Lola Zola and the Lemonade Crush (3 page)

“I'm sorry I'm late, son.”

Buck's father had crashed the election, arriving unannounced in his pinstriped three-piece designer suit. Charles Wembly II sat down behind Hot Dog's cowlick, in the back of the room—Spitball Land.

Buck must have texted his father to come to class. Lola had figured that one out, but what she couldn't understand was how Mr. Wembly, an important businessman who owned Boingo Bits, one of the largest software companies in Mirage, could take off time from work for a measly class election. Then again, Mr. Wembly had never missed one of his son's Little League games, or passed up a chance to chew out an umpire who said “Strike!” after Buck missed a pitch.

Lola and Buck were tied.

Fifteen votes for Lola; fifteen votes for Buck.

Mr. Wembly rested his jaw on his fist and shook his head in disbelief that his son wasn't trouncing the competition.

Melanie used American Sign Language to tell Lola, “You're going to win. I can feel it in the boniest of my bones.”

But Lola wasn't so sure, as the votes were tallied.

Eighteen votes for Buck; only seventeen votes for Lola.

“Buck-a-roo, you rule!” squealed Hot Dog, jumping on his chair and shooting a fist into the air—perhaps prematurely.

Nineteen votes for Lola; nineteen votes for Buck.

Lola couldn't imagine sharing the presidency with Buck and his yo-yos, and the pinstriped adult pest in the back of the room.

Only one more ballot remained unopened. Buck gave his dad a thumbs-up.

Slowly, opening the final ballot, Mrs. Rosenberg reminded the class not to boo, sneer, moan, or display any other improper election etiquette. “We can't all be winners today,” she reminded the class, “though we can be respectful students. Remember, in the end it's kindness that matters.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Lola saw Buck's father roll his eyes.

Again, Mrs. Rosenberg squinted, trying to make out the scrawl. Then, hiding her smile, she boomed, “Nineteen votes for Buck. Twenty votes for Lola. Congratulations, Lola Zola. You're our new class president!”

Lola grinned. Melanie went, “Whoop, whoop!” Samantha high-fived Lola—and girls danced in the aisle.

Buck, however, hung his head—maybe to hide the tears. No more excited thumbs-upping. No more impish grinning. Just bitter disappointment until…

Buck's father jumped to his feet. “Excuse me, Mrs. Rosenberg, there must be some mistake. I'd like a recount.”

“Mr. Wembly, I really don't think that's necessary,” said Mrs. Rosenberg.

“Of course it's necessary,” said Buck's father. “I suspect election fraud.”

“Excuse me?” said Mrs. Rosenberg.

Lola, Melanie, and Samantha exchanged looks, as if to say, “No wonder Buck is so messed up. His father is a spoilsport.”

Buck's father insisted, “I'll put the ballots back in the cookie jar and read them aloud as you tally up the votes for a second time. I want to inspect them to make sure no one voted twice.”

Lola couldn't hold back. She popped out of her chair and walked up to Mr. Wembly. “How could I have rigged the vote? We have thirty-nine students in the class and thirty-nine ballots. No one voted twice.” Lola, the mathematician and future lawyer (maybe), beamed proudly.

“I saw you fooling around with something in your desk,” said Mr. Wembly. “You had a funny look on your face, Lola Zola, like you were fishing for something—another piece of paper, a second ballot?”

Lola, whose hand, yes, had crawled back inside her desk, had been attempting to place the jiggley fake cow eyeball inside a baggie. She certainly hadn't wanted it to contaminate her afternoon carrot snack. Dare she show Mr.
Wembly the evidence? Nah. He would merely accuse her of stealing one of the gifted program's eyeballs in order to one-up the rest of the group. Besides, Lola wanted to get away from this man. He smelled like buckets of cologne and her nostrils itched. Stink City.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Wembly,” said Mrs. Rosenberg, “but the election is over. What's fair is fair.”

“Don't talk to me about fairness,” said Buck's father.”

“What are you talking about?” asked the teacher, incredulous.

“You,” Mr. Wembly said pointing to the teacher, “confiscated his yo-yos.”

Lola looked over at Buck, who was biting his nails down to the cuticles, and for a moment she felt sorry for him. Who would want a father like that?

“I cannot allow a student to buy votes, Mr. Wembly,” said Mrs. Rosenberg.

“Nor, I suppose, can you allow a student's father to buy the class a new air-conditioning system,” said Buck's dad, fanning himself to remind Ms. Rosenberg she had complained on more than one scorching occasion about budget cuts robbing her of promised cool air relief.

“That's right,” said Mrs. Rosenberg, dabbing her upper lip with a tissue. The class might as well have been an oven; she was baking. “New air-conditioning would be nice, but—
no
.”

Minutes later, still dabbing her upper lip, Mrs. Rosenberg excused the class for lunch. “Be gone, my little Egyptians. Don't return until you've expended every ounce of energy—and are ready to concentrate on Egyptian mummies. No more hullabaloo!”

As Lola and Melanie passed Buck and his father on the way to the cafeteria, they could hear Mr. Wembly scolding Buck.

“Lola beat you in the first-grade thumb-wrestling contest, the second-grade spelling bee, the third-grade skateboarding contest, the fourth-grade ping-pong tournament, and now this?”

“I told you, Dad,” said Buck, his hands deep in his pockets. “She always cheats.”

Lola resisted the urge to shout, “Liar, liar, pants on fire!” Instead, she turned to Melanie and said, “That boy gets on my last nerves.”

“Ignore him, Lola,” advised Melanie. “It's just a case of sour apples.”

Sour grapes. It was a case of sour grapes. That's what most people said when they meant someone was jealous. Not Melanie. She always mixed up her adages, but Lola wasn't about to correct her. That would have been Rudesville.

During lunch, a smug Buck—wearing his baseball cap backwards, hands deep in his pockets—butted in to the cafeteria line, right behind Lola. Smirking, he whispered, “Don't worry, Lola. It'll work out.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Lola. “The election?”

“Oh yeah, right,” said Buck, rolling his eyes. “The election and…”

“And what?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing I'm supposed to talk about.”

“Fine,” said Lola. “Don't talk about it.”

“You'll find out soon anyway,” said Buck.

“Find out what?” Lola wanted to kick him in the shins.

“Can't tell you.”

Lola whipped around. She stuck her nose in Buck's face. “Speak or die.”

Buck sighed. “You mom needs a job, huh?”

“So what.”

“So I heard your dad was making a bunch of lemons at that car plant.”

“Shut up!” said Lola. “My dad made the best cars on earth.”

“Yeah,” said Buck, “and that's why they're shutting down the plant.”

Lola fumed. He was getting to her.

“Don't worry,” said Buck. “My dad's giving your mom a job.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire!” This time Lola said it loud enough for everyone at school to hear.

“It's the truth,” said Buck.

But Lola knew he was lying. Or hoped he was.

“She's going to be his secretary,” Buck informed.

Secretary? Lola would never again celebrate Secretary's Day.

As soon as school ended that day, Lola bolted out the classroom door and charged home like a buffalo, praying to the Tumbleweed God, “Make it be a lie, a lie, a lie…”

*** *** ***

Chapter 3

“It's true, Lola,” said her mother, uncomfortably. “I start work as his administrative assistant on Monday.” Diane Zola sat at the kitchen table, a whirling fan blowing on her face. She stared at a pile of bills for the gas, the water, the rent, the loan on the new cherry-red Mustang, and more.

“Why didn't you tell me you were going to work as a servant secretary?” said Lola, furious at having learned the truth from her archenemy at school. Lola looked up at a picture taken the previous Mother's Day. She and Mom were smiling in the backyard rose garden. Suddenly the vine in the background grew six-inch thorns above Diane Zola's ears.

“I won't be a servant,” said Lola's mom quietly. “And I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. I wasn't sure how to break it to you. I knew you'd be upset.”

“I'm not upset,” said Lola, steaming. She grabbed a piece of junk mail to rocket into the wastebasket. Bowzer, curled up in a corner of the room, saw the mail fly and pounced on the wastebasket.

“Honey, try not to think about it,” said Mrs. Zola.

“Mommmmmmmmmm! I may be a kid, but I'm not a baby.” Lola's cheeks turned crimson. “I have a right to know what's going on and to throw a
tantrum if I'm…” Lola searched for the right words to needle her mother. “Pissed off.”

“Lola, I really wish you wouldn't use such…”

“Pissed, pissed, and double-pissed,” said Lola in defiance.

Diane Zola shuddered at her daughter's crude expression. “Enough! I was only trying to protect you from…”

“From what?”

“The truth,” said Mrs. Zola. “We're broke. Like it or not, I have to take that job.”

“You can't,” said Lola.

“I'm sorry, sweetie.” Diane Zola leaned over to hug her daughter. “We have no choice.”

“I'll go without peanut butter,” offered Lola in a desperate attempt to economize. “I'll sell my giraffe bow,” she added, breaking free of her mother's arms.

“Even if I gave my Mustang back to the car dealer, I'd still need to work,” said Mrs. Zola. “Who knows when your father will find work.”

“Where's Dad?” asked Lola. She was sure she could persuade him to persuade her mother to refuse to work as Buck's father's assistant.

“Out looking for a job at the hotels in Desert Springs,” said Lola's mother. She picked up Bowzer to intercept the cat's imaginary tail-chasing. “Your tail is gone now, Bowzer-boy. It's time to face cat facts,” she said, scratching the feline behind his ears.

Although the Zolas lived only thirty miles from Cactus Springs, they rarely frequented the tourist hub of the rich, tanned, and tummy-tucked. Lounging by a pool, counting face-lifts, wasn't their idea of relaxation. Besides the Zolas couldn't afford to vacation at the local resorts, not even during a good year.

Lola wondered what kind of job her father could find. Valet? Towel distributor? Golf-ball washer? She glanced over at the local newspaper
,
opened to the want ads, and noticed someone had circled an ad for a motel housekeeper. Mortified, Lola blurted out, “Dad's not a maid!”

“You can't be too proud,” said Lola's mother, “when money's tight and economists are predicting another Great Depression.”

Lola remembered reading something in social studies about the Great Depression—the stock market crash, the soup kitchens, and the tent cities.

“Yes, you can be too proud,” Lola corrected her mother, “too proud to work for Buck's father.” She was convinced pride was a positive, not negative, integer on the Richter scale of character traits.

Surely the disagreement would have escalated if Lola's father hadn't returned home to announce, or rather mumble, that no one wanted to hire him as a maid, valet, towel-tosser, or golf-ball cleaner. Hotels wanted to hire young people, not men her father's age.

As Lola studied her father's sad face, she decided not to bring up the subject of her mother's new job. That could wait. Hugging her dad, Lola said, “You'll find work, Daddeo. You're too good for those hotels. Something better will come along.”

“I hope you're right, Lola.” Her father reached into his pocket for…a present? “I got you something for the holiday,” he announced.

What holiday?

Lola's father presented his daughter with a bookmark shaped like a guinea pig. That's right. It was Guinea Pig Day in Peru!

“Thanks, Dad,” said Lola examining the bookmark. “Hey, Bowzer, take a look. No tail, just like you!”

The mere mention of the word
tail
made Bowzer meow and circle around to see if his rear had sprouted a new extension. No such luck.

“Do you think Bowzer's tail will ever grow back?” Lola asked her father—again.

“Of course it will, tuxedo man.” Michael Zola planted a kiss on the kitty's head.

Diane Zola was less certain, but still held out hope. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Right,” said Lola. “Sometimes lizard tails grow back.”

Lola's parents both nodded, finally agreeing on something.

Feeling better, Lola headed next door for a sleepover at Melanie's.

*** *** ***

“What's the latest freckle count, Mel?”

Lola's friend was counting freckles in front of her bedroom mirror.

“Three hundred and fifteen,” said Melanie, “but remember it's classified information. Don't tell a soul.”

“Mel, I would never blab your freckle secrets,” promised Lola. She plopped down in the middle of a mountain of bubble gum wrappers and planet stickers piled on Melanie's bottom bunk bed. Lola couldn't imagine betraying her soul-sister's trust. The two had been friends since Melanie's parents had died in a car accident, leaving Aunt Liza to adopt Melanie.

Shortly after Melanie moved in to her aunt's home next door, Lola discovered the two had a lot in common. They both loved peanut butter and
mysteries. Boys were the biggest mystery of all. Three years ago Melanie served as vice president of the “Boys Are Weird” club. You-know-who was president.