Lola Levine Is Not Mean!

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.
“Goooooooooooal!” 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!”