Read Online The One and Only Zoe Lama by Tish Cohen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tish Cohen
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really ugly, really moldy confetti.
Devon Sweeney is trying to poach my very best client!
Time to Panic
“Listen to this,” says Laurel, stepping onto my elevator Monday after school. Her nose is deep inside a very shiny, very pink, lousy excuse for a rule book. “Grooming someone to be your Major Best Friend spells LOVE!” she reads. “ L is for Learner. If you tell your MBF what you want from her, she’ll be a quick Learner!”
“A quick learner?” I snort. I pound on the button for the eighth floor. Nothing happens.
Susannah peers over Laurel’s shoulder. “ O is for Open,” she reads. “Open yourself up to your MBF’s fears and concerns and you’ll spend many happy years together. V is for Voice. Always speak to a new MBF in a calm, soothing voice so she learns she can trust you.” In a calm, soothing voice, Susannah says to me, “Hit that stupid button harder or we’ll miss The Garage Girls. ”
I blow on the heel of my hand—for luck—and hit it hard. Still nothing.
I have something of a love-hate thing going with elevators. On the one hand, with an elevator, I don’t have to walk eight flights of stairs several times each day.
On the other hand, there’s the creepy, panicky feeling I get when I’m stuck in small spaces and can’t get out. I once Googled scared of small places and learned it’s called claustrophobia and probably comes from a “traumatic childhood event.” Well, I know exactly what childhood event caused it. It was when I was five and my gorilla-size and gorillashaped cousins, Liza and Lance, came to visit from Oregon. I stashed myself in Liza’s pink suitcase during hide-and-seek and Lance found me and zipped the suitcase shut. He carried me around the apartment until his mother heard my muffled screams and made him open up. I fell out onto the floor.
Lance got half a day without video games. I got a lifetime fear of being packed.
“I shouldn’t even be here,” says Susannah, checking her watch. “My audition is in an hour and a half and I should probably go home and get ready.”
Laurel looks up. “Is this for the fresh-face commercial? Just you, a bathroom mirror, and a sinkful of icy-cold water?”
“Yes. This is the job of a lifetime.”
“I thought the TV show and major motion picture are going to be the jobs of a lifetime,” Laurel says.
“This one’s a stepping-stone!” Susannah snaps.
Just as I’m getting ready to whack the stuffing out of the button, I see my mother waving to me from the lobby.
“Zoë, honey! I need your help with some groceries,” she sings before disappearing into the parking garage.
I look at Laurel and Susannah, who are looking at Susannah’s watch and bugging their eyes. “We have to go upstairs or we’ll miss the entire beginning,” says Susannah.
“We’ll do it all in one trip,” I say, hurrying down the hall toward the garage stairwell. The girls don’t move. “Come on!”
Susannah pokes her perfect nose in the air. “That doesn’t sound like a calm, soothing MBF voice to me…”
“If we don’t hurry, my mom will make us unpack the groceries, too!”
Laurel and Susannah chase after me.
Down in the garage, Mom is complaining to Mr. Kingsley that the garage door takes too long to open, so we grab the bags out of the trunk.
Halfway to the elevator—which still hasn’t budged—westart to run. Dropping onto the elevator floor, groaning from the cruelty of child labor, we pull the bags off our arms and Susannah and I lie back on them, exhausted.
Laurel goes for total button control. She hits all the top-floor buttons and drums her fists against the other knobs. The elevator isn’t impressed with Laurel’s sudden burst of energy. When she finally does her big solo finale on the “door close” button, the elevator walls shiver, then close, and the elevator car starts to climb up, up, up.
“That was brutal grocery-bag abuse,” says Laurel, reaching for Devon’s folder in her backpack.
Devon Sweeney is trying to poach my very best client!
Time to Panic
“Listen to this,” says Laurel, stepping onto my elevator Monday after school. Her nose is deep inside a very shiny, very pink, lousy excuse for a rule book. “Grooming someone to be your Major Best Friend spells LOVE!” she reads. “ L is for Learner. If you tell your MBF what you want from her, she’ll be a quick Learner!”
“A quick learner?” I snort. I pound on the button for the eighth floor. Nothing happens.
Susannah peers over Laurel’s shoulder. “ O is for Open,” she reads. “Open yourself up to your MBF’s fears and concerns and you’ll spend many happy years together. V is for Voice. Always speak to a new MBF in a calm, soothing voice so she learns she can trust you.” In a calm, soothing voice, Susannah says to me, “Hit that stupid button harder or we’ll miss The Garage Girls. ”
I blow on the heel of my hand—for luck—and hit it hard. Still nothing.
I have something of a love-hate thing going with elevators. On the one hand, with an elevator, I don’t have to walk eight flights of stairs several times each day.
On the other hand, there’s the creepy, panicky feeling I get when I’m stuck in small spaces and can’t get out. I once Googled scared of small places and learned it’s called claustrophobia and probably comes from a “traumatic childhood event.” Well, I know exactly what childhood event caused it. It was when I was five and my gorilla-size and gorillashaped cousins, Liza and Lance, came to visit from Oregon. I stashed myself in Liza’s pink suitcase during hide-and-seek and Lance found me and zipped the suitcase shut. He carried me around the apartment until his mother heard my muffled screams and made him open up. I fell out onto the floor.
Lance got half a day without video games. I got a lifetime fear of being packed.
“I shouldn’t even be here,” says Susannah, checking her watch. “My audition is in an hour and a half and I should probably go home and get ready.”
Laurel looks up. “Is this for the fresh-face commercial? Just you, a bathroom mirror, and a sinkful of icy-cold water?”
“Yes. This is the job of a lifetime.”
“I thought the TV show and major motion picture are going to be the jobs of a lifetime,” Laurel says.
“This one’s a stepping-stone!” Susannah snaps.
Just as I’m getting ready to whack the stuffing out of the button, I see my mother waving to me from the lobby.
“Zoë, honey! I need your help with some groceries,” she sings before disappearing into the parking garage.
I look at Laurel and Susannah, who are looking at Susannah’s watch and bugging their eyes. “We have to go upstairs or we’ll miss the entire beginning,” says Susannah.
“We’ll do it all in one trip,” I say, hurrying down the hall toward the garage stairwell. The girls don’t move. “Come on!”
Susannah pokes her perfect nose in the air. “That doesn’t sound like a calm, soothing MBF voice to me…”
“If we don’t hurry, my mom will make us unpack the groceries, too!”
Laurel and Susannah chase after me.
Down in the garage, Mom is complaining to Mr. Kingsley that the garage door takes too long to open, so we grab the bags out of the trunk.
Halfway to the elevator—which still hasn’t budged—westart to run. Dropping onto the elevator floor, groaning from the cruelty of child labor, we pull the bags off our arms and Susannah and I lie back on them, exhausted.
Laurel goes for total button control. She hits all the top-floor buttons and drums her fists against the other knobs. The elevator isn’t impressed with Laurel’s sudden burst of energy. When she finally does her big solo finale on the “door close” button, the elevator walls shiver, then close, and the elevator car starts to climb up, up, up.
“That was brutal grocery-bag abuse,” says Laurel, reaching for Devon’s folder in her backpack.
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