Lola Levine Is Not Mean! Read online

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  For Jeffrey, Bella, and Jules

  Dear Diario,

  I’m getting really tired of being teased by the girls in my class. Everyone laughed at my new haircut yesterday, so I put on my favorite Peruvian hat—the one with the flaps around the ears—to cover it up. Then they laughed even harder! What they don’t understand is that I cut my hair because it kept falling in my face and getting in the way during soccer games.

  Mom says to tell her next time I want a haircut and she’ll bring me to a beauty salon. But the last time I went to a beauty salon, I sneezed and sneezed. I think I’m allergic.

  Shalom,

  Lola Levine

  Chapter One

  Hello, Good-Bye, and Peace

  My name is Lola Levine, and the truth is I’d rather jump on the bed than go to bed. Who wants to sleep when there are so many fun things to do? I’d much rather be reading or painting or writing in my diary or playing soccer. But my parents disagree. “Lights-out at eight,” they say, because no matter what time I go to bed, I’m wide-awake by six AM. Even on weekends. My parents also think that six AM on Saturday morning is too early to juggle a soccer ball. (I certainly didn’t plan to knock over my lamp and wake everyone up last Saturday!)

  Sleep is overrated, in my opinion, and I have lots of opinions. For example, I think soccer is the greatest sport in the whole wide world. Every year on the first day of soccer practice, I wear a T-shirt that says MY GOAL IS STOPPING YOURS! I am a goalie. That’s the position where you guard the goal and stop the forwards from scoring. In my opinion, forwards can be a little obnoxious, which is why I like to stop them.

  My little brother, Ben, is a forward. A month ago, Ben slammed into a defender while trying to get to the ball. He ended up with two chipped teeth, which I thought looked cool. Mom and Dad didn’t agree, though, so now he has to wear a mouth guard when he plays, which is a big black plastic thing that you wear to protect your teeth. Ben doesn’t mind. In fact, he thinks his mouth guard makes him look fierce, so he wears it all the time. Except in class, that is, because it was grossing everyone out when he talked.

  Thwump! Ben is bouncing his soccer ball against my door. Again.

  “Hey, Lola!” he yells from the other side. “Wanna hear a joke?”

  “No,” I say, knowing that won’t stop him.

  Thwump! I hear again. “What do you call a pig who plays soccer?” Ben asks.

  “A ball hog,” I say, rolling my eyes, even though Ben can’t see me through the door.

  “Duh,” Ben says. “That was an easy one. How about this: Why are soccer players so smart?”

  I open the door, which isn’t such a good idea, since Ben is there with his soccer ball. He heads the ball over my shoulder before I have a chance to react.

  “Goooooooooooooal!” he yells. “Soccer players are smart because we use our heads!” And he’s off and running down the hall, screaming, “I scored on Lola! I scored on Lola!”

  “Ben,” I say, “Mom said no more doorway soccer!”

  Doorway soccer is a game Ben and I made up one day when it was raining outside and we were bored. The hallway was the field, and the doors to our bedrooms were the goals. But after Ben fell down the stairs trying to get to the ball, Mom and Dad said, “No more!” and drove us to the rec center.

  The thing you need to know about Ben is that he has what our parents call “a strong personality.” They also say he takes after me. He’s okay as far as little brothers go, except when he sticks out his tongue at me behind Mom’s back, which he hardly ever does now that he’s wearing a mouth guard. Or when he goes into my room without permission. I hate that. Well, I’ll just say I dislike it very much, because as Mom says, “hate” is a strong word and she’d rather I didn’t use it. Mom is a writer for the newspaper, so she has lots of opinions about words. Especially mine.

  Like Mom, I’m a writer. I don’t write for a newspaper (yet), but I write in my diary, I write letters, and I write notes to everyone in my family, especially when I’m upset. Sometimes I leave these notes in surprising places, like the dishwasher or inside Ben’s shoe. Sometimes I write what I call “convincing” notes. These are notes I use when I’m trying to get my family to do something. It’s better than being a pest, according to Mom. For example, on my nightstand, there is a frame. In the frame, there is a note. The note says:

  Dear Mom and Dad,

  This is where I will put a picture of my kitty. If I ever get a kitty.

  Shalom,

  Lola Levine

  I like the word “shalom” because it means three things: “hello,” “good-bye,” and “peace.” My dad taught it to me. My dad is Jewish. My mom is Catholic. A boy at school said I was a half-and-half once. I disliked that very much. Mom and Dad tell me that I’m whole just the way I am, and I agree.

  My note is a little hint for Mom and Dad, because I really want a kitty. Each day, I try to convince Mom and Dad a little more. But Mom says that birthdays are one day a year and cats are forever. I love animals—all animals, big or small, with claws or paws or scales. But so far the only pet I have is Mia, my goldfish. I named her after Mia Hamm, who was only fifteen when she joined the US Women’s National Soccer Team. She won two Olympic gold medals and two World Cups. I love my pet, but as I keep telling Mom, you can’t cuddle a fish. I’ve been dropping big and little hints about a kitty for a few months now.

  I think having a kitty might make me feel better about not having too many friends at school. I do have one super best friend, though. His name is Josh Blot, and we do lots of stuff together. When Josh is sick and doesn’t come to school, it’s a big bummer because I’m pretty much on my own. No one else picks me for a partner or to play with at recess. Especially not Alyssa Goldstein or Makayla Miller, the most popular girls in my class at Northland Elementary School. Alyssa and Makayla are best friends, of course.

  “You do realize that a girl can’t have a best friend that’s a boy, right?” Makayla told me just last week. She and Alyssa are always bugging me about something. They make fun of my hair, my clothes, what I say, and what I do. I get pretty tired of it, actually.

  “Why can’t a girl be best friends with a boy?” I asked, but I didn’t have time to hear her answer because just then Josh ran up.

  “Race you to the fence, Lola!” he said, and we were off. We tied, but Josh got a splinter because his hand hit the fence so hard. I helped him pull it out because that’s what best friends are for, right?

  Chapter Two

  The Orange Smoothies

  On Monday morning, I wake up, cross my fingers, touch the picture of Briana Scurry on my wall, and turn around three times for luck. Briana Scurry was the goalie for the US Olympic women’s soccer team when they won gold medals in 1996 and 2004. She is, in my opinion, the best goalie that has ever played the game. I got the photo last year for my seventh birthday, along with an Olympic soccer jersey, which is my very favorite shirt, even though it’s white, which is a boring color, in my opinion. My favorite color is purple, which is why Dad and I painted the walls of my room purple last summer.

  We also painted orange polka dots for my soccer team, the Orange Smoothies. We are number
one in our league. I wanted us to be called the Orange Fireballs or the Orange Tigers, but Alyssa suggested the Orange Smoothies and everyone liked that name better. Alyssa is my least favorite member of the Orange Smoothies. She is, in my opinion, a show-off. She is also a forward.

  Today I’m feeling a little bit red, so I run down the stairs, out the door, and across the yard into my dad’s art studio, where he’s already working on a great big colorful painting.

  “Dad! Can I borrow some red paint?” I ask.

  “Of course,” he says, “but don’t be late for breakfast.”

  He and I mix up a really cool red color, and ten minutes later, my bedroom closet has bright red flowers floating over the grass that Josh and I painted last weekend. Josh thinks it’s cool that I can paint on my closet whenever I want. I tell him it’s just because my dad is an artist who believes in “creative expression.” Josh’s mom is the principal of our school, and she doesn’t let Josh paint on the walls.

  I open my window to help the paint dry, then get dressed for school, take our stairs two at a time, and karate-kick the door into the kitchen open.

  Ben is already at the table.

  “Dolores,” he says, “I scored on you!” Lola is short for Dolores, which means “pain” in Spanish, and Ben knows that I don’t like my full name, even if I’m named after my tía Lola and even if she’s the most awesome aunt ever. Tía Lola uses a nickname, and I do, too. I just wish my tía Lola didn’t live so far away—she’s all the way in Peru, a whole different continent! My middle name is Esther, and sometimes my bubbe, my grandma Levine, calls me that because it was her grandma’s name. Unfortunately, my bubbe lives far away, too.

  “Mind your own business, Benjamin,” I say, but it doesn’t have the same effect. As I spread cream cheese on my bagel, Ben just sticks out his tongue and starts tapping out a rhythm with his spoon. He does this to annoy me.

  Mom is wearing her red suit when she pokes into the kitchen and says, “Buenos días, Lola! Good morning, Benito!” She comes over and kisses us each on the head. “Lola, don’t forget your lunch today,” she says, wrapping her arms around me in a big hug. Sometimes I accidentally forget my lunch, especially when Dad accidentally puts cauliflower in it. Cauliflower is a white food that I dislike very much.

  “Ben,” Mom says, “wash your face and brush your hair!”

  “Dolores,” Ben says, “can you help?”

  Ben’s hair is long and curly and crazy and sticking up—as usual.

  “Fine,” I say. “But DON’T call me Dolores!”

  “Okay, Dol—I mean Lola,” Ben says. Ben hates getting his hair cut, and a year ago, on his fifth birthday, he announced that he wouldn’t get it cut anymore. Ever. Dad thought this was a form of creative expression, so he agreed to it.

  “For now,” Mom said. “And only if he can keep the knots out.” Since Dad has a ponytail himself, I think he was secretly glad.

  Ben and I manage to get all his hair under control.

  Mom pours herself a cup of café con leche, and I ask if she has a big interview for the paper.

  “How’d you know?” Mom asks with a wink.

  “Because you’re wearing your red suit,” I say, “which matches the flowers I just painted on my closet.”

  “I know,” says Mom.

  “How’d you know?” I ask, dipping my bagel into Mom’s sweet, milky coffee. Mom just smiles, picks up her napkin, and wipes a spot of red paint from my nose.

  Chapter Three

  Five-Minute Warning Bell

  Mom drops us off at Northland Elementary School on her way to work. I walk Ben into his kindergarten classroom at the front of the building, and then I go down the long hall to Ms. Garcia’s second-grade classroom all by myself.

  “Hola, Lola!” Ms. Garcia says with a smile when I walk through the door.

  “Buenos días, Ms. Garcia. ¿Cómo estás?” I say, smiling back.

  “Muy bien, gracias, Lola,” Ms. Garcia says. Ms. Garcia knows that I like to practice my Spanish as often as I can. When I finally get to visit my tía Lola in Peru, I want to show her how much I’ve learned.

  Ms. Garcia is a great teacher, in my opinion. She is one of my favorite people in the whole wide world. On the very first day of second grade, Ms. Garcia took roll. She called out, “Levine, Dolores.” My name sounded pretty the way she said it, rolling the r just like my mom does, but that didn’t stop Alyssa from snorting behind me. I raised my hand to tell Ms. Garcia my nickname, but she was already on to Lopez, Olivia, and Miller, Makayla. So before I went home for the day, I left a note wrapped around Ms. Garcia’s purple pen.

  Dear Ms. Garcia,

  Please call me Lola. I don’t like the name Dolores and I don’t want to be teased by Alyssa. Last year she made up a rhyme. “Dolores is a pain, just like her name!”

  I hated disliked that very much.

  Shalom,

  Lola Levine

  Ms. Garcia started calling me Lola the very next day.

  Today Josh meets me at my desk.

  “Hey, Lola!” he says. “What’s up?!”

  “Not much,” I say. “How’s Milo?” Josh may not be allowed to paint on the walls, but he does have a big cute cuddly cat.

  “He coughed up the biggest hair ball ever this weekend!” Josh says, and we both laugh.

  I can tell it’s going to be a great day.

  On Monday afternoons, we get an extra-long recess, and we usually play soccer.

  “Boys against girls!” I yell, grabbing the ball and running outside.

  “Why don’t we have a mixed team for once?” Alyssa whines.

  “Yeah, Lola,” says Makayla with her hands on her hips.

  “That would definitely be more fair… to the girls,” Juan says, laughing, which really annoys me.

  “Juan Gomez,” I say in my loudest voice, “you boys only won by two points last Monday, so stop bragging!”

  “You’re not in charge, Lola,” Alyssa says, and goes over to stand by Juan. Alyssa like-likes Juan, but that doesn’t mean she has to agree with everything he says, does it?

  “Let’s just play,” Josh jumps in. “Boys against girls this week, then mixed teams next week.” No one wants to argue with Josh, not even Alyssa, because Josh is nice, cute, popular, and Principal Blot’s son. Not that I think Josh is cute or anything, but I know other girls do. Last year, Olivia Lopez gave Josh a great big red lollipop on Valentine’s Day with a note that said “Won’t you be mine?” Josh turned as red as the lollipop and didn’t even say thank you. After school, he and I cracked it into pieces and ate it with our fingers. It was yummy.

  Josh walks toward the soccer field, and we follow.

  “On your toes, everyone!” I say. “Let’s be tough!”

  “You know, Lola, some of us actually like boys,” Alyssa says.

  “I like boys,” I say, and I really do. “I like beating them at soccer.”

  “Someday, when you’re older, you’ll understand,” Makayla says, rolling her eyes.

  “I’m two months older than you, Makayla!” I say, not noticing that the game has started until Juan takes a shot that whizzes past me.

  “Goooooooooooooooal,” Juan says, flapping his arms. Ugh.

  We play hard, and soon we are tied up, 1–1. We hear the five-minute warning bell, and I know that this is our chance to take the lead.

  “Come on, girls!” I say. “Step up!” Juan drives past the midfielders, and he’s headed straight toward our goal. I can’t let him score again. He’s fast, but so am I. I come out of my box and decide to go for a slide tackle—I leave my feet and slide sideways toward him, hoping my foot will reach the ball in time. Instead of hitting the ball, though, my feet hit Juan’s ankle, and he falls. Hard. He doesn’t get up.

  “Foul!” the boys yell.

  “What’s wrong with you, Lola?!” Alyssa says, and runs over to Juan.

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell Juan, but he just says, “Go away, Lola!” He’s grabbing his ankle, and I
can tell he’s trying really hard not to cry.

  “You are so mean, Lola!” says Makayla. “Can’t you play sports like a normal person?”

  I want to ask Makayla how a normal person plays sports, but I don’t get a chance because just then I look up to see Principal Blot marching toward us.

  “Uh-oh,” says Josh.

  “Double uh-oh,” I say back.

  Principal Blot takes one look at Juan and asks Josh to go get the nurse. Everyone starts talking at once, and the next thing I know, I’m in Principal Blot’s office.

  Did I say this was going to be a great day? Boy, was I ever wrong.

  Chapter Four

  Mean Lola Levine

  The next day at recess, I sit on the bench all by myself. Principal Blot won’t let me play team sports until I’ve learned my lesson, which means no tag, no kickball, and worst of all, no soccer. Josh is the only one who walks over to say hello.

  “Well, at least my mom didn’t call your parents,” Josh says. “Want to meet at the park after school?”

  “No, thanks,” I say, looking down. “I’ve got too much homework.” Which isn’t actually true. I know it’s not Josh’s fault, but I just don’t want to be with anyone whose last name is Blot.

  “Okay, Lola, whatever you say,” Josh says with a frown, and leaves me alone. Watching him walk off, I’m already sorry I said I wouldn’t meet him. Recess by myself lasts a long time, so I decide to write Josh a note.

  Dear Josh,

  Sorry I said I couldn’t go to the park. I’m just grumpy. I think it’s because I’m trying to learn my lesson. See you tomorrow.

  Shalom,

  Lola Levine