“WHAT’S UP WITH THE BASE-ball cap?” Dad asks me at the bus stop the next day.
“It might rain,” I say.
Dad looks up at the sky. The sun is shining, big and yellow like a sunny-side up egg. Dad says it’s the warmest day ever on record just two days from Thanksgiving. Granny Coogan says it’s so hot down in Texas the hens are laying hard-boiled eggs. She can’t wait to get on an airplane in two days and come up here where hens lay regular eggs.
“Lola,” Dad says. “Tell me the truth.”
I think fast. “Dad, what’s the difference between happy and happy-go-lucky?”
“Happy is Patches wagging his tail when he gets a treat. Happy-go-lucky is when he doesn’t get a treat, but he still wags his tail.”
“Oh.” I need another idea quick. “Aren’t you sad Chuncle’s not coming for Thanksgiving?” I ask. Chuncle is my Uncle Charlie.
Dad looks pensive. Pensive means you’re sad and you wish you had a pen to write it down. “Yes, I am,” Dad says. “I don’t get to see Chuncle nearly as often as I’d like.”
“Did you play Blanket of Doom with him when you were kids?” I ask.
Dad smiles. “Maybe not that game, but lots of other games.”
“But then you got to be big and you had to stop,” I say. And that gets me thinking.
“And the hat?” Dad asks again because he’s good at remembering.
“I forgot to brush my hair under here,” I say.
“Hmm,” Dad says. But the bus pulls up before Dad’s “hmm” can get somewhere.
On the bus I take off my baseball cap and scratch my head. Whew. I sit down and wave to Dad. Dad waves goodbye to me. Suddenly, Dad frowns. He points to my head.
I read Dad’s lips. “Your hair!” he’s shouting. He pretends to brush his head.
“HUH?” I play dumb. ’Cause last night I just glided my brush over the top layer. That sneaky snarly knot hid underneath like a mean ol’ tumbleweed. Mom wasn’t watching me brush my hair good ’cause her sewing machine was bunching up all her thread. Plus, I was in a hurry to get to bed ’cause Dad was telling me the next installment of “Adventures of Dad and Chuncle” (and it was a good one, ’cause Chuncle got stuck in a heating vent). I guess that smooth top layer did a good hiding job. Dad didn’t notice the sneaking stinker knot.
Now it’s big as a tennis ball. I try to smooth it down. I wave goodbye to Dad. He’s still pretend-brushing away at his head.
Jessie and Amanda get on the bus.
“You never brushed your hair, did you?” Jessie points out first thing.
“Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t,” I say.
“You didn’t,” Jessie says.
Amanda doesn’t say anything. She’s looking kind of soupy.
At school, they go into the bathroom to brush their hair. I barrel straight to my classroom because I love being first in the room. And I love Mrs. D. And there she is, sharpening pencils. She LOVES sharp pencils.
“HI, MRS. D.” I shout to get her attention. “I’m here FIRST!”
“Good morning, Lola,” Mrs. D. says in her Milk voice. “You are early, aren’t you?”
“Yep, ’cause Sal drives really fast.”
“Well, he follows the speed limit, I’m sure,” Mrs. D. says.
“Sal told me that his wife is making bittersweet chocolate pudding cake with vanilla gelato for Thanksgiving.”
Mrs. D. smacks her lips. “Yum! I’d like to taste that!”
“How ’bout homemade cranberry sauce?” I ask. “We’re making that.”
“Homemade?” she says. “That would be nice.”
“Ours is can-shaped,” I tell her. Also: “I can tell it’s going to be a good day.”
“Glad to hear it,” she says.
I wait for her to ask me why.
And wait. And wait.
She’s slurping down her coffee from her travel mug and reading something.
“Wanna know why?” I FINALLY ask.
“Why?”
“’Cause it’s Tally Mark Tuesday.”
“Oh! You like tally marks, don’t you, Lola?”
I nod really hard so she gets my point. “They look like four people carrying one person who fell down and broke her leg.”
“Hmm, I suppose so,” she says.
First I go through my Morning Routine. I sign up for the hot lunch today because it’s ziti. Ziti starts with a Z and goes last just like Zuckerman. Poor poor poor ziti. I pass in my homework.
I look up at the bulletin board. The bulletin board is handy in case you ever forget the month. Up there a turkey’s wearing a Pilgrim’s hat.
Soon the classroom is filled with all the kids in Mrs. D.’s class. I have a whole lot of love inside me. So I hug Savannah Travers in her rainbow T-shirt. I hug Olivia in her fuzzy pink sweater. I hug Madison in her purple silk kimono all the way from Tokyo, Japan. And Amanda Anderson finally gets done looking in the mirror and I hug her and I can tell she still feels soupy. I smile our Super Goofer Smile. But Amanda doesn’t smile back.
“What’s wrong, Amanda?” I ask. I pat her on her head real careful so I don’t give her a hair knot.
But Amanda just shakes her head. “Nothing,” she says, and it sounds like she forgot how to say “everything.”
Gwendolyn Swanson-Carmichael comes in. “Lola, your dress has too many pockets,” she tells me.
“No, sir!” I say. “This is my brand-new Lola dress my mom made me with deluxe pockets.” Deluxe means you wish you had one. Mom made twenty-eight for those people in California and one extra special one for me. It’s got every color in the rainbow ’cause I don’t like to play favorites.
“Well, I still think . . . ,” Gwendolyn Swanson-Carmichael says.
I growl at her like Patches ’cause I ran out of nice. She runs away.
Harvey Baxter hangs off the back of his chair, and Ari Shapiro falls flat on the carpet ’cause he got shot by the Green Lord.
“Good morning, Gumdrops!” Mrs. D. calls. “Harvey, Ari, up.” She gulps coffee from her travel mug.
After morning meeting, it’s time for Math, which means time for the Tally Mark Activity. My leg is going jigger jigger jigger ’cause it’s ready for recess even though the rest of me can’t wait for tally marks.
On one side of the chalkboard, Mrs. D. writes, “Traveling for Thanksgiving.” On the other side, she writes, “Staying Home for Thanksgiving.”
I can’t wait to add my tally to the side that says, “Staying Home for Thanksgiving.” But with the name Zuckerman, I will go last. Dead last.
Mrs. D. stands there with a piece of chalk ready for action. “Amanda, you’re first.”
“We’re going to Cancún, Mexico,” Amanda says. Amanda’s eyes get all shiny. Mrs. D. makes a tally mark under “Traveling for Thanksgiving.” A tear leaks right out of Amanda’s eye.
“What’s wrong, Amanda?” I ask in my loudest whisper.
“Nothing,” Amanda whispers back. But it’s something all right ’cause Amanda says, “I don’t want to go to Cancún for Thanksgiving!” loud enough that the whole class hears her.
“You don’t?” Jessie says. “But that’s a deluxe vacation destination.”
“Oh, dear!” Mrs. D. says. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Before I can holler, “There, there,” like a grown-up, Amanda runs right out of the room. And it wasn’t even my fault.
“Lola, go follow her!” Mrs. D. tells me, even though Mrs. D. loves people sitting down. I spring up from my desk and zip after Amanda.
