Lola Zola and the Lemonade Crush (7 page)

Lola picked up Bowzer and scratched him under his fake ruby-studded collar, which Dad had discovered at a garage sale. The red gems popped out at Lola.

“I've got it!” shouted Lola.

“Got what?” asked a forever-bewildered Melanie.

“The answer to our money problems,” explained Lola. “Ruby.”

“Ruby who?”

“Ruby Rhubarb, the smartest businesswoman in the West.”

Lola and Melanie had only met Ruby Rhubarb a few times while soliciting door-to-door for charitable donations to save homeless animals from death row at the local pound. Mrs. Rhubarb had told them repeatedly she put people ahead of dogs and if she was going to donate money, it would be to needy humans, not “foul-smelling beasts.”

“She never gave us money before,” said Melanie.

“This is different,” said Lola, searching for the right words. She remembered Hot Dog's disappearing lemon trick. “This is mmm…”

“Magic?” said Melanie.

*** *** ***

Chapter 7

“Nobody's home,” said Mrs. Rhubarb, when Lola and Melanie knocked gently on the door of her Spanish-style mansion.

“Mrs. Rhubarb,” said Lola, “we know you're in there.”

“No, I'm not here,” she insisted.

The girls could hear breathing on the other side of the door. Ever since she won a stash of cash, Ruby Rhubarb believed the world was after her money.

“Please, Mrs. Rhubarb,” said Lola, trying to look through the one-way peephole, searching for signs of life. Lola couldn't see a thing, though she suspected Mrs. Rhubarb was staring back at her. “We need to talk to you.”

“If you're here about those pound pups,” said a nasal Mrs. Rhubarb, “I'm not interested in saving slobberin' canines. My allergies are acting up, so run on home, ladies.”

“Please listen to us,” implored Lola.

“If I recall correctly, Lola Zola, you did not listen to me the other day. You were downright rude in the artichoke aisle.”

Lola bit her lip as she remembered a vague conversation about Mrs. Rhubarb's dead husband.

Melanie brushed aside Lola, stepped up to the closed door, and said cheerily, “Mrs. Rhubarb, I noticed you have some beautiful yucca plants in your front yard.” Melanie would know. At Lola's urging, she hid a pitcher of lemonade behind one of the plants.

“Most people don't appreciate yucca,” added Melanie.

Silence.

“Only plant gourmets, people like you, can see the beauty in a yucca plant.”

With that, the door creaked open an inch. Lola and Melanie spotted a curl.

“I was wondering where you bought the beautiful yucca,” said Melanie, winking at Lola.

“I bought the yucca at the nursery on Sandstorm Road,” said Mrs. Rhubarb. “It was love at first sight. Now, good-day.”

As the door was about to close, Melanie blurted out, “They're exquisite native desert plants, eco-friendly to the max, Mrs. Rhubarb. You've got such a talent for picking plants.”

A little flattery doesn't hurt. A lot of flattery helps big-time. The door suddenly opened all the way. Perhaps “eco-friendly” was the password.

“What can I do for you, ladies? Surely you didn't come all the way over here to talk about yucca.” Mrs. Rhubarb wore a hand-beaded robin's-egg-blue
African caftan with swirling designs. There was nothing yucky about her wardrobe.

“We need some…uh…” said Lola.

“Milk and cookies,” finished Melanie. Needing milk and cookies sounded better than needing money. Melanie knew instinctively that you shouldn't discuss financial matters until you broke bread or dunked cookies with a potential benefactor.

“All right, girls, come on into the kitchen,” said a resigned Mrs. Rhubarb. She had spent too many days alone since her husband's last golf game—ever.

“Now remember, don't go filling my ears with pleas to donate to the homeless dogs or cats,” said Mrs. Rhubarb. “Not when there are so many hungry children in America.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Rhubarb,” said Lola. “I understand.”

“Me too,” said Melanie. “I promise I won't ask for donations for stray hamsters either. There are some of those too, you know.”

Lola shot Melanie a look, as if to say, “Change the subject, Mel.”

In the kitchen, Ruby Rhubarb offered the girls homemade cookies.

“Thank you,” Lola and Melanie said at the same time.

Between cookie bites, Melanie told Mrs. Rhubarb how much she liked the hand-painted Mexican tiles that bordered the kitchen counter, the flying fruits on
the wallpaper, the fern-filled bay window, and the Langston Hughes poetry hanging on the bulletin board. While Melanie made small talk, Lola picked out the raisins from the chocolate chip oatmeal cookies and silently rehearsed her sales pitch. She noticed Mrs. Rhubarb downing decongestants.

“Don't you wish you didn't have allergies,” said Lola.

“We'll have a theme park on Saturn before I get rid of these blessed allergies,” said Mrs. Rhubarb.

Lola zoomed in for the pitch. “Ever tried drinking a lemonade cure?”

“Lemonade?” said Mrs. Rhubarb, rolling her eyes. “I don't think a little sugar water is going to chase away these allergies.”

“I'm not talking about ordinary lemonade,” said Lola. She needed backup in the sales department, so she kicked Melanie under the table.

Melanie piped up, “This lemonade is special. Even Bowzer likes it.”

“Who?” asked Mrs. Rhubarb.

Lola knew Ruby Rhubarb disliked cats, so there was no point in mentioning that Lola's cat loved their pucker punch. She changed course, appealing instead to Mrs. Rhubarb's risk-taking gambling nature.

“Never mind Bowzer,” said Lola. “What we're trying to say is we're on the verge of a major business success and we're looking for some…” Lola
searched her mind for the ten-dollar word she heard her mother use when talking about bookkeeping. “Capital,” said Lola, hitting the jackpot.

“How much?” asked Mrs. Rhubarb.

“A hundred dollars,” said Lola.

“A hundred bucks!” repeated Melanie, shocked at Lola's nerve.

“Yes,” said Lola, kicking Melanie again under the table—this time to shut her up. “We'll need to promote our product successfully. You know, with homemade billboards, flyers all over town, and maybe commercials on the radio.”

“Sounds ambitious,” said Mrs. Rhubarb. “What makes you think this lemonade is worth investing in?”

“Why, it's…” Lola searched for the right adjective.

“Forest-refreshing,” said Melanie.

“Desert-invigorating,” said Lola.

“Mouth-zinging,” said Melanie.

“Nostril-cleansing,” said Lola.

“Freckle-tickling,” added Melanie.

“Head-clearing,” insisted Lola.

Mrs. Rhubarb sneezed three times in a row, then blew her nose with a pink tissue she took from her pocket.

“Allergy-alleviating,” said Lola. “And magical.”

“If it's so magical,” said Mrs. Rhubarb, “why are you sitting here trying to sell me on it?” The yucca maven raised her eyebrows and peered over at Lola.

“Please, Mrs. Rhubarb,” said Lola. “Try a cup of our lemonade and see for yourself.”

“All right, child, but don't disappoint me. I've had too many disappointments of late.” Mrs. Rhubarb was short on patience and long on sadness since dear Harry had passed.

Lola and Melanie excused themselves to run back outside and fetch the pitcher of lemonade behind the big yucca plant in Mrs. Rhubarb's front yard. Mrs. Rhubarb stood there with the door ajar, awaiting their return.

“So that's why you noticed my yucca plant,” said Mrs. Rhubarb. “It was the perfect hiding place for your lemonade.”

Melanie looked away. Lola squirmed. Mrs. Rhubarb chuckled and led them into the kitchen, where Lola poured her a glass of peppery potion.

“All right, child,” she said, taking a sip, “I'm waiting for the magic you promised.” Mrs. Rhubarb took another sip, and another and another. The woman was a silent sipping machine. All slurp, no talk. Finally their one and only potential investor murmured, “This is not good.”

“It's not?” Lola's heart sank.

“It's not good,” said Mrs. Rhubarb, “it's superb! In fact, this lemonade is absolutely liberating for the nasal system.” She put down her box of pink tissues and took a deep breath. “I feel like a new woman.”

For the first time that afternoon, Mrs. Rhubarb could breathe easily.

“I knew you'd love it,” said Lola, nodding her bumblebee bow.

“Me too,” said Melanie, crossing her toes.

“What's in this lemonade?” asked Mrs. Rhubarb, as she slurped a second glass and punctuated her swallows with “Ahhhs.”

“Can't tell,” said Lola. “It's a secret.”

“Like my freckle tab,” said Melanie.

Mrs. Rhubarb had no idea what a freckle tab was, but she did understand one thing—these girls were asking her to invest in a product about which she knew next to nothing except that it tasted peppery and cleansed her nasal passages.

“I want to know the recipe,” insisted Mrs. Rhubarb.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Rhubarb,” said Lola. “Our recipe is top secret.” Actually, it was a matter of pride. If Lola revealed that she and Melanie had put chili peppers in the lemonade, Mrs. Rhubarb might laugh at Lola—and Lola wanted to be taken seriously. “I can't give you the recipe.”

“Fine,” said Mrs. Rhubarb, “then you can take your lemonade and slurp it all the way home. I'm not interested in investing my fortune in a mystery punch.”

Desperate, Lola appealed to Mrs. Rhubarb's sense of compassion. “If you don't invest, Charles Wembly the Third is going to win the lemonade challenge, and my mother will have to work for his father. That's, like, totally embarrassing.”

“What, pray child, are you blabbering about?” asked Mrs. Rhubarb.

Lola told Mrs. Rhubarb all about the recent events: the layoffs, the class election, her mother's decision to work for Mr. Wembly, the car payment due at the end of the month, Lola's plan to support the family, and Buck's effort to sabotage her dream.

“I'm listening, child,” said Mrs. Rhubarb. “I feel for you, honey. I really do. Okay, one hundred dollars it is. I don't know about this magic business, but I want to help you out and make some interest on the side.”

“Interest?” said Lola. “What's that?”

“Interest is what banks charge to make a loan—and it's what I'm going to charge you.”

Lola agreed to pay 3 percent interest, which on a one-hundred-dollar loan amounted to three dollars, so Mrs. Rhubarb agreed to fork over the cash. While
Mrs. Rhubarb had tucked some of her money in bank accounts, stocks, and bonds, she also stashed a little cash in a place no burglar would ever peek, a place that was immune to the rise and fall of the stock market—behind the covered butter dish in the refrigerator.

“Here's the green,” said Mrs. Rhubarb. She pulled her hand out of the refrigerator. “Don't worry, the bills will warm up soon.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Rhubarb,” exploded Lola, spontaneously planting a kiss on Mrs. Rhubarb's cheek.

“You go, girl,” said Mrs. Rhubarb, touched at the display of affection.

And so after another glass of lemonade and a three-way handshake, Lola and Melanie left the Spanish villa on the hill to plot their rebound strategy. Look out, Slime. The Twister Sisters were coming back.

*** *** ***

Chapter 8

“I'm suffocating,” complained Melanie, bundled up inside her winter parka on a scorching day. “What if I faint under this palm tree?” Mirage's palm trees provided little shade.

“Think sub-zero and imagine you're a penguin,” advised Lola, wearing a faux down jacket and standing in front of Melanie in the movie line. “You don't want to pass out and end up a scrambled egg on the sidewalk.”

The two spies were involved in a covert operation, Project Pucker, and had chili-pepper-spiked lemonade pitchers hidden under their mounds of polyester. Lola had tried to keep the operation top secret, but when Hot Dog's living room curtains opened and closed mysteriously, she wondered if there were other spies in the neighborhood.

“We've got to boogie,” she had told Melanie as the two tightened the strings on their roller skates and zoomed off for the sleepy center of town.

The first stop in Project Pucker had been the Mirage Twin Cinema, a movie house that reminded Melanie of her aunt's junkyard—a mess.

In keeping with its dilapidated look, the cinema only showed old movies and lacked both air-conditioning and a popcorn stand. Why anyone would go there in one-hundred-degree heat was beyond Lola and Melanie's
comprehension, but old movie buffs were a strange breed and all that mattered to them was the film's Academy Award record. The marquee, its letters chipped and crooked, advertised
Lawrence of Arabia
, a thirst-arousing godsend for intelligence agents hoping to sneak in a special beverage that would quench a multitude of parched throats.

Lawrence, the star of the movie, had reportedly been wandering through the desert for over an hour when Lola and Melanie arrived with their jackets bulging and their foreheads perspiring. Once inside the theater, the two girls went to work, roller skating up and down the musty aisles.

“Excuse me, are you thirsty?” Lola asked a middle-aged woman sitting next to the aisle, munching on popcorn she must have smuggled into the theater.

“Shush,” she said, “I'm trying to watch the movie.”

“It's a wonderful film,” said Melanie, the small-talk specialist. “The desert part is awesome.”

“The whole movie takes place in the desert,” the woman said, annoyed that she had been drawn into conversation. She shook her head as if to say, “You imbecile.”

“That's why we thought you might want a thirst quencher,” said Lola, not waiting for the woman's permission before pouring her some lemonade. The
woman must have been dying of thirst, munching on salty popcorn and sitting in a furnace. “Here, try my pucker potion,” said Lola, handing the woman a cup.