Puckers Up

by Mark Peter Hughes

  For a moment he’s quiet, but then he breaks into a nervous smile. “Sounds like your parents have been giving you the same kind of selling job about me that mine have been giving about you. I have been hearing for weeks about how accomplished your family is, and about how beautiful you are.”

  “You have? They said that?”

  He nods, his face reddening a little.

  His honesty surprises me. I like that he actually blushed too—it’s kind of sweet. For an instant I find it hard not to like him just the tiniest bit, but then I get ahold of myself. I gather my courage. “Rajeev, let me set things straight so there’s no misunderstanding.” I look directly at him for the first time. “I love and respect my parents, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let them control my life. I’m not interested in an arranged marriage. Not with you or anybody else. I’m sorry if this hurts you, but when I’m ready to get married it’ll be with somebody I choose, and that decision won’t come for a long, long time. You and I are just kids.”

  There is yet another pause as his eyes seem to study me. After a moment, though, he leans back in the chair and it’s almost as if I can see a weight lifting from his shoulders. “Oh thank goodness!” he says. “I was so worried! I thought you were going to be …”

  I wait. He doesn’t finish. “What?” I ask, confused. “What did you think I would be?”

  “I don’t know … like … like my parents, I guess. Oh, don’t get me wrong, Mohini—I love and respect my mother and father too. They mean well. It is just that they’re very old-fashioned, and sometimes it’s like they keep expecting me to be just like them. They seem stuck on the idea that I will get married young and spend my life doing something academic, like they both did. They told me that when I go to college I should study the same field as them—economics. They don’t seem to get it when I keep telling them I don’t want any of those things.”

  I stare. “So … what do you want?”

  “I want to dance,” he answers without hesitation. “It’s my passion. It’s what I love. Do you know Shiamak Davar?”

  I shake my head.

  The next thing I know, he’s reaching into one of the luggage bags near his feet and pulling out a DVD. He hands it to me. It’s a Bollywood movie called Vriksh Ghar. On the cover a crowd of people are dancing on the roof of what looks like a gigantic tree house.

  “Shiamak Davar is a famous choreographer. He’s brilliant. I got to work with him two summers ago as a background dancer in this movie. It was only a couple of days, but it changed my life. When I go to college in two years I’m going to continue my dance studies. I’m going to be a choreographer.”

  “And your parents?” I ask slowly, still trying to take this in. “They don’t want you to do that?”

  He shrugs. “It’s not that they don’t want me to, exactly. They want me to do whatever makes me happy. It’s just that this is not what they expected. They’re still trying to warm up to the idea. I’m sure they will come around eventually, but for now I think they’re still having a hard time.” He looks up at me again. “Breaking from tradition is an adjustment for everybody.”

  I’m speechless as he tucks the DVD back into his bag. All at once I’m struck with the realization that what I was thinking before—that I don’t know anyone else who has to deal with the kind of stuff I do—is no longer true. In his own way, Rajeev has obviously been balancing on a tightrope a lot like the one I’ve been on for years. He smiles at me again, and it’s clear to me now that it’s not the smile of a boy who expects me to be his wife someday. It’s just the nervous smile of a kid who’s far from home, a little scared and hoping to make a friend. If I were in his position I’d feel the same way.

  I realize I can’t make myself hate him. I just can’t.

  Despite everything, I smile back.

  WEN

  An Unforgivable Weasel

  It felt like our world was on the brink of change, but for me change couldn’t come fast enough. Even though we were working on our new album in a real studio, even though Mr. Decker kept telling us we were about to rocket into the pop stratosphere, my dad still needed me to wear that stupid hot dog suit for him whenever I could. “It helps get the word out,” he said. “People see you on the street, a friendly frankfurter waving at them, and it makes them curious. Starting my own business is a big deal for me, Wen. I know you don’t love the suit, but I want you to know how much I appreciate your help.”

  What was I supposed to do? How could I say no when it meant so much to him?

  Of course I wanted my father’s business to succeed. Everyone in my family did. After all, my dad had quit his job for this. So we all pitched in. Sydney—whose original idea for the summer was to take a family vacation and see the country—was spending her time putting ads in the local papers and assisting my dad with the bookkeeping. George helped hand out the hot dogs as my dad prepared them. (George loved riding around in that crazy van. He’d ring the bell and talk to the customers and wave when people stared as they passed. He even came up with a name for it—Penelope—as if it were a pet or something. He and my dad had started to say things like, “Honey, we’ll be back in a couple hours. George and I are just taking Penelope out for her lunchtime trip to the beach.” It was weird.)

  But for me the hardest thing about Wieners on Wheels wasn’t that van or even that I had to wear that stupid costume. It was Scott Pickett. He was becoming a regular fixture in my summer. Whenever I saw him around my father, he was always acting sickeningly polite. “Yes, Mr. Gifford. Right away, Mr. Gifford.” My dad ate it up too, which was infuriating. It was like a bad joke.

  Even if my dad couldn’t see through Scott’s act, I sure wasn’t fooled.

  Scott’s job was to take over the wiener van driving duties in the late afternoons, cruising Penelope along the beaches and shopping areas in search of anyone with the munchies. As it turned out, the job wasn’t a bad fit for him. With his spiky blond hair and quick smile, he was something of a high school heartthrob, and even during the slower times he had a way of attracting customers. I know for a fact that girls from Opequonsett High would sometimes gather at the roadside waiting for that giant, rusting yellow van to appear just so they could flag it down and hand Scott their money.

  Maybe that’s part of the reason why my dad liked him. Scott was good for business.

  Anyway, at the end of the day he was supposed to return the van to my house, clean it and unload any leftovers into a big freezer in our garage. The bummer was that whenever I was around, my dad insisted I had to help him. Which was torture.

  “So, I hear Lemonade Mouth is full steam ahead,” he said to me, all fake-casual on our first night cleaning and unloading together. “I guess you guys are big-deal recording stars now.” At the time my head and arm were deep inside one of the refrigerator tubs as I scrubbed it clean. We’d both been working in a chilly silence up until then, and pretty much ignoring each other, which was fine by me. Now I only grunted. Talk about uncomfortable.

  I didn’t know where he was going with this, exactly, but I was sure it wasn’t good. Scott’s band, Mudslide Crush, had recently broken up, and I think Lemonade Mouth had something to do with that.

  A few minutes later I was clearing out the van’s rear seats (my dad used them for collecting empty boxes and other crap that accumulated during the day) when Scott came up to me carrying a big container of mustard packets. As he passed by, he “accidentally” knocked against me, sending me flying. “Oh, I’m so sorry, man. I tripped.” He looked like he really meant his apology, but I knew better. My dad wasn’t around to see this, of course. Scott had made sure of that.

  “Yeah, sure you did,” I said, pulling myself up off the seat.

  A few days later I mentioned the situation to Mo and Charlie. “I don’t get it,” I said. “Why did it have to be Scott? Was there nobody else my dad could have hired to drive instead of him?”

  It was the morning of the Fourth of July, Stella was away, and the rest of u
s had separate barbecue and fireworks plans with our families. Since we weren’t going to see each other later on, Mo, Charlie, Olivia and I had decided to celebrate in our own way, by meeting for breakfast at the beach. “Don’t you see enough of those guys already?” my dad had asked only half-joking as I’d left that morning with a package of cream cheese in my hand. “It’s not like it’d kill you to spend one twenty-four-hour period apart from them.” I’d ignored him as I headed out the door.

  Olivia was late, as usual.

  “Sounds like there isn’t much you can do about it, Wen.” Charlie was talking through a mouthful of “red-white-and-blueberry” bagel. When it came to eating, he wasn’t one to wait until everybody got there. “Scott’s working for your dad and that’s that. Looks like you’re gonna have to find a way to live with it.”

  “But why should I have to put up with him at all? Scott’s a complete jerk. You agree with me, Mo. Right?”

  Mo was leaning back on her elbows and staring across the sand at the advancing waves. Now she sat up, tossing a broken clamshell into the water. “I don’t know. I’m not really bothered by Scott anymore one way or the other. I wish him well.”

  “It’s too bad about Mudslide Crush breaking up,” Charlie said, still snarfing the bagel. “They really were a good band, you know? I hear Ray Beech and Scott aren’t even friends anymore. They had a big fight and now they’re not talking to each other.”

  “They’re not?”

  He shrugged. “That’s what I heard.”

  Mo looked over at me. “It’s not like Scott’s a bad person or anything. He’s just a kid, like all of us. Maybe you should give him a chance.”

  “Give him a chance? How can you be so nonchalant about him, Mo? You, of all people?”

  “Time marches on, Wen. There’s no point in holding on to a grudge forever.”

  I was speechless. I couldn’t believe she was saying this.

  “Look, has he actually said something hostile to you? Anything unfriendly?”

  “Well, no. Not exactly. But he hardly says anything to me at all.”

  “Isn’t he going out with Lizzie DeLucia now?” Charlie asked. “I saw them hanging out together at the library.”

  Mo nodded.

  This was news to me—and kind of a surprise. Lizzie DeLucia was a spindly girl with flat brown hair and glasses. She was a founding member of the Quilting for Cancer Club at school—a really nice person, but definitely not Scott’s usual cheerleader type.

  “There you go, then,” she said, letting a handful of sand cascade through her fingers. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying I know what’s going on in Scott’s head, but have you considered the possibility that your dad might be right? About people changing, I mean? Maybe Scott’s feeling embarrassed about the past—who knows? Maybe he just wants to make amends now so he can move on. After all, he didn’t have to take the job working with you and your father.”

  Again. Speechless.

  “You’re nuts,” I said finally.

  By then Charlie had cream cheese on his chin and what looked like half his second bagel stuffed in his mouth. When I turned to him he said, “Don’t look at me. I have no idea.”

  Mo’s cell pinged with a new text message. “Oh, that’s my dad,” she said, jumping up and brushing the sand from her legs. “Sorry, guys. Rajeev’s finally awake. Gotta go.” Mo had already told us about this. Rajeev was a family guest who’d just arrived from India, and he was still jet-lagged from his long flight. Mo’s folks told her she could only stay here with us until he woke up, and then she had to get back home so they could all get ready to give him a tour of the area. Charlie, Olivia and I had met Rajeev briefly the night before. He seemed like a nice enough guy. Tall. Kind of quiet.

  Anyway, as Mo left she gave Charlie’s hand a quick squeeze. She grabbed a bagel to go before sprinting back to her bike. “Tell Olivia I’m sorry I missed her! Happy Fourth!”

  I waved as she pedaled away. I was still getting over her reaction about Scott. After the way he’d treated her this past year, if anyone should have hated the guy it was Mo. Not that it mattered if she didn’t. To me Scott was an unforgivable weasel and nobody was going to convince me otherwise. I looked at my watch.

  “What’s taking Olivia so long?”

  Charlie didn’t answer. When I looked up he was still watching Mo, his eyes intently following her progress as she disappeared down the street. At the time I figured he was still thinking about Scott and Lizzie, same as I was.

  CHARLIE

  Attack of the Girlfriend Snatcher

  Olivia never showed up. She texted to say she wasn’t feeling well, and after a while Wen and I called it a breakfast and went our separate ways. I didn’t go straight home. I wasn’t sure why, I just didn’t feel like it.

  Okay, maybe I did sort of know why.

  Ever since this Rajeev kid arrived I’d been getting strange vibes about the whole situation. It wasn’t just because of what Mo had told me—about her parents’ ideas on arranged marriage and Mo’s suspicions about why they were so glad Rajeev was here. Not that that wasn’t enough to freak a guy out. Mo was my girlfriend, after all. But she’d explained it all to me ahead of time and she’d told me she was going to ditch the kid at every opportunity, so I wasn’t all that worried.

  At least, not until the kid actually showed up and things started feeling weird.

  It had only been two days since Rajeev first set foot in Mo’s house and already the two of them were acting like peanut butter and jelly. I’d hardly even seen her since he had arrived. Like, the night before our breakfast on the beach, Mo and I were supposed to go out to a movie, but she called at the last minute to say she couldn’t because her family was taking Rajeev out to a restaurant.

  I tried not to be jealous. Honest, I did.

  But then later, when Olivia, Wen and I stopped by their house and I finally got to meet this Rajeev guy, my heart sank. The kid looked like a movie star. He was nice and everything too. He wanted to know all about us, and he kept asking me about our music and my drums—he really seemed interested. And that was the worst part, because I couldn’t bring myself not to like the guy. He also kept laughing at Mo’s jokes, even the ones that weren’t that funny. The whole time we were there she didn’t stop smiling. Not once.

  I felt like an extra in a horror flick called Attack of the Girlfriend Snatcher.

  But I tried to play it cool. What else could I do? I told myself I was being ridiculous and that Mo was just trying to be a good hostess, putting on a show for her mom and dad so they wouldn’t be on her case. What choice did she have, right? Even now, as I pedaled my bike aimlessly on the sidewalks of Opequonsett, I kept telling myself not to worry, that Mo and I were fine. After a while I found myself at the end of Mo’s street and decided since I was so close anyway, why not stop by to wish everyone a happy Fourth?

  Anyway, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

  EXTERIOR. MO’S STREET—MORNING

  Deep in thought, Charlie pedals his bike past a few houses as we hear a rhythm solo, a slow, nervous beat played on Cajón congas. The camera follows him for a few seconds and the rhythm continues to grow and swell, spilling over into the next shot …

  INTERIOR. CHARLIE’S BASEMENT—MORNING

  A close-up of bare hands as they play the beat we’ve been hearing. They move from conga to conga, varying the sounds by striking different parts of the drums. We watch for a few bars before cutting back to …

  EXTERIOR. MO’S STREET—MORNING

  Charlie is closer to the camera now, and we see him slow in front of a small red colonial with white shutters: Mo’s house. The beat continues. Charlie leans his bike against a tree near the end of the driveway.

  INTERIOR. CHARLIE’S BASEMENT—MORNING

  The hands still playing the beat.

  EXTERIOR. MO’S FRONT YARD—MORNING

  The camera watches over Charlie’s shoulder. He leaves his bike and takes a couple of steps toward the hou
se. Passing an overgrown bush, Charlie can now see a window that had been blocked from view. It looks into Mo’s living room, and when Charlie catches sight of what’s happening in there it stops him in his tracks. We see what Charlie sees: Mo and Rajeev, standing with their arms around each other.

  The conga music suddenly stops.

  CLOSE-UP ON: Charlie’s dumbstruck face.

  REVERSE ON: Mo and Rajeev again. They are dancing, and even though the music playing in the living room is muted through the window, we can hear it—it’s a mambo. Rajeev seems to be teaching Mo some dance steps. They’re laughing and he’s nodding and she’s trying to follow his instructions. They look good together.

  REVERSE ON: Charlie again. An extreme close-up on his widening eyes. He takes a step back from the camera. And then another. He turns to dash away and the congas start up again, only now it’s an explosion, a breakneck tidal wave of sound and unleashed emotion.

  INTERIOR. CHARLIE’S BASEMENT—MORNING

  Charlie’s bare hands striking, slapping, smacking out the new rhythm. We don’t see his face, but his arms are flying across the congas. Beads of sweat shoot from the long spirals of his hair as they whip around.

  EXTERIOR. MO’S FRONT YARD—MORNING

  A medium shot of Charlie spinning his bike around and getting back on it. He takes one last look in the direction of the house and then starts pedaling away as fast as he can. We hear him breathing, each breath echoing in time to the panicked music. He’s going back in the direction he came from. Soon he’s only a small dot in the middle of the screen. The rhythm plays on.

  OLIVIA

  Greetings from Nowhere

  Dear Ted,

  Happy Independence Day, Daddy! Just a quick note to let you know I’m thinking of you, and that Brenda and the cats and I are all doing fine. Got your letter. I think it’s great that they’re letting you help out in the prison library now. And no, I haven’t read Fahrenheit 451 yet, but I reserved it at the library, so I’ll let you know what I think after it comes in. I’m warning you, though: you were always more into the dystopian thing than I ever was—all that darkness and broken futuristic government stuff. Kind of depressing, don’t you think? Still, I promise to give it a chance.