Lola Levine: Drama Queen

Chapter One

Walk, Don't Run

My name is Lola Levine, and the truth is little brothers are sometimes a pain. At least mine is.

"Lola! Zola! Granola! It's time to get up!" yells Ben right in my ear.

"Ouch," I say, and pull the covers over my head. Usually I am up way before Ben. Why am I so tired? Oh yeah—I couldn't sleep.

"Cow barn," I mumble into my pillow. I can't say "darn" because that's a word Mom would rather I didn't use.

"It just doesn't sound nice," she says.

"Dolores! Boris! Morris! Wake up!" Ben keeps going with his awful rhymes until I'm up and out of bed.

"Ben," I say, "don't try to rhyme, you moldy lime." I like words a lot, and I'm good at rhyming them. I'm much better at rhyming than my brother, Ben, in my opinion, and I have lots of opinions.

"Dolores!" Ben shouts again. He knows I don't like being called that—I like my nickname Lola much better. My middle name is Esther and I like that. According to Grandma Levine, my bubbe, Esther means "star" in Hebrew.

"Wanna hear a joke, Lola?" Ben asks. He likes telling jokes. "What do kitties eat for dessert?"

"I don't know," I grumble.

"Mice cream!" he says. "Get it? Get it? 'Mice' instead of 'ice.'"

"I get it," I say. Ever since Mom and Dad agreed that we could get a kitty this summer, Ben's started with the cat jokes.

I stretch my hands toward the ceiling. If I jump up, I can almost touch the stars Dad and I painted on the ceiling a few weeks ago. It was really fun—until I got paint in my eyes. After that, Mom made sure both Dad and I wore goggles when we decided to paint ceilings. Ben thought our paint goggles looked cool, so now he wears them even when he isn't painting. They're big and round, and I think they make him look like a bug.

Now Ben's trying to touch his hands to the ceiling, too, only he thinks it will be easier if he jumps off my dresser.

Thwunk! He lands on the floor, hard. Thwunk! Kerplunk! He tries again.

This time Dad yells. "What's going on up there? Hurry or you'll be late for school!" He and Mom take turns driving us to school each morning.

Mom must have an early assignment for the newspaper, because she's gone by the time we get downstairs. Dad's making pancakes, but it's taking really long because he is trying to make them into different shapes. Dad's an artist who believes in creative expression—even with pancakes. Sometimes, when I am upset, he gives me a piece of paper and a pencil and tells me to draw my feelings. I like art, but I like words better than pictures when it comes to feelings. Finally, the pancakes are ready.

"Mine looks like an ear," Ben complains.

"It's a whale," Dad says. "See the blueberry eye?"

"I thought that was an earring," Ben says.