MY NAME IS LOLA ZUCKERMAN, and Zuckerman means I’m always last. Just like zippers, zoom, and zebras. Last. Zilch, zeroes, and zombies. Last.
ZZZZZZZ when you’re too tired to stay awake. ZZZZZZZZ when a bee is about to sting you. Z. Ding-dong LAST in the alphabet.
Every single day my teacher, Mrs. D., lets us out in Alphabetical Order. Every single day my best friend Amanda Anderson zips out the door first, and then Harvey Baxter, Dilly Chang, and Jessie Chavez.
Guess what else? I’ll tell you. Every single day Amanda sits with Jessie on the bus going home. Even though they live on the same street and you’d think that would be PLENTY of time to spend together. But NO. You’d be wrong. Dead Wrong.
If only my name were Lola Adventure. Or Lola Amazing. Or Lola Awesome. Even if I were Lola Butterbean or Lola Bowling Ball, I’d beat out Chavez every time. But no. I’m stuckerman with Lola Zuckerman.
BRIIIING!
Mrs. D. says, “Lollipops, time for dismissal,” and begins calling our names. Mrs. D. calls us candy names ’cause she luh-huvs candy. Once she got her teeth locked together with caramel.
I wait and wait and wait. I hang off my chair. Past the whole alphabet. Mrs. D. sidles up to me and leans down. She whispers chocolate into my face. “Don’t forget to have Mom or Dad sign the permission slip, okay? The field trip is on Thursday.” Then she tucks ANOTHER permission slip into my pocket.
My face heats up and my heart snaps like a rubber band. “My mom and dad went on a trip,” I say. “Grandma is taking care of Jack and me until they get back and that’s not until Thursday night.”
“If Grandma signs it, that will be fine,” Mrs. D. whispers.
Whew.
Then she hollers, “Okay, last but not least, Lola, line up.”
I skip to the end of the line—zip.
“Lola, stop breathing on my neck,” Ben Wexler says.
“Lola, take a step back, please,” Mrs. D. calls.
Fishsticks! I take a step back.
Mrs. D. leads us out the door. As we walk, I fish around in my candy pocket for jelly beans. My hand sweats on them a little, but I bet they still taste good. I give one to Ben Wexler.
“Can I trade places?” I ask him. He nods. And I get in front of him. I pass a jelly bean to the new girl, Savannah Travers, and take her place. I work my way up the line, past Timo Toivonen, past Gwendolyn Swanson-Carmichael, past Ruby Snow. All the way up, until I’m behind Jessie Chavez.
“Hey,” Jessie says. “You cut.”
“Did not. I traded.” I hold out a jelly bean. A nice green one. “Wanna trade? I stand in front of you and you get my jelly bean.”
Jessie stares at the green jelly bean. Slowly she shakes her head.
“Tell you what,” I say. I reach into my pocket and fish out another jelly bean. “I’ll make it two.” That second jelly bean is a real humdinger. It’s a weird one, a double jelly bean. It’s pink-pink with tiny bits of light pink. It’s all the pink a pink-stinker could want.
Jessie stares at the double jelly bean plus the green jelly bean. “Fine,” she says. “Let’s trade.” She snatches those jelly beans and—zloop—pops the green one in her mouth. She pings the pink one in her pocket.
I squeeze in front of Jessie Chavez and behind Dilly Chang and Harvey Baxter. I can see over them. Straight to Amanda Anderson.
“Hi, Amanda!” I holler-whisper. ’Cause we have to use our inside voices even when we’re practically out the door.
Amanda likes The Rules. That’s why she doesn’t turn around. I bet.
“Amanda! Yoo-hoo!” I yodel-lady-who.
She finally looks at me. Amanda’s blue eyes get big and her brown eyebrows pip up. “Lola, what are you doing?!” she says. “You can’t cut in line. ’Member?”
“I didn’t!” I explain. “I traded my way up.”
“Oh!” she says. Then she turns around and—OW OW OW—she smacks right into the closed door instead of following Mrs. D. through the open one.
She stumbles this way and that way, holding her face.
Mrs. D. whips around. “Amanda, are you okay?” Mrs. D. hollers it out loud, and I holler it in my brain.
“I’m fine,” she squeaks between her fingers in a Not-Fine-and-It’s-Lola’s-Fault voice.
“Lola,” Mrs. D. barks. “We’ve already talked about this.”
“Okay,” I say and slither to the back of the line. Lizards slither and snakes slither and so do kids who have to go all the way to the end of the line. Minus seventeen jelly beans.
Finally, I climb on board Bus One. Sure enough, Jessie and Amanda are nestled in tight like two baby kangaroos in one pouch.
“You always get to sit with Amanda on the way home,” I remind Jessie, friendly-like. “Can I sit with her today? Pretty please?”
“No way, José. You’re not supposed to get up once you sit down.”
That’s true. That’s one of Sal’s bus rules. Also, two to a seat. Not three.
Sal starts up the bus and we plant our tushies and glue our eyes straight ahead. Except I hear a whistling giggle so I sneak a look around and say, “What’s so funny?”
Amanda shrugs and Jessie shrugs.
“Nothing,” Jessie mutters like a toothless old man.
“Your forehead is purply,” I whisper to Amanda. “Does that hurt?” Poor, poor, poor Amanda.
Amanda touches her forehead and squinches up her face. “That’s ’cause you distracted me when you cut in line.” Uh-oh. She sounds miffed. Miffed is mad but you’re not saying.
My heart aches like it walked into double doors and the rest of me doesn’t feel good, either. Something’s tickling me on the tip of my tongue and I think it’s “sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just wanted to sit with you.” I dig out a couple of jelly beans. “Here, Amanda. This’ll make you feel better.”
I plop the jelly beans in her hand. One is purple like her head and one is black. It turns your teeth black when you chew it. Amanda will love that.
She smiles at me with boring white teeth. “Thanks, Lola!”
Jessie shakes her finger. “You’re lucky Amanda didn’t get knocked out.”
I pop up on my knees and lean over my seat. “You’re lucky I don’t take back that pink jelly bean.”
“No take-backs, Lola Zuckerman,” Jessie growls like a vicious Chihuahua.
“Lola!” Sal yells. “We talked about this!”
“Okay!” I plant my tushie double-fast.
Sal zooms down the road. I twist around again. Amanda and Jessie are doing the Hand Jive.
“Can I play?” I ask. Sal drives over a pothole and I bounce into the air.
“You can’t play,” Jessie says, “’cause you weren’t there when we learned it.”
“Lola, face forward before you get in trouble,” Amanda says.
“I can learn,” I say. “I learn fast.” I stick my hands in the middle of their Hand Jive.
“OW!” Jessie screams. “You POKED me!”
Our bus whips over to the side of the road. And guess what? It’s nobody’s stop.
“Lola!” Sal points to me. “Come up here and sit behind me.”
I stomp up to the seat where you can count fourteen freckles on Sal’s bald head. Where bad kids sit. “Please move over, Harvey,” I say.
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m glued to the seat, see?” Harvey grunts and pretends he can’t move.
I shove Harvey over and sit down partly on him.
“Oof! You crushed me. You weigh more than my dog!”
Harvey is rude like that. He must have missed school when they had Be-a-Bully-Buster Day.
Sal drives over another pothole and we bounce. Harvey bellows, “Yahoo!”
“Quiet up there!” Jessie Chavez yells.
“Quiet yourself, Jessie!” I holler back.
Sal pulls up to the stop on Windy Hill Drive.
“Bye, Lola,” Jessie and Amanda call out at the same time, just like they practiced it.
“Bye,” I say, all by my lonesome self.
Amanda pauses at the top of the stairs. “I’ll sit with you on the way to school tomorrow.”
I smile big as a slice of watermelon. Whew! I’m glad Amanda isn’t mad at me for distracting her right into the double doors. Amanda waves good-bye and hops—one, two, three—off the bus.
And then I think of something.
I lean over the two teensy kindergarten kids across the aisle. I bang on their window. “AMANDA!” I yell.
“AMANDA, WILL YOU SIT WITH ME ON THE FIELD TRIP TO KOOKAMUT FARM?”
But Amanda and Jessie are skipping down Windy Hill Drive.
Amanda can’t hear me. Otherwise she’d say yes.
I’ll call her soon as I get home. We’ll make a plan to sit together on the field trip. We’ll pet chickens. We’ll learn about harvesting fall crops. We’ll pick apples, red for me and yellow for Amanda. We’ll get Friend-of-a-Farmer badges. And Jessie can sit with Gwendolyn.
It’s the perfect plan.
