Last-But-Not-Least Lola and the Wild Chicken Page 5

  Patches is sitting outside on the patio and Jack is shooting baskets in the driveway.

  “Come in, Jack,” Grandma calls. “It’s time for your after-school snack! You can’t go to soccer practice hungry.”

  “Aw, Grandma,” Jack says. “I’m still not hungry.”

  “Nonsense!” Grandma says in her I-mean-it voice. “A growing boy needs nutrition.”

  Jack and I trudge into the kitchen and plop.

  “I’ll give you Double Pillow Force …”

  “No way, José,” I say.

  Grandma comes dancing to the table with dead thumbs pronged into eyeballs and stuck on crackers full of bugs. She puts one plate in front of me and one in front of Jack.

  “Triple Force,” Jack whispers.

  “Grandma,” I say. “What is that?”

  “Kosher sausage and olives on multigrain crackers,” Grandma says.

  Buzz! A timer goes off and Grandma jumps into the air. “I’ll be right back!” she yelps and hurries to the oven. “That’s the sour rum cake for dessert tonight.”

  Jack says with his sound turned down, “I’ll give you dessert …”

  I hoist up one eyebrow. “Sour rum cake? No, thank you.”

  Grandma puts the cake on the counter to cool.

  Somebody honks a horn outside.

  “Bye, Grandma!” Jack yells. “My ride to soccer practice is here.” He races out the door and tosses his snack to Patches. Patches gobbles it up and gallops inside.

  Quick as I can, I flip my crackers and sausage and olives right into Patches’s slobbery mouth.

  “Lola!”

  I whirl around. Uh-oh.

  “Didn’t you like the snack?” Grandma asks.

  I should tell Grandma the truth. She’s a whole lot better at singing and telling stories than she is at cooking.

  But I don’t want her to feel bad. “I did want to eat it. But Patches was hungry.”

  “Patches is a dog, Lola,” Grandma says. “Dogs eat dog food.”

  “I’m sorry!” I hang my head like a cow chewing on grass. Moo.

  “It was kind of you to think of Patches, but growing girls need nutrition. I’ll just fix you another one.”

  “Thank you, Grandma,” I say. I hoist a smile right onto my lips. But my lips are heavy as bowls full of mashed potatoes. Which I wish I had some of.

  Grandma goes clicking away and before you can say “yuck” she’s back with more of the sausage-olive-cracker combos and Patches is back outside.

  Ring, ring.

  “Oh, that might be my sister, Sophie,” Grandma says. “I’ll be right back.”

  I can hear Grandma’s voice from the other room. “You don’t say? Well I think blah blah blah …”

  Do I have time to run my plate out to the backyard? Nope. Too bad Mom didn’t sew me a Dead Man’s Fingers pocket.

  Then I have a bright idea. I tuck some of the dead fingers in my permission slip pocket. Then I tuck a few more in other pockets. Before you know it, I’ve stuffed my pockets full of dead fingers and eyeballs.

  It’s the perfect plan. I’ll just empty out my pockets when Grandma isn’t looking.

  There’s only one problem with that.

  16. THE ONE PROBLEM WITH THAT

  GRANDMA NEVER STOPS WATCHING me. She loves spending time with me and that’s why my pockets are stuffed full of dead fingers when it’s time to take a bath and get into my PJs.

  The only good thing that happened was she took a taster bite of her eggplant parmesan and something went wrong with that recipe.

  Which is why we ordered in Chinese food from the Happy Kitchen and we said hi to Martin the delivery guy AGAIN.

  “I’m getting used to having the windows open,” I tell Grandma at bedtime.

  She cuddles right in next to me. “Yes, the country air is so nice.”

  AWOOOO! Patches is out there howling at the moon.

  “That dog …” Grandma says.

  “He’s excited about the moon,” I tell her.

  “Oh, is that right?”

  “Can I let him back in?” Jack calls.

  “Yes, you’d better.” Grandma sighs.

  Pretty soon Patches comes bounding up the stairs.

  “PATCHES!” Jack yells. “He’s got your dress, Lola.

  Your special Lola dress!”

  “That crazy dog!” Grandma yells.

  Patches goes flying down the hallway, and Jack races after him ’cause Jack likes any excuse to go running down the hall.

  ZOOM! They fly by. And PLOP! A dead man’s finger plops right on the carpet.

  ZOOM! They race by again. Patches sure is fast.

  But not as fast as Grandma. She leaps straight out of my bed and the next time Patches races by, she grabs the Lola dress right out of his mouth.

  RRIIPP.

  There goes the permission note pocket.

  And out comes a whole bunch of crackers and sausages.

  “Lola!” Grandma says, looking at all those crackers on the ground.

  Jack backs away from my doorway, leaving Patches to his feast.

  My head hangs down like a piece of rotten fruit on a rotten fruit tree.

  Grandma takes a deep inside-out breath. She sits on my bed and pats the seat next to her. I wish I could sit somewhere else, like the South Pole, but I can’t, so I don’t.

  “So you didn’t like the snack?” Grandma asks. Her voice is kind of squeaky.

  “No, Grandma. I’m sorry.”

  Grandma sighs. “It’s okay, Lola. I guess I heard all about the wonderful food Granny Coogan made for you and Jack. I wanted to make you delicious food, too.”

  We sit there for a minute while I try to think of something. “I like it when we go to Gottlieb’s,” I say. “And Jack does, too.”

  Grandma smiles and gives me a hug. “They do have wonderful food, don’t they?” Then Grandma’s face remembers something. “The note from your teacher. With all the hullabaloo, I forgot to read it.”

  She opens the envelope. She takes out the letter and she reads it. Then she folds it up and puts it back in the envelope.

  “What do you think the note says?” Grandma asks me.

  “I’m kicked out of school?”

  “No.” Grandma takes my hand in hers. “Mrs. DeBenedetti called me today. Again.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes, Lola. She told me about the picture.”

  “So you already know?”

  Grandma nods.

  “I’m sorry, Grandma,” I say. Then I break out into tears. Loads of tears.

  “You don’t have to tell me you’re sorry, Lola,” Grandma says. “But you do have to tell Savannah you’re sorry, don’t you?”

  “If I tell her the truth, she’ll hate me, Grandma.”

  “Lola dear, I don’t think that’s true. It’s important to always tell the truth.”

  “But Mom told me that if you can’t say something nice, you shouldn’t say anything at all.”

  For a second Grandma gets huffy-looking again. Huffy and puffy. Then she sighs.

  “Lola, let’s get you tucked into bed, shall we?”

  And Grandma tucks me into bed.

  “Would you like to hear a story?” Grandma says.

  “About Lola the Chicken?”

  “Yes, and about Zelda the Zebra. Once upon a time Zelda the Zebra came galloping to the farm where Lola the Chicken lived. Zelda came all the way from the Serengeti Plain …”

  “Is that in Brooklyn?”

  “No, it’s in Africa. Anyway, Zelda trotted onto the farm and she brought with her all kinds of wild grass from the Serengeti Plain. She thought this wild grass was the perfect thing to eat. And she tried to convince her little friend Lola …”

  “Not me, the chicken,” I say.

  “Yes, the chicken. To eat the grass.”

  “Patches eats grass,” Jack says from the floor where he snuck into my room. He’s lying on Patches.

  “Well, Lola didn’t like the wild g
rass from the Serengeti Plain, but she was too polite to tell Zelda …”

  “The Zebra,” I remind Grandma.

  “Yes. One day Zelda discovered the truth. She discovered that Lola the Chicken really did not like the wild grasses of the Serengeti.”

  “Uh-oh. Did Zelda get heartsick?”

  “Well, no. She didn’t. Because Zelda was a wise old zebra who should have known that chickens don’t eat grass.”

  Grandma gets out of my bed and kisses me goodnight.

  “Come on, boychik,” she says to Jack. “Come on, you sausage-eating rascal,” she says to Patches.

  “Grandma,” I say.

  Grandma pauses at the door. She looks just like a beautiful old princess. “Yes, Lola, my bubelah?”

  “Maybe Zelda the Zebra learned that she was really good at singing and dancing and telling stories.”

  Grandma laughs. “That could be.”

  “Grandma?” My voice is drooping along with my eyes. “If the note didn’t tell you about the picture, what did it tell you?”

  “That she believes you will know just the right way to show Savannah you’re sorry. And you’re an absolute pleasure to have in her class. Good night, my little chickadee.”

  “Good night, Grandma,” I whisper.

  Mrs. D. told us to be problem solvers. But how can I un-mustache Savannah’s mom? How can I show Savannah I’m sorry? I could save my allowance and buy a camera and take another picture of Savannah’s mom and tape it on her desk. I could draw a picture of her mom, all purple. Purple hair, purple shoes, purple, purple, zzz.

  17. FIELD TRIP OF DREAMS

  GRANDMA BRINGS ME TO SCHOOL early. I sit out in the hall while she and Mrs. D. have a little chat.

  When Grandma leaves, she’s got a smile on her face, so I guess she doesn’t think I’m a zhlub. She hugs and kisses me goodbye and wishes me a wonderful and spectacular field trip.

  “But Grandma,” I say. “What about Savannah?”

  “We have to be problem solvers, don’t we, Lola, dear?”

  Fishsticks. Grandma went to Problem Solvers School, too.

  I wait and wait for Savannah to walk in, and when she does I run over to her, lickety-split. I just have to get the words out before it’s too hard.

  Savannah squints at me through her sparkly blue glasses. “HI, LOLA! Only ONE more day until your mom comes home.”

  I hurry, hurry, hurry my words out. “Savannah, I’m sorry that I did something so bad, and I’m so sorry, I will never ever ever do it again, and what I did was draw on your mom’s picture.”

  Savannah doesn’t look like a koala anymore.

  And she doesn’t sound like a mouse.

  She ROARS like a lawnmower. “YOU DID WHAT?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I stick out my leg. “Here. Kick me with your cowboy boot. I’ll get stitches and then we’ll be even.”

  Savannah gives me a Death Glare. “I don’t want to be even with you, Lola Zuckerman. And to think that I gave YOU my jelly beans from California.” And Steaming Mad Savannah stomps off.

  Amanda Anderson skips in. She gives me an A+ Amanda Anderson apple pie hug.

  “Jessie told me the truth about the swings,” she says. “You didn’t push her. She pushed you. And you fell and that’s what happened.”

  “I know!” I say, and those words are big orange balloons.

  “But you still shouldn’t have been crowding by the swings.”

  “I know,” I say, and those words are flat tires.

  “And you have to be nice to Savannah and Jessie,” Amanda says. “We all have to be nice. Right?”

  “Right,” I say, a little bit porcupine and a little bit skunk.

  When every single last person gets there, Mrs. D. calls, “It’s time to get your partner for the field trip. Remember! You get who you get …”

  “And you don’t get upset!” the class shouts back.

  “Normally we go by …”

  “Alphabetical order,” we remind her.

  “But today we’re going to try something a little different,” she says. “Today we’re going in reverse alphabetical order.”

  “That’s very unlike you,” Jamal says.

  “That’s crazy talk!” Harvey hollers.

  “That’s good news for me,” Ben Wexler says.

  Z. Ding-dong LAST in the alphabet.

  Except today.

  “Lola, you get to choose your partner first.”

  There are a whole lot of faces looking at me: I see Amanda’s with a smile like pineapples. I see Savannah’s looking down at her purple cowboy boots.

  Saying you’re sorry isn’t as good as showing you’re sorry.

  “I choose Jessie.” Jessie opens her mouth and closes it, just like the rainbow trout I caught when I went fishing with Grampy Coogan.

  Mrs. D. smiles big. “Wonderful!”

  Ben Wexler picks Jamal Stevenson and Savannah Travers picks Amanda Anderson.

  We line up, Z to A, and on the way to the Field Trip Bus, Mrs. D. whispers, “You’re a peach.”

  Peaches have pits.

  And that’s what I have, too. A giant pit. Now that Savannah is partners with Amanda, she has all that time at the farm to tell Amanda about her mustached mom.

  Then I’ll never be partners with Amanda ever again.

  18. OLD JAN MCDONALD

  “IT REALLY WAS HER FAULT. She was stealing our best friend,” Jessie growls. “If she hadn’t been swinging with Amanda, I wouldn’t have been pushing you and you wouldn’t have knocked me into Savannah. My mom told my dad I might be scarred for life. For life!”

  “I bet you won’t,” I say. “Just until fifth grade, maybe.”

  The bus pulls up to Kookamut Farm.

  “All right, Gumdrops,” Mrs. D. calls out. “Remember. You are to stick to your partner like …”

  “Like peanut butter!” everyone yells.

  Mrs. D. nods. “Let’s head out and learn about farm life!”

  Jessie and I are in the first row, so we get off first, followed by Harvey.

  “Look at me, I’m a chicken. Bock, bock.” Harvey races back and forth, flapping his elbows up and down.

  “Stop it, Harvey!” Jessie hollers. “Stop it!”

  All the kids get off the bus and Mrs. D. does roll call in case someone jumped out the window. We march through the wide white gate that says “Kookamut Farm” in big red letters.

  Inside the gate, we’re on a farm with fields and fields. A farmer lady stands on the front porch of the old white farmhouse. She comes down to greet us. She has red apple cheeks and lots of grey hair and wrinkles. She wears a red plaid shirt. She tells us her name is Old McDonald. We all laugh.

  “But you can call me Jan,” she says. “Follow me, kids.”

  Old Jan McDonald leads us into a big metal building. Mrs. D. turns to go inside the farmhouse.

  “You might miss the life cycle of a plant,” I call out to her.

  Mrs. D. raises her travel coffee mug in a salute. “Don’t worry about me, Lola, dear. This is my tenth year visiting Kookamut Farm.”

  Old Jan tells us to sit at the table. We each make a name tag and stick them on our shirts. Lemonade and a cup of popcorn are at every place. While we kids snack, Jan talks.

  “How many of you have been on a farm?” she asks.

  A few kids raise their hands.

  “What happens on a farm?”

  Jessie raises her hand. “Chickens try to bite you,” she says.

  “Nooo.” Old Jan leans forward to get a better look at Jessie’s nametag. “Sorry, forgot my glasses today. No, Jerry, chickens don’t try to bite you.”

  The class bursts out laughing.

  “That’s Jessie, not Jerry,” I explain.

  Jessie says, “Are you sure there wasn’t a kid who was bitten by a chicken a few years ago? Named Dustin Chavez?”

  “Positively not!” Old Jan says. “How many of you know about the life cycle of a plant?”

  I shoot my han
d into the air so fast that Jessie, next to me, says, “Whoa.”

  But Old Jan McDonald isn’t even looking in my direction. I know why, too. Why look over here, in the troublemaker section? Why, when you could look over there, in the nice-kids section? I hope Savannah isn’t warming up to tell Amanda about her mom’s picture.

  “That’s okay, because I’m going to teach you,” Old Jan McDonald says. She takes out a pencil and draws the life cycle of a green bean on a big piece of white paper taped to the wall. Old Jan McDonald hands out paper and colored pencils and we draw our own life cycle of a plant.

  Jamal tells Old Jan about how plants can take photos. Or something.

  “What season are we in?” Old Jan McDonald asks.

  Amanda raises her hand, nice and polite. “It’s fall and also autumn.”

  “Yes! Now it’s fall on the farm, so today we’re going to let you do a little harvesting! Has anyone ever harvested vegetables before?”

  My hand shoots up.

  “Yes,” Old Jan squints at my nametag. “Lulu?”

  The class snickers.

  “I’m Lola,” I say over the giggles. “And I’ve harvested raspberries with my Granny Coogan. And tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers, peppers—” I think for a second. “And with my other Grandma I harvested turnips, carrots, and eggplants, and one zucchini. But it was kind of shrunken up.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful,” Old Jan says. “Here.” She gives me a stack of buckets. “Give everyone in your class a bucket, won’t you, dear? We’re going to pick our last crop of beans.”

  I’m about to pass out the buckets when I trip on Jessie’s foot. I stumble and my hands fly out and the buckets go EVERYWHERE!

  “You tripped me, Jessie Chavez!” I yell.

  Jessie is laughing at me, hard. HAR HAR, she laughs.