Puckers Up

by Mark Peter Hughes

  REVERSE ON: Stella and Rajeev, seen through the crack in the doorway again. Rajeev, looking cool and dapper and in a white short-sleeved oxford and jeans, is whispering and smiling while Stella, with her pink hair and slashed-up Deadly Rebels tee, glows. She has a small bag of gummy fish and offers it to him. He takes one. In their own opposites-attract way, they look terrific together. The camera moves slowly toward them as we hear …

  CHARLIE (V.O.)

  In all the time we’d known Stella, neither of us had ever seen her like this. She was flirting with him—and Rajeev was right there with her. If fate was like a chemistry experiment, what we were witnessing was the first spark of a mighty explosion of fire and destiny. This was the start of something huge. I remember sensing what felt like electricity in the air, and wondering where on earth this would lead. With Stella Penn involved, it could have been just about anywhere.

  STELLA

  On a Cloud

  That’s right, cherished compatriots. Your Sista Stella, your embattled warrior of justice, rock-and-roll rebel and one time loner, found herself suddenly in love. Utterly smitten. Head over metal-spiked heels!

  Rajeev and I went out for a broccoli noodle stir-fry and a walk along the water, and after that I started catching myself staring out windows and thinking of butterflies. Not only was Rajeev drop-dead gorgeous, but we had so much in common it was scary. He hated sugarless gum. He loved chili peppers and vampire stories. He owned every Sista Slash album, including a rare vinyl copy of her live benefit concert in Tibet, and he was as excited about her upcoming Take Charge concert as I was.

  He was even a vegetarian!

  Without warning, sappy love songs that would normally have set off my delicate musical gag reflex were drifting through my head, and I didn’t mind it at all. Every now and then I’d notice my mother or my older sister, Clea, staring at me with worried expressions.

  “What the heck is wrong with you, Stella?” Clea asked me more than once from one of our backyard lounge chairs. Clea had recently finished her freshman year at Brown University and now seemed content spending her entire summer alternately sunning herself and stuffing her face with ice cream. “For days you’ve been floating around with a stupid smile on your face. Did you even realize you were just humming? Snap out of it!”

  “Nothing’s wrong, Clea dear,” I told her. “Just enjoying the morning, that’s all. Shall I fetch you another scoop of rocky road?”

  “Be careful,” Mo advised me after Rajeev and I had been going out for almost a week. “I know for a fact that his parents are way traditional—even more than mine.”

  “So? What are you saying? That there’s something wrong with me that they should be upset about?”

  “No, there’s nothing wrong with you, Stella. You’re great, and Rajeev’s a super-lucky guy. You know I mean that. But the thing is, you’re not a Hindu, and I think for his parents that might set off some red flags.”

  I’ll admit, this gave me a moment of pause—but only a brief moment. If Rajeev had a problem with me not being a Hindu, well, that would have been a real concern. But he never said he did, so I figured, why worry? Besides, his parents didn’t even know me. If they met me, maybe they’d change their minds.

  Anyway, I would cross that bridge only if I ever came to it.

  Before you could say “infatuation at first sight” Rajeev and I were spending as much of our free time together as we could and my summer had gone from merely exciting to positively electrifying. Rajeev was like a Southern gentleman from an old black-and-white movie. He opened doors for me, and despite my feminist sensibilities I have to admit it didn’t bother me one little bit. He was always kind and polite, but not in a way that got on your nerves. He was interested in my opinions and ideas and wasn’t shy about sharing his with me even when we disagreed, which wasn’t all that often. We would talk for hours and hours about everything and nothing. We got each other.

  And to top it all off, he was one heck of a great dancer.

  So is it any wonder I was on a cloud?

  OLIVIA

  A Little Late for That

  Dear Ted,

  I know, I know. Two letters in one week—what’s come over me, right?

  Today was another long day of recording. We spent the whole session on one song (another new one, “Zombietown”—lots of harmonies and percussion) and by the time Charlie’s mom brought us home Brenda had to reheat dinner. Now it’s almost midnight and she’s in bed. As I write this I’m at the kitchen table with Daisy purring on my lap. Only three months old, but already she’s so big that Brenda and I are starting to wonder if she’s part mountain lion. She’s definitely a wild thing. Today Brenda said she caught her climbing one of the curtains and leaping from there across the room onto one of the ottomans. The other cats are skittish around her. I don’t think they know what to make of such a hell-raiser.

  Anyway, I’m writing to tell you that I got your letter today. It was in the mail stack when I came home tonight, and now I can’t think of anything else. Yes, of course I’m planning to tell Brenda about the note from Mom. I’ve been waiting for the right moment, that’s all. Brenda’s been under a lot of stress lately, and besides, you know how emotional she gets about these things. Whenever I’ve brought up this stuff in the past it’s been like torture for her to talk about it. It’s a topic I’ve learned to avoid.

  Not that I haven’t been thinking about my mother a lot in the past few days.

  Funny how there are so few pictures of her around. It’s almost like when she left, everything about her kind of disappeared too. I still have the photograph you gave me, though. I’ve kept it hidden in my bedside cabinet all these years. You remember the one, right? The two of you are at a party on a beach and she’s leaning her head on your shoulder and you’re staring at the camera with this sly look like a cat that just caught a mouse. You look so young, Daddy, but I guess it makes sense, because you both must have been in high school at the time. And she’s so beautiful with her long dark hair and those big eyes she had, and the way she was smiling at you like she’d decided what she wanted and you were the best thing ever. It’s no wonder you fell for her.

  I don’t remember much of anything about her, just a few moments and feelings. A green jacket she wore, how it felt rough against my skin. Her and me singing along with the radio. I can even close my eyes and picture myself watching through our front window as she rolls her suitcase toward a yellow cab waiting at the end of the driveway. She turns to wave at me before she gets in and closes the cab door and never comes back.

  I imagine these things, but I couldn’t have actual memories of any of it, not really. I was too little.

  Okay, so now I’m going to share yet another secret with you: I’ve been checking the mail every day to see if she writes again. I’m curious about her. For so many years I used to wonder what happened to her. I would imagine her living in a mansion somewhere, or sailing around the world. I used to pretend to have conversations with her, long discussions where I’d share everything about my life and she’d tell me everything about hers. If she’d written to me then, it would have been so easy for me to forgive her for leaving. Later I decided that she must have died. In a strange way that might have been better, because at least it would have given me a good reason for why she never contacted me during all those years. Not one phone call. Not one letter. Nothing. Until now.

  Which I suppose is why I still haven’t mentioned any of this to anyone except you. I think about it all the time, though. I keep wondering, why now? Why would she drop back into my life at this moment instead of any other? What does she expect from me? Is she trying to start a new, ongoing connection with the daughter she abandoned? If so, why didn’t she give an address or a phone number? Or is it that she’s looking for something else? Forgiveness, maybe?

  I hope it’s not forgiveness. After so many years without a mother, it feels a little late for that.

  Love,

  Olivia

 
WEN

  A Terrifying Limo Ride to Reality

  Even while we were still making our recordings and everything else was going on in our lives, Mr. Decker was already busy behind the scenes setting up opportunities for Lemonade Mouth. The man was a force of nature. Not only did he have incredible access to high-ranking executives and other power players in the business, but he also worked fast.

  Days after the holiday weekend he set up a video link to say he’d arranged for us to try out on American Pop Sensation. I was floored by the news. We all were. APS was the biggest reality show on TV, where unknown musicians from all over the country competed in front of three opinionated judges and a live national audience. The show was huge. Each of the winners of its ten previous seasons had been unknowns who became household names and sold millions of albums. Landing us a slot on the show, even if the only guarantee was a one-minute shot in this season’s preliminaries, was an amazing feat.

  But it was also nuts. I’m not going to lie—at first I wondered if Mr. Decker had lost his mind.

  “But does it really make sense for our group?” I managed to ask as the five of us gaped at his face on the monitor. “I mean, national TV. Millions of viewers. Don’t you think it’s kind of a big risk?”

  “Relax,” he said, taking a puff on his cigar. “I have a good feeling about this.”

  I looked over at Olivia. At the mention of national television she looked like she’d lost half her blood supply. Charlie and Stella didn’t seem sure either.

  “I don’t know. Those judges can be kind of rough,” said Mo, biting at one of her fingernails. It was a nervous habit I knew she was trying to break. “What if we screw up and end up looking ridiculous? Lots of people do. Do you really think the odds of us winning are high enough to take that chance?”

  Mr. Decker chuckled. “You’re not going to screw up. I have faith in you.”

  The point, he explained, wasn’t that Lemonade Mouth had to win, exactly, but that any kind of national exposure would be good exposure. He asked us to trust him. None of us felt as sure as he seemed, but he was adamant that this was a good idea, and by the time the call was over he’d gotten us all to agree to do it. That was how Mr. Decker was. Once he had an idea there was no stopping him.

  So a few days later, midafternoon on a sweltering day in July, we started our drive to New York City, where the show was being filmed. Mr. Decker insisted that we ride with him in his limo. “I want you to look like a band,” he told us, “and it never hurts to make a big entrance.” Our parents came with us, of course, and Lyle, Naomi and Mrs. Reznik too—we couldn’t let something as gigantic as this happen without having them with us.

  I remember how nervous and quiet all of us were during that long ride to New York. It was supposed to take three and a half hours, but it took a lot longer because of traffic. If Mr. Decker was worried he didn’t show it, but I was sweating it out the whole way.

  “Keep in mind that the show isn’t only about your performance on the stage,” Mr. Decker said as we traveled through Connecticut. “There will also be cameras on the contestants in the waiting areas, and even on the crowds in line outside the studio building. When the cameras are on you, America is watching—don’t forget that.”

  I kept checking on Olivia. She spent most of the ride hugging her elbows and staring out the window.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  For weeks she’d been telling everyone not to worry about her, that she had her stage fright under control, but I wasn’t so sure. I knew for a fact that she’d already vomited twice that day—once in the morning and once just before the limo arrived. I glanced at the driver, Ralph, a serious-faced guy with a gray mustache and dark glasses. He was concentrating on the road.

  “We can still back out of this,” I whispered. “Maybe it’s not worth it.”

  “I’m all right.”

  For the first time in a while, she turned to face me. When she squeezed my hand I could tell that she really was going to be okay, at least for now. Which was even more of a relief than it might seem. For a few days I’d been worried about her—and not just because of her anxieties about performing. She’d been acting quieter than usual, and when I asked what was going on she wouldn’t admit anything was wrong. Something was up with her, though. I could tell.

  It was still light when we entered Manhattan, but I knew we were late. I remember looking up at the skyscrapers and feeling their weight hanging over us as we rolled through a sea of traffic and shadows and towering buildings. Olivia squeezed my hand again. After we pulled up at a curb crowded with people, Ralph stepped out from behind the wheel so he could walk around the car and get the door for us.

  “Here you go,” Mr. Decker said. “Good luck.”

  “Wait—you’re not coming?” Stella asked, alarmed.

  He shook his head. “I don’t want the cameras focusing on me, I want them on you guys. Remember to have fun and be yourselves—and don’t forget that the show begins the moment you step out onto that sidewalk.” Outside the limo a small crowd was already starting to press in toward us, which was strange. No doubt they were mistaking us for somebody famous. “Don’t worry,” Mr. Decker said. “America’s going to love you guys.”

  There are different opinions about Mr. Decker and the role he played that day. Some people say he had no idea what he was doing, that what happened later proved it. Others look back at the astonishing events of that evening and conclude that Mr. Decker knew exactly what he was doing, that getting us an appearance on that show at all was a stroke of genius, the sort of out-of-the-box inspired move he’d become famous for during his four decades in the music business. I don’t know which point of view is right, but I don’t think anyone, not even the great Earl Decker, could have guessed that things were about to play out the way they did.

  The five of us glanced at each other as we waited for Ralph to open the door. Whatever was about to come next was going to have repercussions in our lives, for good or for bad, and suddenly I didn’t want to leave the safety of the limo. In a matter of seconds it would all begin. The door would open, and we’d climb out onto the crowded sidewalk. After that there was no predicting what might happen.

  Towering genius disdains a beaten path. It seeks regions hitherto unexplored.

  —Abraham Lincoln

  RALPH BICKNELL

  The Faceless Guy Behind the Wheel

  I’ve been Mr. Decker’s personal chauffeur for more than twenty-five years, and I’ve driven a lot of big-name stars. Danny Dangerous. Leroy Thrasher. Rachel and the Bob-sickles. If limousines could talk, mine would have a few stories to tell. Most passengers don’t pay any attention to the nameless guy behind the wheel. I honestly think a lot of them forget I’m even there.

  But I’m there. And I notice everything.

  Sure, I remember that ride to New York with Lemonade Mouth. It turned out to be a big day, bigger than anyone imagined, so of course I get asked about it a lot. And whenever I do, I tell people that I remember three things:

  First, I remember how scared those kids were. When we left Rhode Island they were sitting behind me full of nervous energy, but as we got closer to Manhattan (we were running late because of a tractor trailer accident on I-95) it became like a morgue back there. Everyone was silent. Mohini Banerjee was biting her nails, Stella Penn was fidgeting as if she were getting ready to explode, and Olivia Whitehead, the singer, was staring out the window like she might jump out. The adults with them seemed just as stressed.

  Second, I can still picture their amazed expressions at the reception they received when we finally reached Times Square. As we pulled up to the curb a rush of people closed in around the limo, trying to peer through the tinted glass. I didn’t say anything, but of course I knew Mr. Decker had arranged this ahead of time. It was an old trick of his, planting a few ringers in the sidewalk crowd to make sure his client’s arrival got noticed. And it worked. There were two cameramen by the building and both of them spun in our direction
to see what all the commotion was about. When I saw the surprised look on the kids’ faces I had to hide a smile.

  When it came to working the media, Mr. Decker played it like a violin.

  But the third thing—and this is what sticks with me most whenever I think about that day—is this: even though those Lemonade Mouth kids were under a lot of pressure and must have been scared stiff about what would happen to them next, as they each got out of the car they still took the time to thank me for driving. All five of them, one at a time. And let me tell you, I appreciated that.

  Now, I’m a fan of Danny Dangerous’s music, but you want to know something? In all the hundreds of rides I gave that kid, he never thanked me. Not once. He never even remembered my name.

  LYLE DWARKIN

  Going All the Way

  People always say how I should have been mad at Lemonade Mouth, as if following their dreams with Decker and Smythe somehow meant they were dumping me. But that’s ridiculous. I can honestly say I never felt that way. They were my friends and I was happy for them. Besides, with so much extra time on my hands that summer, I ended up hanging out a lot more with Naomi Fishmeier, one of the smartest, funniest people I ever met.

  Let’s just put it this way: I wasn’t complaining.

  And Lemonade Mouth always included Naomi and me whenever they could. Like, the day of the American Pop Sensation debacle, we rode down to New York in the limo with them.

  The way I remember it, the mob scene started the moment we all stepped out of the limo. The band was out first and somebody shouted, “It’s them! It’s Lemonade Mouth!” and soon a small crowd was pressing in and screaming like Lemonade Mouth was this big celebrity band or something. It was a good thing Ralph, the limo driver, was such a big guy, because he was able to stand between us and the crush like a bodyguard. Seconds later two official-looking men with clipboards appeared. They told us they were from the network and that they would be Lemonade Mouth’s handlers. They’d been waiting for us, they said, and they seemed kind of annoyed we were late. They told us there was still a chance Lemonade Mouth could make it before the producers bumped us from the schedule, but only if we hurried.