Lola Zola and the Lemonade Crush (15 page)

After a while he gave up and rode his mountain bike up and down Salt Flat Road, honking his horn and taking orders for Lola's lemonade. He also entertained the crowd with some show-off bike tricks, leaping over curbs and riding down steps.

Lola wanted to ask Buck if his father had signed up for counseling, but business was too brisk for any heart-to-hearts; and besides, Melanie shot her a dirty look every time she talked to the guy.

“Lola,” said Melanie, “get back to work.”

Lola felt torn—like two people were pulling on her arms. Ouch.

Meanwhile, the questions continued.

“What are you doing on this side of the street?” Mrs. Garcia asked when Buck took her lemonade order while complimenting her on her new bouffant hairdo.

“Surrendering to the superior sex,” said Aunt Liza, roaring up on her Harley. “Congratulations Charles Wembly the Third,” she said. “You've come to your senses.”

Before Buck had a chance to defend half the human race, he heard Melanie shout, “Lola, that guy is stealing your parent's car!”

Lola looked up and saw a strange man of pudgy proportions seize the wheel of her mother's cherry red Mustang, which was parked a little crooked
(Dad must have parked last) in the Zolas' driveway. Lola's mom sat on the hood of the car with her arms crossed in front of her chest. Michael Zola was busy emptying his pockets of ten-dollar bills.

“Mel, Buck, come help me,” Lola yelled as she grabbed her metal cashbox and ran up the driveway to confront the car thief, who really wasn't a thief at all, just a repo man who worked for the auto dealership as Chief Car-Taker-Backer.

“Mr. Stickle, please don't take my wife's car,” Lola heard her father say to the man as she, Melanie, and Buck approached the Mustang.

“You're late on the payments,” Mr. Stickle shouted through the driver's window. “Time's up.”

“Then give us more time and reset the clock,” pleaded Lola, standing behind the Mustang to prevent the man from driving off with her mom's dream.

Melanie and Buck stood on the sidelines, begging the car czar to give the Zolas another week or two.

On the street, watching the scene unfold, the crowd grumbled, “Isn't that terrible! The guy's got no heart. The Zolas are good people.”

Lola stood her ground, blocking the car from leaving the driveway.

“Get out of the way, kid,” screamed Mr. Stickle. His double chin did a double jiggle.

“But it's not fair,” screamed Lola. “My mom worked hard to make the gigantic down payment.”

“All I know is the bank stopped getting the checks,” said Mr. Stickle.

“She got laid off!” said Lola.

“And couldn't even afford peanut butter,” said Melanie.

“And now has to work for my dad,” said Buck. “If you only knew what that was like…”

“I said get out of my way,” repeated Mr. Stickle, fuming.

Lola and her mother begged Mr. Stickle not to take the car, but he ignored them, turning on the ignition, checking his rearview mirror, and revving the motor. Lola stepped aside. Diane Zola jumped off the hood of the car.

As Lola's mother blew a kiss to her departing car rolling backwards in the driveway, Lola opened her cashbox and emptied the change onto the roof of the car. Dollar bills rained down on the front and rear windows. Mr. Stickle stepped on the brake, stopped the car, and leaped out to gather the money. He tried to count the bills as he stuffed them into his pockets.

“You can have our lemonade money, but don't take the Mustang,” said Lola.

“Thanks for the two-hundred-plus bucks, ladies. Now you only owe another three hundred or so,” said Mr. Stickle.

“How much did you say we owe now?” asked Lola, eyeing the handle of the door on the driver's side.

“I just told you…” Before Mr. Stickle could finish his sentence, Lola was sitting in the driver's seat of the Mustang, motioning for Melanie and Buck to hop in too. Buck climbed into the backseat, and Melanie plopped down in the front next to Lola.

“Get out of that car,” shouted Mr. Stickle, flustered. “You kids are a bunch of juvenile delinquents. I could strangle all three of you.”

“Did he say strangle?” asked Mrs. Garcia, pointing to the car czar. Ruby Rhubarb nodded and beckoned the crowd of nearly twenty-five lemonade customers to march up the driveway and give Mr. Stickle a piece of their mind.

“You have no business bothering these hardworking youngsters,” lectured Ruby Rhubarb. “I ought to report you to the commission on wishin'—since when is it a crime to wish you had enough money?”

“I wish you would stay out of this, lady,” said Mr. Stickle.

“These girls work hard for their money,” said Mrs. Garcia. “All they do is squirt, squeeze, pour, and serve. Please,
señor
, show the squirters some respect.”

“Respect? They're sitting in my car without permission.”

“Your car?” asked Aunt Liza. “I don't think so, repo man.”

While the crowd debated with Mr. Stickle over who owned the car, Lola searched for something to munch. Being hungry and nervous was a refrigerator-raiding combination, and Lola needed some nutrients to fortify her during this who-knows-how-long sit-in. Lola peeked in the glove compartment, but the only thing that stared back at her halfway edible was an old rubbery carrot stick.

“I'm starvin',” said Lola, chomping on the carrot.

“Me too,” said Melanie.

“Want some sunflower seeds?” asked Buck, taking out a big bag from his pocket.

“I guess they're better than nothing,” Lola said.

“Where should I put the shells?” asked Melanie.

Lola was about to suggest Melanie put them in her hand when Buck piped up, “Just spit them at Mr. Stickle.”

Melanie made a face. “That's radically…”

“Rude,” said Lola. “Gross.”

Leave it to Slime to hatch a disgusting, unhygienic scheme. Leave it to Lola to help carry it out.

It was a three-part operation: open the shell; eat the sunflower seed; spit the shell at Mr. Stickle. First Buck fired away, then Lola followed with a seed
bullet to the knee, while Melanie brought up the rear with a half-shell aimed at Mr. Stickle's forehead. It landed on his nose.

“Stop it this instant,” yelled Mr. Stickle, his hands shielding his face from the barrage of seeds.

The onlookers tittered and though Lola's parents disapproved of playing with food, they too found some humor in the situation and didn't sound altogether serious when they ordered the trio to please refrain from such ill-mannered behavior.

“I forgive you,” Melanie whispered in Lola's ear, moments before an unforgiving Mr. Stickle summoned for backup on his cell phone.

A few seconds later, the sound of a lone siren approaching caused heads to turn. A cop pulled up and parked. Things were getting serious.

“Lay down your seeds or else,” said the neighborhood police officer who had been around the corner when he got the call. He held up a pair of handcuffs to show he meant business.

The battle was over. Lola, Melanie, and Buck spit the remaining seeds out in their hands, climbed out of the car, and said good-bye to the Mustang. Game over.

*** *** ***

Chapter 14

“Prickle alert!” Lola told Melanie when the sandstorms arrived a week later during a slow, doodle-heavy sales period. “Grab the cash and run!”

“I can't see,” cried Melanie, spilling a pitcher of pucker potion as she frantically packed up their lemonade accessories.

Bowzer had just finished bathing himself under the wobbly card table when the storm prickled him with sand.

Through a beige swirling haze, Melanie and Lola grabbed the card table, the beach towel umbrella, the metal cashbox—and started back toward the Zolas' house with grains of sand stabbing their faces like a thousand pickup sticks. Bowzer power-pawed ahead.

“Good-bye, heat wave,” said Lola, already missing the one-hundred-degree temperatures that brought thirsty customers by the droves.

“Ouch,” Melanie said, rubbing the sand out of her eyes. “I can't see where I'm going. It's like a total sand blizzard.” Melanie, trudging up the Zolas' driveway, was only a few feet behind Lola, who had draped a checkered tablecloth across her face to shield her from the sand bullets.

“We're almost there,” said Lola, imagining she was Lawrence of Arabia, braving the windswept desert with her half-cat-half-camel leading the way. Speaking of her feline, where was the whiskered wonder?

Sitting impatiently on the front doormat, Bowzer yawned at Lola as if to say, “You guys are such slow pokes.”

Once safely inside, the Twister Sisters collapsed on the living room sofa, where Diane Zola, oblivious to the sand cyclone outside, sat entranced by a video on international cuisine. Michael Zola leafed through his music collection, looking for another song by Louis Armstrong, a jazz giant whose pipes sounded a lot like Bowzer's deep tones.

As for the cat, he skedaddled over to the living-room window, where he waited for a gopher to pop its head out of the ground. One furry head sighting and Bowzer would emit a dragon-sized hiss.

“I know what I want to do now,” said Lola's mother, triumphantly.

“Circle the moon?” guessed Lola.

“No.”

“Direct an adventure movie?” asked starstruck Melanie, hopeful that Diane Zola would cast her as the heroine.

“No.”

“Organize a union?” suggested Michael Zola, needling his wife.

Lola's mother sighed and proudly announced, “I'm going to become a gourmet burrito chef.”

“A burrito queen—I like that idea,” said Lola's father, never one to rain on someone's pepper parade.

“You do make yummy burritos,” seconded Lola.

“Almost as good as Aunt Liza's peanut butter pancakes,” Melanie said.

“My restaurant menu will include Chinese burritos with water chestnuts and cashews, French burritos with fondue and fries, Japanese burritos with sushi and seaweed.”

“Who's going to make the lemonade to wash the burritos down?” asked Lola.

“I haven't a clue,” her mother teased.

Whether the burrito dream would ever come true was questionable, but at least Mom was thinking about new career possibilities. With Buck's father on the verge of bankruptcy, who knew how long her mother could count on a Boingo Bits paycheck. She certainly couldn't count on Lola's father to pay the bills, or could she? Dad was in a surprisingly peppy mood.

“Anything new, Dad?” asked Lola, not wanting to be too direct.

“No.”

Lola frowned.

“Just the manager of the Mirage Twin Cinemas,” he said with a smile that turned into laughter.

“You're the new manager?”

“Yes, and I'm going to book all the latest films and remakes too,” he said.

“Movies like Lola of Arabia?” asked Melanie with a giggle.

“Exactly,” said Michael Zola.

Lola put her arms around her father and planted a big kiss on his cheek. “Way to go, Daddeo!”

Bowzer, halfway through an “I spy a gopher” hiss, pulled himself away from the living-room window and, in a congratulatory gesture, rubbed his side against Michael Zola's legs.

“I start work on Monday and I'll get my first paycheck in two weeks,” said Lola's father.

The word
paycheck
reminded Lola that there was someone she needed to pay.

“I think I owe you some money,” Lola whispered to Melanie.

“I thought maybe you'd forgotten,” Melanie whispered back.

“It's time for a piggy bank raid. C'mon, follow me, Mel,” said Lola.

On the top shelf of her bedroom closet, hidden behind the cruise ship made out of old cracker boxes, stood Lola's rotund piggy bank, a gift from her
mother for her fourth birthday eons ago. While Lola had handed over most of the lemonade profits to Mr. Stickle, the car czar, she had managed to leave some money in the pig's belly.

Jumping up, Lola grabbed the piggy off the shelf and presented it to Melanie, who was blowing gigantic violet bubble gum bubbles.

“Half of what's in it is yours,” said Lola.

“That's too much,” said Melanie. “I'm just an employee.”

“More like a partner,” said Lola, unplugging the rubber stopper under the pig's belly. Removing a wad of cash, Lola counted out a hundred dollars and split it fifty-fifty.

“But…” Melanie protested.

“Don't argue with a soul sister.”

Tucking the money into her T-shirt pocket, Melanie said, jokingly, “Maybe I'll buy something frilly at Mrs. Garcia's dress shop.”

Melanie and Lola giggled at the thought of Melanie roller skating around town in a lace gown. But underneath the laughter was the recognition that one day soon they might not be tomboys.

Melanie started for the door. “I promised Aunt Liza I'd read
The Odyssey
to the hamsters.”

“Wait,” said Lola, “let's do a Twister Sister chant.”

Melanie nodded and the two girls sat down on the shag carpet, yoga-style. Snapping their fingers, cracking their bubble gum, and pretending to talk on the phone, they chanted, “Twister Sisters, lemonade hipsters, crackin' gumballs, makin' parrot calls, Lola Zola, Melanie Papadakis.”

*** *** ***

No sooner was Melanie out the door when Lola heard a chirp. Who could it be now?

“Zola Intelligence Agency,” said Lola, forever experimenting with her phone answering techniques. “ZIA.”

“I spy a hair bow,” came the strange voice on the other end of the parrot phone. It was a high-pitched voice, too high-pitched to be normal. The caller sounded as though someone had just goosed him.

“Which agent is this?” asked Lola, suspecting it might be Slime.

“The laser lizard,” said the voice on the line.

Only Buck would use the name of a video arcade to identify himself. Lola's heart pounded like a conga drum.