and cooked rice. But then the salt fell into the stew. So we ordered Chinese food and we also had popcorn. Only we burned the popcorn and the fire alarm went off.”

  “Fat chance,” Jessie Chavez says.

  “It’s true! My grandma loves to dig up Granny’s garden.”

  “Not that part. The part about the fire alarm,” Jessie says.

  “Well, yes, sir, it did,” I say and my words wobble.

  Amanda butts right in. “Do you still have raspberries?” Amanda asks. “Your mom makes really good raspberry smoothies.”

  “We still have some raspberries,” I fib.


  “Here’s a raspberry for you!” Jessie blows a big one. Little bits of Jessie-spit fly through the air.

  “If you keep that up, you’re going to the principal’s office!” I say. I’d make a good teacher.

  The principal’s office is where you go to get yelled at. Jessie told me her brother Dustin went about 400 times. He only got out by hip-niptizing the principal. It goes like this: “YOU ARE GETTING SLEEPY. SLEEPY. SLEEPY.”

  Amanda gives Jessie a glare and slings her arm around me. Jessie’s face squishes up and she stomps away.

  “Never mind about Jessie,” Amanda says. “She says I’m her best friend and I can’t talk to you. But I told her all three of us can be best friends.”

  I’m mad. It feels like a bumblebee is buzzing in my head. Zzzzz.

  “We’ll pick all the fruit in our garden,” I say, loud as I can. “We’ll make a giant fruit smoothie and we’ll drink it up!”

  Savannah asks, “Can I have some of the fruit smoothie, too?”

  I blink my eyes. Savannah is stuck beside us like a koala hanging onto a eucalyptus tree.

  Now Amanda slings her other arm around Savannah. “’Course you can.”

  “Thank you, Amanda,” Savannah says in her whispery voice. “Thank you, Lola.”

  Why can’t that girl speak up?

  How can three kids be best friends? Mrs. D. tells us to be problem solvers. I don’t want to be best friends with Jessie. And that goes for Savannah, too.

  “Amanda!” Jessie says. “We should get a ride to school every day.”

  Fishsticks.

  Then I have the perfect solution.

  “Maybe you and Jessie can make smoothies,” I tell Savannah.

  “I don’t like smoothies,” Jessie says.

  “Me neither,” Savannah says in a whispery voice. She slinks past me to her desk and sits down. I feel bad. Ten percent bad and ninety percent not so bad.

  “Lola!” Amanda says. “That wasn’t nice.”

  I fold my arms. “Are you having a smoothie or not?”

  “Not if you’re going to be mean.” Amanda stomps away.

  “Fine!” I call. “I’m going to make a delicious smoothie and you can’t have any. My fruit smoothie is going to taste great! I’m putting in strawberries! Blackberries! Blueberries! Raspberries! And … Regular Old Berries!”

  “There’s no such thing as Regular Old Berries,” Jessie says.

  “Yes, sir, there is such a thing,” I say.

  “Children,” Miss Nimby says. “Let’s get seated.”

  “Chugga Chugga Choo!” Harvey Baxter marches around the room. “Climb on board!” he calls. Charlie, Madison, John, and Jessie grab on. “We’re the Cool Train!”

  “Children,” Miss Nimby peeps. “Find your seats.”

  “You’re NOT the Cool Train,” Gwendolyn Swanson- Carmichael calls. She already found her seat.

  “Come on, Amanda!” Jessie calls. “You’re cool, so get on board!”

  I cross my arms and glare at Jessie. Glaring is when staring isn’t angry enough.

  “Let’s get settled,” Miss Nimby warbles.

  Mrs. D. huffs in carrying a huge garbage bag. She drops it with a thud.

  “People!” Miss Nimby yells. “Sit down! This is not a three-ring circus!”

  The Cool Train runs to their seats. Miss Nimby looks surprised, like she didn’t know her voice had a yell setting. Mrs. D. gives Miss Nimby a thumbs-up.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Mrs. D. says. “But that’s no excuse to go wild. All right, Jujubes, time for Share.”

  We sit on Mrs. D.’s red carpet.

  “Who has something to share?” She looks around the circle.

  I shoot up my hand. Mrs. D. nods.

  “My mom and my dad left,” I say. “Now my grandma is watching my brother and me. She makes really rotten food, but she tells really good bedtime stories about chickens.”

  “Chickens?” Jessie shudders. “Yuck.”

  “Chickens are not yucky,” I say. “Some of them have beautiful orange feathers.”

  Mrs. D. says, “That’s difficult that your parents are traveling. But wonderful that you have a grandmother staying with you.” She gives me a Honey Toast smile. “Anyone else want to share?”

  Timo Toivonen raises his hand. “Have I told you about Paavo Nurmi? He was a great runner from Finland.”

  “That’s lovely, Timo, but Share is for telling about our own news.”

  Timo nods. He raises his hand again. “My goldfish died. My father flushed it down the toilet.”

  “Oh, my. I’m so sorry, Timo.” Mrs. D. says.

  “I’ve got three more,” he says.

  “Any more Shares? No? Okay, Peppermints, class business. Our field trip is this Thursday! For those of you who forgot to turn in permission slips last Friday, please make sure to hand them in today.”

  Uh-oh. I forgot last Friday, and I can’t please make sure to hand mine in today. Because I forgot again.

  “I didn’t forget last week,” Gwendolyn Swanson- Carmichael says.

  “Only Lola forgot,” Jessie says. “She might miss our super-terrific field trip!”

  “No, I forgot, too!” Savannah says. She smiles at me, but I don’t want to feel better, so I don’t.

  “Well, you’re new,” Jessie tells her. “That doesn’t count. You don’t know all the rules.”

  “Jessie,” Mrs. D. says in her Cold Coffee voice. “That’s enough.”

  Mom usually signs permission slips and tucks them right into my permission-slip pocket. But not this time. I was supposed to be the big capable kid she knows I am. While she was the busy ol’ adult, packing loads of Lola- dress samples into her suitcase.

  “Who can tell me the name of the farm?” Mrs. D. asks.

  Amanda gives the right answer. “Kookamut Farm!”

  She brushes some dirt that wasn’t even there off her dress.“Very good. And who can guess what’s in this big sack? I’ll give you a hint. It has to do with our field trip.”

  “Ooh, ooh! I know! I know!” Sam says.

  “Hand, Sam!” Mrs. D. reminds him. Her lips squinch up. “Let’s see—Dilly?”

  “Is it seeds?” Dilly peeps.

  “Good guess, but no. Lola?”

  “Chicken poop,” I say loud and clear.

  Everyone busts out laughing.

  “No,” Mrs. D. says. “Now, Lola, let’s not get silly.”

  My face is as hot as Granny Coogan’s Four-Alarm Chili.

  “What DO I have in the bag?”

  Hands shoot up again. But not mine. I will never ever ever answer another question.

  Mrs. D. calls on Savannah. “Is it chicken feed?” she asks.

  “That’s right!” Mrs. D. says.

  “Hurray!” Amanda calls out. “Hurray for Savannah!”

  Humph, I think. Savannah probably cheated. She probably looked through the bag with her ultra-large eyeglasses.

  Savannah looks over at me with a smile.

  I look back at Savannah. I stick out my tongue.

  “Lola!” Mrs. D. hollers.

  5. PRINCIPAL MCCOY’S OFFICE OF DOOM

  MY TUMMY HURTS. MY EYEBALLS ache. My hands sweat.

  I wait in the office with Mrs. Crowley, the secretary. Kids call her Mrs. Growly because she never smiles. Sure enough, she’s never smiling now. I’m also not smiling. I’m staring at an inkblot on the carpet. Who spilled the ink? Now THAT’S a bad kid.

  Finally, Principal McCoy comes out of his office. His arm is STILL in a sling from when he wiped out in the cafeteria a couple of weeks ago.

  “Hello, Lola.”

  I open my mouth to say something. But it feels like peanut butter in there. We shake hands and it’s a good thing his left hand is the one in the sling.

  He points to his office. It says Princi-PAL on the door.

  “Come with me, Lola.”

  I follow him. He points to a fluffy orange chair. I sit on it. It feels like resting on the tummy of a fat orange cat
. Maybe the chair has secret claws.

  Principal McCoy gets behind his desk. “So, Lola, what seems to be the problem?”

  “You are getting sleepy. SLEEPY. SLEEPY,” I say.

  But Principal McCoy looks wide awake. “Lola?” he asks. “What’s going on?”

  Now I feel like a basketball is stuck in my throat. “Are you going to scream at me?”

  “Lola! Whatever gave you that idea? Of course not.”

  I take a deep breath. I sink down in the fluffy orange chair.

  “Tell me what happened in class.”

  “I read that snakes taste the air by sticking out their tongues. Like thith.” I show him.

  Principal McCoy sticks his tongue out at me. “Like that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you wanted to try that?”

  My tongue droops. “Yeth.”

  “You weren’t sticking your tongue out at Savannah Travers?”

  I can see what he means. “Sort of.”

  “Oh. And how do you think that made her feel?”

  “Bad.”

  “How do you think you can solve the problem?” Principal McCoy sounds like Mrs. D. Maybe they went to Problem Solvers School together.

  “I could tell her I’m sorry I tasted the air in her direction. I mean … stuck my tongue out.”

  Principal McCoy stands up. “That sounds like a plan! All right, Lola!” He looks at his watch. “Your class is now at recess.”

  Principal McCoy and I shake hands again.

  “By the way, guess what? This isn’t the only bad thing that happened to me,” I tell him.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yep. My mom and dad left.”

  “Oh, gee.” Principal McCoy says “oh gee” a few more times.

  6. BIG MESS AT RECESS

  I MARCH RIGHT OVER TO JESSIE Chavez. She’s hanging off the monkey bars.