Last-But-Not-Least Lola Going Green Page 5

  Mrs. D. makes a sound like a cross between a scream and a gulp. She backs away.

  “Lola!” Mrs. D. says. “Why did you bring worms to class?”

  “Remember? I told you how wiggly red worms eat garbage and poop dirt. They go inside Uncle Ken’s Kitchen Composter to help make compost,” I re-explain.

  “COOL!” Sam yells.

  Mrs. D. looks funny, greenish funny.

  “I don’t know about those worms, Lola.”

  “But they’ll make the garbage turn into compost faster!” I tell her. In case she forgot from two seconds ago.

  “All right, did you read the directions about where they go?”

  I nod. “They go on the bottom tray. On account of worms, they always climb up.”

  Mrs. D. shudders. “Just be sure they don’t get loose.” She leans down and whispers in my ear, “To tell the truth, I’m a little afraid of worms. My brother used to drop them down my shirt.”

  “Oh,” I whisper, too. “I understand about brothers.” She winks at me. And I wink back. And Mrs. D. hurries off to her desk.

  At lunch I eat far away from Amanda. Sam eats the cheese slices from my cheese sandwich, and I eat his green grapes, and Sophie Nunez tells a joke about an actor who can’t remember his lines, and it’s really funny and milk comes out of my nose. I finish my breadwich and eat my “L” cookie. I throw my plastic baggies into the garbage.

  I look into the trash can at all the plastic stuff that can’t be composted.

  And then I think, two whole weeks before we get any compost at all.

  Maybe we should have done Amanda’s idea.

  Just then Amanda walks up and throws her milk carton into the garbage. Milk sprays all over me.

  “Oops,” Amanda says, sweet as pie. Lemon pie. “Too bad I didn’t have that milk in a thermos. That would be a trash-free lunch.”

  “Yeah, too bad!” I reach into the garbage can and pull out a juice box. Someone has already finished half. I squeeze it hard, right in Amanda’s direction. Amanda ducks, just as Gwendolyn Swanson-Carmichael is coming up to empty her Smack O Roni ’N Cheese into the trash. Amanda rams into her. The juice squirts Gwendolyn all over her face. It drips from her glasses and dribbles down her chin.

  “Lola!” Gwendolyn hollers. She throws her Smack O Roni ’N Cheese right at me. Luckily, I see it coming. I dip. SPLAT! Ewwww. Cold cheesy noodles dribble down Ben Wexler’s face.

  “I’ll get you for that, Gwendolyn!” Ben yells. He throws his butterscotch pudding cup right at her.

  Gwendolyn screams and takes off, running right into Jamal. BAM! Jamal’s tray flips up and his dessert splatters all over him.

  “Oh, no!” Jamal moans. “That was the last butterscotch pudding.” He dips his finger into the mess slithering down his shirt. “Mmmm … still good.”

  Food is flying everywhere, juice and cookies and lasagna and garlic bread, pizza and bagels and chocolate milk and turkey slices.

  TWEET! The lunch ladies blast their whistles. TWEET!

  But no one listens.

  Principal McCoy comes running into the cafeteria. He slides on a pool of chocolate milk and skids right off his feet. BOOM! He lands flat on his back with a crack, crack, crack.

  Uh-oh!

  “She started it!” Amanda Anderson bellows. She points right at me.

  “She started it!” I bellow at the exact same time. And I point at the no-good apple-pie sore-loser stinker who rhymes with Pamanda Panderson.

  12½. DEAR PRINCIPAL MCCOY

  Dear Principal McCoy,

  I am very sorry for throwing food and milk. I promise never ever to do that again. Not even if SOMEONE else started it and it wasn’t my fault. And you’d never guess who that SOMEONE was cause she’s a ball-face sore loser.

  I hope your elbow feels better soon from where you fell down in the cafeteria.

  Sincerely your admirer,Lola Zuckerman

  Dear Principal McCoy,

  I am so so sorry that I misbehaved myself in the cafeteria. I got under a bad influence. A really bad one. You got let down by me. Right onto the floor. I hope you get those stains out.

  I never have gotten in trouble, except when I get under a bad influence. From now on, I am going to be good. I will be so so good.

  Yours truly,

  Amanda Anderson

  Dear Lola,

  I wasn’t there cause I had lunch detention. But I’m sorry I missed it. I bet you looked funny with milk all over your face.

  Your pal,

  Harvey Baxter

  13. SORRY!

  THE NEXT DAY EVERYBODY SAYS sorry to the head custodian, Mrs. Susanna Duff; and the lunch ladies, Pat, Tiny, and Amaryllis. After that, it is Silent Lunch. Nobody can say a word. Everybody blames me and Amanda Anderson.

  Harvey Baxter gets a lunch detention all over again for passing me a smart-alecky note.

  Principal McCoy wears a sling to school to hold up his sore elbow. He gives a talk in the auditorium about The Grasshopper That Threw Food and The Ant Who Didn’t Throw Her Food, but Saved It for a Rainy Day.

  Sam yells out, “And don’t forget The Worm That Ate Garbage and Pooped out Dirt.”

  He goes to sit in the hall.

  Gwendolyn Swanson-Carmichael raises her hand. “I can’t believe he—” she starts to say.

  “Put your hand down!” Principal McCoy says, really mean. Gwendolyn Swanson-Carmichael’s lips squish up.

  “This is all Amanda Anderson’s fault,” some kid yells out.

  “It’s Lola Zuckerman’s fault,” someone else yells.

  Well, maybe.

  Amanda is used to being good, and she’s not used to being bad. Amanda Anderson zips out of the auditorium crying. As she runs past me, she says, “I hate you, Lola! And I always will.”

  And I am sad, tears-coming-out sad.

  In the classroom, everyone is quiet. Nobody even wants to check on the worms in the compost bin.

  Mrs. D. says, “I’m very disappointed, class.” We’re not Jellybeans or Jujubes or Lemon Heads. We’re not even People. We’re just Class.

  At home I run up to my room. I shut the door and flop onto my bed. I remember me and Amanda throwing all my blankets straight out that window and into a tree. We were making a hotel for chilly squirrels. Why can’t we be friends again?

  Friday morning Mom wakes me up early.

  “It’s Granny,” she says and hands me the phone.

  “Hi, Granny,” I say in a cold toast voice.

  “Oh, my sweet little Lola,” Granny says. “Grampy and I have been hooting and hollering down here. We’re so proud of you! You won the contest. That’s wunnerful!”

  “Thank you, Granny,” I say.

  “It tickles me pink that you’re teaching your friends to make compost,” Granny says. “Maybe they’ll start up their own gardens, just like we did.”

  I breathe into the phone.

  “Lola? What’s wrong, sweetheart? Cat got your tongue?”

  “You missed seeing the zucchini get big,” I say. I don’t hear anything out of the phone. “Granny, are you still there?”

  “Why, yes I am, Lola Lou. And you’re right. We had to leave before it was time to pick the zucchini. That was a shame. Your mom told me the zucchini grew real nice. She told me you love zucchini soufflé.”

  My voice wobbles like Jell-O. “Jack said you and Grampy were moving in for keeps. But then you left because you couldn’t take it anymore.”

  And you know what that Granny did? She laughed. “Oh, Lola,” she said. “I wish I could stay there forever; Grampy, too. But we had to go home.”

  “Because of your compost pile?” I ask.

  “Well, yes, and our garden and our home, and all those cats that visit us,” Granny says.

  “Jenkins and Peter and Moe?” I ask.

  “Yes and a few more. But Lola Lou, we loved visiting you and Jack and your mom and dad, every minute.”

  “Even when me and Jack played Blanket of Doom on the guest bed
and broke your spare glasses?” I ask.

  “Even then. I never liked those glasses much anyway,” Granny says.

  I take a deep breath ’cause I was running out of air. “I love you, Granny.”

  “I love you too, very much; you and Jack, that little stinker,” Granny says.

  “And Patches too?” I ask.

  “Patches, too. Why, Lola, did you know that I have a picture on my fridge of you and me in the garden in our matching hats?” Granny says.

  “You do?” I ask.

  “Sure I do! Every time I walk by, I say, ‘Hello, Lola Lou!’”

  I think about that for a while. Then I say, “Granny? Does Grampy say ‘fishsticks’ or ‘fiddlesticks’?”

  “Why, ‘fiddlesticks,’ I suppose.”

  Shucks. Jack was right. Well, I like “fishsticks.”

  After Granny and I hang up, I feel a little better, but not a lot. I still wish I I didn’t have to go to school.

  But Mom takes my temperature and feels my glands. “You’re fine,” she says.

  “No, I’m not,” I say. “I’m heartsick.”

  “Well, why are you heartsick?” Mom’s forehead wrinkles up.

  “’Cause Jack’s the best, and I’m the second best.”

  Mom’s mouth drops open. I can see her fillings.

  “Lola!” she cries. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “I eez-dropped on you,” I say. “Eavesdropped? When?” Mom asks.

  And so I told her that I heard her talking to Dad about building a special shelf for all of Jack’s awards.

  “Jack’s award-winning, and I’m not.” And as fast as I can, I get out the hot words burning me up. “And I ate all of Jack’s Good Apple apples, not Patches! I’m sorry!”

  Mom sits up straight. “Lola!” she says. “Well, it’s Jack you need to say sorry to.”

  I gulp some air. “Okay.”

  “And …” she says.

  “I should buy him a bunch of apples with my birthday dollars that Granny gave me.” I reach under my bed and pull out the basket. “And stick ’em in here.”

  Mom nods firm-like. “Good plan, Lola.” Then she smiles and I know she doesn’t hate me. She hugs me up. She says, “Oh, Lola, it’s not fair that some kids get a lot of awards and some kids don’t. But Dad and I love you just the same, awards or no awards.”

  My lips are all blubbery. “Okay. But I still wish I had a special trophy shelf for my green captain vest.”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea.” Then Mom kisses me all over my face five hundred times, and I laugh.

  “But my heart is still sick,” I say.

  Mom takes a sigh-gulp of her coffee. “Why?”

  “Because Amanda hates me,” I say.

  And I tell her the whole story, about zooming toilet paper through Amanda’s Mick Mansion, and telling Mrs. Anderson that it WAS a Mick Mansion because Mom said that. And Mom’s face gets as pink as pink roses.

  “Mom,” I say in a voice that even I can barely hear. “I should tell Amanda I’m sorry for running toilet paper around her house.”

  “And I need to tell Penny Anderson I’m sorry for calling her lovely new home a McMansion.”

  We drive over to Windy Hill Drive. Mom rings the bell. It makes a fancy sound.

  Mrs. Anderson answers the door. She isn’t smiling.

  Mom sighs. “Penny, I’m here to apologize for my unkind words. You have a beautiful new home. I never should have called it a McMansion. I think I was jealous! And life has gotten so busy with my Lola dress company.”

  I can’t believe Mom said all those words.

  Mrs. Anderson’s face unpinches, and she hugs Mom. “It’s okay! I’m so proud of your dress company. Amanda loves her Lola dress! She uses her special pocket for her hair ribbons. I miss Cherry Tree Lane and you!”

  I don’t blame her. It’s REALLY quiet in the Mick Mansion, and big. I would tie a rope to the front door if I lived there so I wouldn’t get lost.

  Amanda comes running. “Stop being mean to my mommy!” she yells at my mom.

  “She wasn’t being mean!” I yell back.

  “Girls!” the moms say.

  “Lola,” Mom says, “didn’t you tell me there was something you’d like to say?”

  I look at the floor. I wish I had my watermelon-smelling pencil to write my sorries.

  Fishsticks! I WAS going to say sorry before Amanda came yelling at me.

  I look at Amanda straight in her blue eyes. “I’m sorry for running toilet paper through your house, and other stuff, too.” But I don’t feel sorry.

  Amanda says, “I’m sorry for milking you in the cafeteria.” But she doesn’t sound sorry.

  “I’m sorry for juicing you back,” I say. My eyes go squinty.

  Amanda looks as sour as a pickle. She says, “Oh, yeah? Well, I’m sorry I lifted the top off the composting bin so the worms would run away.”

  Then she stops, and claps her hand on her mouth. I just stare at that ol’ Amanda Anderson.

  “Amanda Susannah Anderson!” Mrs. Anderson yells. “How could you!”

  I can’t believe it! Miss Perfect Amanda Anderson NEVER does anything bad, except she did. And that makes me smile. Maybe even when you move to a mansion, you might still get frisky and bad. So maybe we could still be friends, mostly good but sometimes frisky and bad.

  Then I remember something, something worse than plain bad.

  “We’ve got to get to school before Mrs. D. gets there! She’s afraid of worms!” I yell. “She’s going to have her heart attack her if she sees a worm!”

  14. THE RUNAWAYS

  ME AND AMANDA AND MOM HOP into Mrs. Anderson’s SUV. We zoom to school. Mrs. Anderson pulls up to the entrance, and we jump out and wave goodbye. Here come the buses.

  “We’ve got to hurry!” I yell. We whiz inside.

  We zip by Mr. Carp wheeling a cart of books into the library.

  “Girls, slow down, blah, blah, blah …”

  We are going too fast to hear.

  We run into our classroom.

  AAAAAGGHHH!

  AAAAAGGHHH!

  There is Mrs. D. standing in the middle of the room.

  She is throwing candy at Uncle Ken’s Kitchen Composter.

  Red worms are coming out of Uncle Ken’s Kitchen Composter. They’re wiggling on the floor.

  “Worms!” Mrs. D. screams. “Give me a rat! Give me a mouse! Give me a spider or even a cockroach. I can handle it. But not worms!”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. D. Save your candy!” I yell. “Amanda and I are here. We’ll rescue you.”

  Amanda and I start picking up worms and carrying them back to the compost bin.

  “Poor little worms,” Amanda says. “I bet they were scared out on the carpet.”

  I have a bunch in my hand. “You like the worms?”

  “Sure!” Amanda says. “Like you said, they eat our garbage. That’s cool!”

  “I like your Going Green project better,” I say. Then I cross my fingers behind my back.

  Amanda looks at me hard. “Really?”

  “I liked it almost the same,” I say.

  “Your idea was better,” Amanda says. Her mouth squishes.

  “No, sir, it wasn’t. We both had good ideas for Going Green.”

  Amanda looks up. “Honest?”

  “I even voted for yours.” I say.

  “No crossies?” she asks.

  I hold up my hands. “See? No crossies. Did you vote for mine?”

  Amanda nods. “Yes.” Then she gets pink as Yowza gum. “Actually, no.”

  At first that mad bumblebee feeling comes back. BUZZ!

  But then I remember. I voted for Amanda. Amanda voted for Amanda. And I still won.

  And that makes me think of something … something big. Even though I am last, I am not least. ’Cause when all the ideas get taken, that’s when you really have to get thinking. Maybe I’m even glad to be “Z” for zippers, zebras, and zeros; “Z” for Zuckerman. And
I feel warm and melty, just like a pat of butter on a stack of hot pancakes.

  “Are you mad?” Amanda asks.

  “Nope.” And I really wasn’t. “Are you?”

  “Nope.”

  Me and Amanda do Super Goofer Smiles. We do our secret Peanut Butter and Jelly handshake. Then we get back to work.

  We get most of the worms cleaned up, but not before Gwendolyn Swanson-Carmichael arrives.

  “This is outrageous!” she screams.

  “Calm down,” Mrs. D. says. “There are just a few worms here. They won’t kill you.”

  “I would NEVER stand for this!” Gwendolyn says. “If I were the teacher …”

  Mrs. D. says, “Gwendolyn, dear, would you please stand in the hallway until the girls are finished? Tell the other kids to wait.”

  Finally I scoop up the last worm.

  “There you go, Wormy Junior.” I put him inside the compost bin right on top of an eggshell. “That’s the last one, Mrs. D.”

  “Lola!” Amanda says. She points into the muck. “Look!”

  I look. I don’t see anything.

  “Right there, that garbage is looking a lot like mulch.”

  “You’re right.” It’s still just garbage. But that sure is nice of Amanda!

  We jump around and around, holding hands. “We’re Going Green! We’re Going Green!”

  The rest of the class comes in.

  “Why did we have to wait outside?” Harvey Baxter asks.

  “Just you never mind,” Mrs. D. says. She’s smoothing down her shirt. “Gummy worms, it’s time for Share.”

  We all sit down on Mrs. D.’s red carpet.

  Amanda Anderson says, “Our garbage pile is going to turn into food for a garden in only two weeks!” She smiles at me and I smile at her.

  Harvey Baxter looks sad. “I told my parents about Going Green and they said maybe we should sell our SUV. It has a TV and I watch Robot Rage on it.”