Face the Music

by Brian Weisfeld

  “Hallelujah!” exclaimed Harriet as Didi opened the door. She flung her arms around her friend. “It’s you!”

  Didi laughed. “Were you expecting someone else? I do live here, after all.”

  Harriet kicked off her shoes at the door and tossed her blue jacket on top of them. Didi couldn’t help picking up the jacket and hanging it in the closet, then lining up the shoes neatly, next to the other carefully placed pairs.

  “Oh! I brought you something!” said Harriet, pulling the flower-print dress from her backpack. “Courtesy of Cam-Thu.”

  Didi’s face lit up. “Tulips, my favorite! Thank you!”

  “So this is Casa Singh!” said Harriet, skipping through the foyer and the living room, into the dining room, where Resa and Amelia were seated at a rectangular wooden table, scrutinizing sketches.

  “Ooooh, a glass menagerie!” Harriet cooed, rushing to a set of shelves over a sideboard. There was a whole shelf of tiny glass animals—little birds and elephants and horses, all of them glittering under the light of the dining room. Harriet picked up the largest one—a cat—and placed it in her palm. “I looooove these.”

  Didi hurried over and hovered close by. “Yeah, they’re my mom’s. So, um, just be careful because, you know, they’re fragile.”

  Harriet whispered, “Oh yeah, definitely, of course.” She lifted her hand up so that the cat caught the light and twinkled like a star.

  “Here.” Didi reached into Harriet’s palm and retrieved the cat gingerly. “I’ll just put it back since I know where it goes.”

  Harriet’s feelings were a little hurt. You pour one bottle of glitter on your head and no one trusts you ever again. Still, she knew Didi didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. Didi just liked things neat and tidy and careful, and Harriet lived life in the fast lane, which was messy and thrilling and sometimes involved broken glass. So she decided to let it go.

  “Your home is magnificent!” she declared, turning herself in a circle for a panoramic view. “Oooooh! Who is this handsome devil?” Harriet rushed over to the other side of the room, where a large, round fishbowl sat on a small table. Inside, an electric-blue fish, with long fins fluttering like scarves, swam slowly.

  “Oh, that’s Beethoven,” said Didi. She sprinkled in a pinch of fish food, and Beethoven darted to the surface, attacking the tiny flakes of food with his mouth.

  “Ooooh I get it!” said Harriet. “Beethoven, the beta fish!”

  “So Harriet,” called Resa from the table, “we were just telling Didi about how the T-shirts are selling like hotcakes. What’s the update? Did you sell more today?”

  Harriet tossed her backpack onto the table and sat down on a high-backed chair. “Did I sell more today? Uhhh, do fish swim? Do birds fly? Are mealworms a skink’s favorite food?”

  “I’m guessing the answer is yes?” ventured Amelia.

  “The answer is abso-stinking-lutely! The answer is without a doubt! We are swimming in money! We’re going to need a life raft to save us from drowning in the ocean of money we have!” Harriet leaned back in her chair to let the good news soak in.

  Didi beamed, and Harriet was glad. Didi was a new-ish friend, but Harriet liked her a lot. Didi was exceedingly eager to help and easy to please.

  “What does that mean exactly?” asked Resa, who was less easy to please. “How many preorders do we have?”

  Harriet unzipped her backpack and pulled out a spiral notebook. She flipped through the pages, trying to find the preorder information. “Here it is!” she exclaimed, smoothing down a page with a column of numbers. She looked at the bottom of the column, to the total. “One thousand four hundred twenty-three!” she announced. Then, she added a bit nervously, “Wow, that’s a lot more than I remember.”

  Didi pushed her eyeglasses up, squinting as she tried to be diplomatic. “Ummm, Harriet, I don’t think that’s the right number.”

  Harriet took another look and broke out giggling. “Oh, this is my math homework. Maybe I shouldn’t have written the orders in my math notebook.”

  Resa raised her eyebrows but held her tongue.

  “Don’t worry,” said Harriet. “It’s in here somewhere.” She flipped to the last page of the notebook and there—aha!—was the information she needed. It said preorders right on the top. Why, then, were only five names written underneath? She’d taken a lot more orders than this.

  Harriet flipped the page and looked at the back cover of her notebook.

  “Here we go,” she said. “I made a mark for each order. And there’s … twenty-four marks. So we sold twenty-four T-shirts!”

  “Harriet, that’s amazing,” said Didi.

  “If we make five dollars on each, that’s one hundred and twenty bucks,” added Amelia.

  “Yes! Approximately,” said Harriet. She pulled the hair tie out of her high ponytail, which was starting to give her a headache.

  “Why approximately?” asked Resa. “Why not exactly?”

  “Well, I mean, we won’t make five dollars on all of them. Because of the bulk discount and stuff,” Harriet explained. She raked her fingers through her hair to comb it.

  “What bulk discount?” asked Resa. She’d crossed her arms over her chest and looked as if she might start yelling at any minute.

  “Well, remember how I said Reginald Hargrove bought eight T-shirts?” asked Harriet. “I gave him a bulk discount. That’s how I got him to buy eight.”

  “Ohhhkay,” said Amelia. “That makes sense. But how much of a discount did you give him?”

  “Half price,” said Harriet.

  Then came the yelling, right on cue.

  “Half price?” Resa exploded. “That’s $12.50 each shirt! It costs us twenty dollars with the rush fee. That means we’re losing money!”

  “But I sold eight of them!” Harriet protested. She was starting to worry she’d made a big mistake.

  “Perfect! That means we lost money on a third of all the T-shirts we sold!” Resa yanked her green headband down off her forehead and shoved it back in place.

  Now it was Harriet’s turn to cross her arms over her chest and glower.

  “I think what Resa means,” Didi jumped in tactfully, “is that we just want to make these decisions together.”

  “Please,” Harriet snorted. She could read between the lines. “What you really mean is that you want to make all the decisions while I do your dirty work.”

  “I thought you liked selling the T-shirts,” said Amelia.

  “I do!” Harriet exclaimed. “I love that part, but I also like having a say in the decisions. And sometimes I need to think on my feet. Stuff comes up!”

  “That’s true,” Didi pointed out to the others. She hated it when they fought and wanted to call a truce as soon as possible. “And a bulk discount is a great idea!”

  “Right, but it should be more like ten or fifteen percent off,” said Amelia, who was scribbling numbers on a blank page in Harriet’s notebook. “If we subtract the money that we’re losing on that half-price order, we’ve made…” She winced, looking at the number. “Twenty dollars so far.”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Resa muttered.

  “I get it! I ruin everything!” Harriet lamented. She slumped in her chair and let her hair fall in front of her face.

  “People, relax,” said Amelia. “We can fix it.”

  “How?” asked Harriet. “I already collected Reginald’s money!”

  Didi bit her fingernails. “Maybe we should just leave it.”

  “We’ll catch him in front of the high school tomorrow,” said Amelia firmly. “We’ll just explain there was a mistake, that the shirts are actually twenty dollars each. That’s still a twenty-five percent discount.”

  “We won’t make any money off those shirts at all!” Resa protested.

  “Yeah,” said Amelia. “But we won’t lose any money, either. And maybe he’ll tell his friends and get us some word of mouth. It’s the best we can do.”

  “I guess I can do t
hat,” Harriet replied, still pouting. “But I’m going to tell him it’s your fault!”

  “I’m good with that,” said Amelia, slipping her pencil behind her ear. “Throw me under the bus.”

  “If you say so,” Harriet said, shrugging.

  “Just give me the list of your orders and I’ll tally the sizes and type it all up for Lucy. That way, she knows how many sizes of each T-shirt to order.”

  Harriet handed over the notebook, and Amelia read over the page marked preorders.

  “Harriet,” she said, her voice betraying her worry, “there’s only, like, five names here. And no sizes.”

  “Yeah,” confessed Harriet. “On the first day, I forgot to get sizes. But today, I made sure to ask. Turn the page; the sizes are on the back.”

  Resa opened her mouth to say something, but a sharp glance from Didi made her clamp her mouth closed. She couldn’t prevent a loud sigh from escaping, though.

  Amelia bit her lip as she read. “Children’s large … men’s extra extra large … women’s size six?” Amelia looked up at Harriet. “I figured we’d stick to adult sizes. You know, unisex small, medium, large. Keep it simple?”

  “Now you tell me!” Harriet huffed. “Do I look like a mind reader to you? Do I have a crystal ball?”

  Resa could control herself no longer. “Did you even ask Lucy if the T-shirts come in kids’ sizes? And what’s a six? Is that a medium? A large? Or is six the number of dollars we’ll have left when this mess is cleaned up?” She stood abruptly, her chair almost falling to the floor.

  “I gotta cool off,” she announced. “I’m going for a run around the block.”

  “Good idea,” said Didi. She knew that Resa was trying to be patient and that it wasn’t easy.

  Resa grabbed her green cardigan and jogged out the front door, which closed loudly behind her.

  The sound caught the attention of Didi’s mother. “Did someone arrive?” Mrs. Singh stood in the doorway, drying her hands on a dish towel. She was a small woman—short and thin, with delicate features, nothing like Harriet’s own mother, who was round-faced, with oversize eyes, mouth, and nose. With her tortoiseshell glasses and long, wavy brown hair, Mrs. Singh bore a striking resemblance to Didi.

  “No, Mom,” said Didi. “Resa just ran out for a minute. She’ll be right back.”

  Mrs. Singh’s face clouded over with concern. “Where could she be going?” she asked. “At this hour?”

  Didi smiled. “Mom, it’s only six o’clock.” She was trying to put her mother at ease, but as usual, it backfired.

  “Yes, Indira,” her mother said firmly. “But it’s getting dark soon. I don’t like Resa walking around after dark by herself. It’s not safe.”

  “Okay, Mom,” said Didi, suppressing a sigh. “I’ll text her and make sure she’s all right.”

  “Please do,” her mother said. Then, noticing Harriet for the first time, she smiled brightly. “Hello. Have we met?”

  “No, Mrs. Singh!” Harriet got up from the table and did a small curtsy, which made Didi’s mom laugh. “I’m Harriet. Enchanted, I’m sure.”

  “Are you staying for dinner? You are all welcome.” Mrs. Singh looked from Harriet to Amelia warmly. “It’s only spaghetti, but I have a whole tray of samosas left over from my nephew’s birthday party last night. If you put them in the microwave for a few seconds, they are delicious.”

  “I can’t stay,” said Harriet apologetically. “My mom is working late, and if I don’t make dinner, my brothers will just eat Flamin’ Hot Nacho Doritos.”

  Mrs. Singh’s eyebrows furrowed again. “That sounds very unhealthy.”

  “Mom, it’s okay if—” Didi started, but her mother cut her off.

  “Indira, come help me pack up these samosas for Harriet’s brothers,” instructed Mrs. Singh. Although she was a tiny woman, it was clear she meant business. “You’ll take them, won’t you?” she asked Harriet.

  “That would be delightful!” Harriet said.

  “Good,” said Mrs. Singh with a satisfied smile. “Come, Indira.” Turning toward the kitchen, Mrs. Singh shook her head and murmured, “Flamin’ Hot Nacho Doritos?”

  As Didi and her mom disappeared into the kitchen, Amelia looked at Harriet, eyebrows raised. “Enchanted?” asked Amelia. “Delightful?”

  “What?” asked Harriet. “Parents love that stuff.”

  “Umm, royal parents maybe,” said Amelia. “At Buckingham Palace.”

  “You’re just jealous,” teased Harriet, “because I got all the samosas.”

  7

  “I come bearing gifts!” Harriet announced as she walked through her front door a half hour later. “A dozen vegetable samosas! And new logo sketches for the T-shirts!”

  The boys crowded around the table and commenced a feeding frenzy. They fought over who got more samosas. Then they fought over the logos.

  Didi had redrawn the animal in the first logo; now it looked less like a dinosaur and more like a lizard, which was as close as you could get to a recognizable skink. In the second logo option, she’d replaced the flowery script with jagged, angular letters. Way more rock and roll.

  Didi had scrapped the Superman-style third option altogether, replacing it with a line drawing of a guitar with the band name written graffiti-style underneath. She’d added bright colors to each drawing, so they all popped. The girls had liked all three choices, and Resa had thought it a good idea to let the band choose. Easier said than done.

  Joe voted for the guitar. Sam voted for the encircled band name, and Larry loved the skink.

  “We gotta keep it real,” Larry said, devouring a samosa. “Remember why we’re doing this in the first place.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense,” Joe said, pushing his curtain of hair to the side. “And that was your fourth samosa. I had only three.”

  “Well, I can’t give it back to you now,” Larry replied. Turning to Harriet, he said, “Tell Didi thanks for the logos. They’re really good. I’m calling it—she’s the next Nico Fangelo.”

  “Who?” asked Joe.

  “You know, the guy who painted that famous ceiling? In the church?” Larry looked annoyed at their lack of comprehension. “Seriously? Nobody knows who I’m … he’s super famous!”

  Larry wiped his hands on a napkin and walked out of the room, shaking his head. “Some people have no culture.”

  Harriet watched him go, then helped herself to the last samosa.

  “Nicofan—oh!” she exclaimed, a stroke of insight hitting her. “I got it! Michelangelo!”

  * * *

  The next day at lunch, Harriet relayed Larry’s message to Didi.

  “Yeah, I think I’ve heard of Nico Fangelo,” Didi said, laughing. “He was on the short list for the Sistine Chapel, I’m pretty sure.” She sprinkled salt onto a hard-boiled egg.

  “Your brothers are hilarious,” said Resa, who’d finished eating. “My brother is just a pest.”

  Amelia took a long sip from her milk carton. “Ricky’s a sweetheart.”

  “You say that because he hasn’t tried to turn you into a persimmon yet,” Resa replied. “Just you wait.”

  “But my brothers can’t agree on a logo,” said Harriet. “And I need to get Lucy the design today or there won’t be enough time to make the T-shirts.” She begrudgingly took a bite of her peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. She preferred peach jam to grape jelly, but when she’d told Joan that earlier, Joan had said, “I prefer a beach vacation to serving sandwiches.”

  “The problem with the band is there’s too many cooks in that kitchen,” said Resa. “Every group needs a leader for exactly this reason, to make executive decisions. Don’t the Skinks have a leader?”

  Harriet considered. “Joe’s the front man and the lead singer.”

  Resa reached over to grab the pencil perpetually tucked behind Amelia’s ear, then passed it and a napkin over to Harriet.

  “Write Joe’s number down, and I’ll go text him in the lobby,” said Resa. “I’ll
tell him to make a final decision.”

  Cell phone use was prohibited during the school day except for emergencies, and even then it was allowed only in the school lobby during lunch. Most students had a very liberal definition of what was an emergency, and so the lobby was often filled with kids dashing off quick messages during lunch. As long as you did it fast, before an old-school teacher like Ms. Davis passed by, it was usually fine.

  “C’mon, Didi,” said Resa, grabbing the napkin and standing. “You can be the lookout for Ms. Davis.”

  “Oh, goody,” grumbled Didi, but she followed Resa out the double doors of the cafeteria.

  Amelia took a bite of her turkey-and-cheese sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “Hey, did you get the park permits for Friday? I don’t want to get kicked out.”

  “Done!” Harriet sang. “Sam’s best friend’s dad’s sister works for the parks department, and she’s taking care of the permit.”

  “Well, if Sam’s best friend’s dad’s sister’s on it,” said Amelia with a smile, “what could go wrong?”

  “That’s what I always say,” replied Harriet.

  “Don’t forget I’m meeting you at dismissal to go to the high school,” Amelia reminded Harriet while she crunched on a carrot stick. “We’ll figure out the orders and sizes.”

  “I just hope we can untangle the mess I made,” Harriet said, forcing herself to finish her sandwich, gross grape jelly and all.

  “Oh, we will,” said Amelia with confidence. “I am a master untangler. I should be bottled and used after shampooing.”

  Harriet laughed. “Good to know. But still, I’m sorry you have to spend all afternoon doing this.”

  “Please. You’re doing me a favor, getting me out of tennis,” said Amelia. “I can use a break from Resa kicking my butt.”

  “Yeah, I was surprised that you two are playing tennis together,” said Harriet. “When we started working on the lemonade stand, you couldn’t stand each other’s guts.”

  Amelia shrugged. “Resa’s bark is worse than her bite. She’s really funny—and she’s teaching me a lot about tennis. Though she can be a tad competitive.”