Free Lola Zola and the Lemonade Crush by Jackie Hirtz Page A

tried not to crash into anyone or roll over any toes as they passed out free cups of promotional pucker punch. Oona Lee Lewis, the spunky octogenarian of Cactus Springs, held her cup in the air and marveled at the refreshing zing in the lemonade.
    â€œThis will keep me energized and hydrated under the blasting heat of the hair dryer,” said Oona Lee.
    â€œIt will also keep you young, so you can go hiking with your grandchildren,” said Lola. She didn’t know if Oona Lee had grandchildren, but the handmade lanyard with the penguin charm hanging from her neck seemed like a clue.
    â€œHiking?” said Oona Lee, mortified. ‘I don’t think I have that much oomph.” She took another sip.
    â€œYou will,” said Lola. “Keep drinking.”
    â€œHmmm, I see what you mean, dear. Maybe you should bottle this elixir.”
    Melanie shot Lola a look. She knew making false health claims was illegal. Melanie could be a stickler for rules.
    Lola ignored Melanie’s warning look and blanketed the counter and the table with her handmade lemon-shaped business cards. She handed a pile to a beautician busy teasing a client’s hair.
    â€œWe don’t allow soliciting here,” said the hairdresser, handing back Lola her cards. She pointed the end of a styling comb in Lola’s direction, then made a sweeping motion toward the door. “Better leave now—like pronto,” she said.
    â€œCan I ask you favor first?” said Lola, as the beautician whipped out a grande size can of hairspray.
    â€œWhat?” she said, power spraying her client’s bangs. “Want me to straighten your frizz?” she shouted, much to Lola’s embarrassment.
    Lola referred to her hair as a frizz mop, but no one else dare label it as such. Her face grew red as she flashed back to the time she stood in front of her science class, giving her oral report on electricity. Buck had raised his arm (revealing his BO pit, phew) and blurted out, “How much electricity is located on your frizzy head, Lola Zola?”
    The entire class had cracked up, leaving Lola weak in the knees and shaking inside.
    â€œNo, I don’t want my hair straightened,” said Lola. What an insult! “But I’d like you to tell your clients about my lemonade business. And, if you don’t mind, could you pass out my cards?”
    The beautician was engulfed in a hairspray-induced coughing fit. When she was done, she turned to Lola, “ Pardonez-moi ?”
    Having learned a few tips from Buck and Melanie, Lola decided to go heavy on the compliments. “Your hair looks like a fiesta,” she told the formerly gray-haired client who was now a midnight-black-haired señora . “Your beautician knows her stuff.”
    â€œÂ¿De versas, muchacha ?” said the customer. “You mean it?”
    â€œ Si ,” said Lola exhausting her knowledge of Spanish.
    Smiling, the señora slipped her beautician a generous tip. Pleased to the max, the hairdresser took one of Lola’s business cards.
    â€œI’ll do what I can, hon,” she said, sorting the dollars in her hand.
    Roller skating over to the door, Lola almost went flying when one of her wheels slid through purple goopy hair gel. The glop on the floor reminded Lola of the fake cow eyeball that Slime left on her seat, except it was a different color. But Lola kept her balance, for she was as agile on her feet as she was with her words.
    â€œIt’s not right to lie and say the lemonade keeps you young,” said Melanie, when they stopped for a peanut butter ice cream cone en route to the Unity Center’s late-afternoon service. “I’ve told your lies before, but these fibsare getting bigger, and now they’re starting to bug me and I don’t know if I can fib as good or if I even want to.”
    â€œI didn’t lie,” said Lola, defensively. “I just limo-stretched the