Lola Zola and the Lemonade Crush (2 page)

“It's the union's fault the plant is moving to Mexico,” said Mrs. Zola. Lola's mom disliked unions. Astronauts didn't belong to unions. Neither did brain surgeons or computer wizards. According to Diane Zola, only workers on the bottom belong to unions, and she wanted to be on top.

Lola's father, on the other peanut-butter hand, said there was only one way to reach the top—join a union, fight for your rights, make some noise. Then the fat cats will respect you—and maybe one day the workers will own the factory too.

“The union doesn't have anything to do with the layoffs,” said Michael Zola. “The bosses made too many mistakes and now they're complaining they don't have the money to pay us. They should have invested in monorails.”

“Is the company going out of business?” asked Lola.

“No, just moving to Mexico where labor is cheaper,” said her father. “What we need is an international labor movement, so that mistreated workers in Mirage can stand in solidarity with mistreated workers in Mexico.”

“One of these days I'm going to Mexico,” said Lola's mom, “where I'll pick a beautiful bouquet of chili peppers.” Whenever Lola's mother got upset, she threatened to escape to Mexico, a few hours and a zillion tumbleweeds away by car. The farthest she ever got was the town library, where she checked out the same movie—
Tourists and Tamales
—and pretended she was the galloping tortilla gourmet south of the border.

“The bosses have every right…” began her mother.

“To take away our jobs?” interrupted her father.

Lola was convinced her parents would divorce if they didn't love each other so much. They spent half of every weekend smooching on the couch, the other half arguing about politics and the car plant. Lola thanked the Smooch God for keeping them together.

“We can always apply for unemployment—food stamps too,” said Lola's dad.

“I don't like taking charity,” said Lola's mom.

“It's not charity,” argued Michael Zola. “We've paid our taxes—and we deserve help with the bills.”

If only Lola could put her parents on Pause. Someone ought to invent a button for that.

Lola's father walked outside to water the cactus that never needed watering. Her mother watched a two-hour television special on Landfill Nation—a homeless encampment that lacked clean water and sewer lines.

The parrot phone stopped chirping for the night and silence fell over the Zola household. Her parents were too sad to argue, too mad to smooch. All Lola could hear was her own voice whispering to Bowzer.

“How will we ever survive?”

*** *** ***

Chapter 2

With her parents suffering the jobless blues, Lola couldn't ask for money to pay for campaign literature. Who could afford that? So on the day of her class election, Lola grew increasingly frustrated as she watched Buck, wearing his baseball cap backward, go forward during homeroom with abundant propaganda.

The jock-wannabe paraded up and down the classroom aisle as though he were a movie star. Along the parade route, he handed out eight-by-ten glossy photos of himself walking elderly pound hounds in the park. It was a mark of his good character, he insisted.

Lola sat watching, waiting for her teacher Mrs. Rosenberg to call her to the podium for a presidential campaign speech. Lola thanked the Blackhead God for not making her break out in zits that morning.

Meanwhile, all around her students shouted campaign slogans: “Lola Zola for president.” “Girls rule.” “Lola's cool.” “Vote for Buck-a-Roo; Pups love him—and you will too.”

Lola's best friend Melanie, a freckle-faced girl with fiery red hair and ocean-blue eyes, waved a banner that read, “Lola has real class.” The slogan was a subtle reference to the fact that even though Lola lived south of Cactus Avenue,
the dividing line between the haves and have-nots in Mirage, she still had more class than Buck, who was born on the wealthier poodle-primping side of the desert city.

Mrs. Rosenberg quieted the noisy class with one raised hand—stop sign style. Then she nodded toward Lola, who cleared her throat, winked at Melanie, and addressed the class with a commanding voice. Even snaky Slither paid attention from his cage.

“I, Lola Zola, am running for class president on a platform of eco-quality and justice for all sixth graders. If elected president, I will plant California succulents next to the handball courts, extend recess five minutes for rehydration, and host mural painting parties to cover our school's gray walls with Native American folklore.”

No sooner had Lola finished her sentence when a giant spitball flew from the back of the classroom, bonking her on her dome. She knew exactly where the spitball had originated, and so did Mrs. Rosenberg and the rest of the class. All eyes landed on Nelson Hernandez, aka Hot Dog, a squirmy satellite of Buck's, who, like Lola, lived south of Cactus Avenue—across the street from her, in fact. Hot Dog would do anything to get Buck's attention and impress him with his unusual talents. Though a small guy, some said a runt, his spit radius was of
mega proportions and could have fetched an Olympic gold medal had spitting ranked as an official sport. Gross.

“Out!” shouted Mrs. Rosenberg, glaring at Hot Dog and pointing a finger at the door. “Swallow your spit and stand outside until the speeches are over.”

Hot Dog hip-hopped, rapper style, toward the door, making a monster face with a cockeyed tongue at Melanie. Buck giggled.

Again, Lola cleared her throat. “My opponent gave you yo-yos for Valentine's Day,” said Lola. “I didn't—and not because I was broke.” For a split second, Lola flashed back to better days when her parents were both working, not sitting on a Slinky-popping couch, worrying how they would pay the Mount Everest of bills. Lola continued, “And it wasn't because I was embarrassed about my yo-yoing abilities. Gee whiz, I can “go around the world” and “walk the dog” like any other yo-yo champ. No, I didn't buy you yo-yos because I respect you too much to buy your vote. I'm a candidate of principle, of honesty…” Lola put her hand on her heart. “Of feeling. Thank you, my fellow sixthers. From Mirage Middle School to the White House, I hope you'll stand by my side during my presidential campaigns.”

What? Lola hadn't meant to throw in that ambitious bit about the White House, nor to wrap up the speech abruptly, but the flying spitball had so unnerved her, she leapt into the future, forgetting to fully detail her platform—including
her idea for perking up the morning doldrums with five minutes of original riddles each day. Still, the class applauded, cheered, and chanted—with Melanie the loudest of all—“LO-LA, LO-LA, LO-LA, LO…” until the teacher clanged her cowbell and commanded, “Enough hullabaloo in this zoo!”

Amid the cheering and counter-cheering (did Lola hear a few boos?), Buck sauntered over to the podium, flashed his impish grin, and launched into his speech.

“Most of you know me as Buck, Buck-a-roo, the Buckster, the Bucking Bronco…”

Melanie interrupted. “Or Slime Bucket, Bucket of Slime, or just plain Slime.”

“Melanie Papadakis, that's enough,” snapped the teacher. “One more outburst from you, and you'll be standing outside with Mr. Hernandez.”

Melanie put her head down, but only for a nod.

Buck continued, “My real name is Charles Wembly the Third. My grandfather, Charles Wembly, donated the designer-colored golf carts for Mirage's first public golf course. My father, Charles Wembly the Second, paid for the dolphin-shaped buoys at the Mirage swimming pool. I, on the other hand, gave you yo-yos with my face sticker so you wouldn't get bored in class, and…”

Mrs. Rosenberg drew back—insulted that anyone would find her lectures about ancient history or rare rock collecting boring. Buck's yo-yos were getting on her last nerves. How many yo-yos had she confiscated the last week? A dozen, at least.

Buck resumed his speech. “I promise to stop hogging the peewee ball at recess, to quit butting in line at lunch, and to cut down on my farting during music.”

Students giggled and pretended to hold their noses.

“When your yo-yo breaks, I'll buy you a new one,” Buck promised. “Vote for me, pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease, and I'll teach you more yo-yo tricks.” Then Buck went from student to student, hand extended for a hearty shake.

Some students clapped, though others, like Samantha Roberts, rolled their eyes and refused to shake Buck's slimy hand. Samantha was the smartest student in the class, in the whole world for that matter, but clearly she wasn't interested in middle school politics. When Lola asked Samantha if she wanted to run for office, Samantha put her hands on her hips and said, “Be serious, Lola. I don't have time for that. I'm cramming for the Academic Decathlon, and I've still got half the estuaries in Africa to memorize.”

Sensing the crowd's lukewarm response, Buck froze mid-aisle and bellowed, “Vote for me and I'll take everyone to Laser Lizards.”

The boys, a slim majority of the class, went bonkers, shouting, “All right! Now you're talking! We'll vote for you, Buck-a-roo!”

Mrs. Rosenberg tried to quiet the boys' howling. She clanged the cowbell a dozen times and shouted, “Stop all this hullabaloo!” but Buck's promise to take the class to Laser Lizards—Mirage's new game arcade with a virtual Mars landing—had created so much excitement, at least among the boys, that the cowbell was useless.

Half the class never heard their teacher shout, “Bribery is against the election rules. A candidate may not offer goods or services in return for votes.”

Amidst the hooting and “Laser Lizards Now!” chanting, Lola rose to the occasion. She stood on her chair and advised, “Don't let Slime Bucket buy your vote. Tell him you can't be bought. Show him you have a spine.”

Melanie, forever loyal to Lola, was the first to reach behind her back and point her thumb at her spine. Lola smiled at Melanie, then stared at the snake in its glass prison.

“There's more than one snake in this room,” said Lola, throwing her eyes like darts at Buck, then back at Slither. “The difference between this one, Mr. Slither, and that one—Snake-a-roo Buck-a-moo—is that this one doesn't bite.” Lola, a little carried away with her theatrics, liberated Slither from his prison and draped him around her neck. “I remember when Snake-a-roo Buck-a-moo
hoarded all the crayons in kindergarten,” recalled Lola, “and bit anyone who insisted on using red, yellow, blue, green, or any color.” Lola nodded at Melanie, signaling her to point to a tiny scar on her arm.

“Buck bit me on the arm when I was five,” said Melanie, waving her arm, to back up Lola's story. “Check out the fang marks.”

“Buck did that?” said Lola, making the most out of Melanie's ancient injury. “How gross.” Then, turning to the snake, she said, “At least this slimy guy doesn't have fangs.” She kissed Slither's little head, sending Mrs. Rosenberg into a jaw-dropping tizzy.

“Lola, put Slither back in his house,” said the teacher. “The snake needs a nap and it's time to vote.”

Lola removed her snake necklace, gingerly placed him back in his prison, and started to sit down when she drew back—noticing something. What was it, ah, yes, a blob, a pink and white rubbery blob with a bulge in the middle, on her chair, awaiting her arrival. It looked like an eyeball. It was an eyeball. A synthetic cow eyeball! Buck, clearly hoping to unnerve her, had left a surprise present—a prop from their science assignment. Lola used a spare tissue to stash the fake eyeball in her desk. She glared at Buck.

Buck, however, was busy digging around in his pockets, looking for something—his cell?—in his baseball jacket. Lola saw Buck take out his
smartphone, a banned classroom distraction, and hold it out of sight under his desk, texting someone.

Meanwhile, the election had begun. Mrs. Rosenberg distributed scraps of paper to each member of the class. She asked Samantha Roberts to fetch Hot Dog from outside, where Lola saw him practicing cartwheels in an effort to impress students daydreaming in the classroom across the way. “Remember, this is a secret ballot election,” said Mrs. Rosenberg. “Keep your eyes to yourselves. No wandering snoops.”

Scribbles later, the teacher collected the scraps of paper and placed the secret ballots in a cookie jar. “Samantha,” she said, “please come to the board and help me tally the votes as I read them aloud.”

Samantha strode to the board, where she drew two columns, one for Lola, the other for Buck.

Mrs. Rosenberg opened the first ballot. She squinted, having forgotten her reading glasses—again. “I can't quite make this out,” she mumbled.

Lola couldn't stand the suspense, and was about to offer her teacher a magnifying glass when Samantha peered at the note and smiled.

“Lola Zo-o-la,” she read, “you go, girl!”

Mrs. Rosenberg shot Samantha a look. “Pipe down, Samantha. No cheering during vote counting. I will not tolerate any more hullabaloo.”

Melanie, however, cheered with great gusto and encouraged the other girls to join her, shouting “LO-LA-LO-LA-LO-LA-LO-LA!” A chorus of pigtails and ponytails went wild.

Samantha put a mark under Lola's column on the board.

Mrs. Rosenberg opened the second ballot, tried to hide her disgust, and then nodded first toward Buck, and then Samantha.

One vote for Buck.

The students watched intently, some drummed on their desks, others clenched their teeth. Slither stopped slithering.

Two for Buck.

Two for Lola.

Mrs. Rosenberg continued opening the ballots. Not a chair moved.

Five for Buck.

Five for Lola.

Melanie smiled at her best friend, as if to say, “No matter what happens, I've got your back, sister.”

Ten for Buck.

Eleven for Lola!

Lola wished she had a telescope or better yet, an x-ray machine, so she could read the votes before anyone else—and prepare for sweet pickle victory or
bitter horseradish defeat. Just as she was straining to see Mrs. Rosenberg's expression upon reading the next ballot, Lola heard the door open and a voice shout from the back of the room.