Puckers Up

by Mark Peter Hughes

  “Mo’s gonna be there,” he said, as if somehow that closed the door for him.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Mo’s gonna be fine with it. She’s with Charlie now, and you’re with me, and everybody knows that. It’s time to put the past behind you. Come with me tomorrow,” I said. “You’ll be glad you did.”

  There was a pause before he answered. I knew he thought I was a little headstrong sometimes, but think he secretly liked that about me. People always think of Scott Pickett as this confident, cocky guy, but believe me, he’s supersensitive and a lot less self-assured than he comes off.

  The next morning, when we arrived at the field behind the high school, there were at least fifty volunteers already there, most of them kids I knew from school, with more still arriving.

  It was amazing to watch them pour in.

  Naomi came over to thank us for coming and to explain what was going on. They had a bunch of different project teams for people to work on. As soon as Wen Gifford’s dad saw us, he ran over to ask Scott if he would please help him at the wiener van. “A big crowd of people are coming to pitch in,” he said, “and I need somebody to help me with Penelope so we can be sure no one goes hungry or thirsty.” Since the wiener job was already sort of Scott’s area of expertise, he was happy to oblige.

  I glanced at Naomi’s clipboard and saw an open slot on a list labeled “Costumes.” Since I run a quilting club at school, I figured that was the place for me.

  Turned out, the leader of the costume team was Wen’s stepmom, Sydney, the same person who’d created that fantastic hot dog outfit I kept seeing Wen wearing on street corners around town. I’d never met her before, but she was very nice. A true artist too. She’d made drawings of the costumes we were about to create, and I was floored by the bold designs she’d come up with using only a few cheap materials and a bunch of odds and ends. There were five in our group—Mrs. Reznik, Richie Benedetti, Beverly DeVito (a nice lady who knew Stella from working at Stella’s mother’s lab), Sydney and me—and all of us got to work right away. We laid out two long fold-up tables at the edge of the high school parking lot with a couple of extension cords, two sewing machines, a staple gun, five big rolls of colored foam rubber, a crate of plastic tubing and some assorted stuff from the theater supply room.

  All around us, other project groups were also getting down to work: prepping sound and light equipment, hammering strips of plywood together, packing boxes and generally doing whatever Lyle and Naomi said needed to be done. It was organized chaos, and all to help Lemonade Mouth prepare for their big TV appearance that night. Nearby, the band itself was practicing a brand-new song they’d written, while the dancers—kids like Manny Valdez and Delila Czerwinski and a few others I recognized from the various basement clubs at school—were learning steps from this tall Indian kid, Rajeev. It was a great song too, with a good beat, a catchy chorus and words that left my jaw on the table the first time I heard them. Pretty soon people were nodding their heads and moving in time to the rhythm as we all ran around doing whatever we were doing.

  The entire crowd of volunteers—over a hundred Lemonheads (I don’t know who came up with that name for all the Lemonade Mouth fans, but I think that was the day it first stuck)—worked through the morning and into the early part of the afternoon. Even though it was hard work with a tight deadline, it didn’t feel like a chore. With the music blasting and everyone grinning, the excitement grew. I think to a lot of us it kind of felt like we were taking part in something bigger than ourselves, you know? Like we were in the front lines of a movement.

  Just as I was crouching to cut another sheet of yellow foam rubber, I noticed Scott about halfway across the field. He was walking around handing out hot dogs and lemonade. The band was taking a quick break at the time, and I saw that Charlie, Mo and Wen happened to be wandering in Scott’s direction. When they noticed him they sort of stopped short. It was obvious they hadn’t realized he was there—he’d spent most of the time by the van—and I guess they must have been surprised to see him. Then there was a brief weird moment. Wen kind of turned and drifted away, but not Charlie or Mo. After a pause they continued walking, going straight up to Scott and talking with him.

  I crossed my fingers.

  I was too far away to hear what they were saying, but nobody was shouting or pointing fingers or anything, which was a good sign. When Scott happened to glance in my direction, our eyes met. I waited, hoping he would give me a signal or something. Was everything all right? Had I been wrong to urge him to come? I knew how much this Lemonade Mouth situation had been weighing on him over the past few weeks, but Scott realized he’d done some stupid things, and everybody makes mistakes, right? I was proud of him for making the effort to show Lemonade Mouth that he got it and he wanted to move on. I knew it wasn’t easy for him to come to the field that day.

  I could only hope Mo and Charlie got it too.

  I watched them talk for a little while, and then it happened: I saw Mo smile. Charlie put his hand on Scott’s shoulder, and not in a threatening way or anything. They weren’t mad. Scott looked embarrassed, but I knew he was happy, because he was doing that adorable half-grin thing he does sometimes. I know it might seem like no big deal, but to me it felt huge, as if a dark cloud was clearing in front of my eyes. Suddenly I could breathe again.

  We worked all morning, and then a little after midday, I noticed something odd: we were being watched. At the top of the sloping road behind the high school field sat a rusty old red Ford Focus with hand-painted racing stripes—Ray Beech’s car. Ray used to be in Scott’s old band, Mudslide Crush, but they’d broken up after he and Scott had a blowout and now they weren’t talking. And yet there he was. Even from so far away I could make out Ray’s big head. He was just sitting there alone, staring out the window, looking at all the activity from a distance. After a while Scott must have seen him too, because he started up the hill toward him, probably to ask him what he was doing. As soon as Ray saw him coming, though, he drove off.

  The whole thing was weird. Why was Ray watching us? Was he up to something?

  I had no idea and I didn’t have long to think about it. All of us were crazy busy, and then around one o’clock a limo pulled into the parking lot to take the band down to New York. That set off a panic. I guess we’d lost track of time somehow, and now everybody started rushing around packing stuff up. Sydney said we had to stop working even though some of the costumes still needed finishing touches.

  “We’re out of time!” she called over her shoulder as she crammed a sewing machine into the trunk of her Ford Fiesta. “If we don’t leave now, we risk being late! Anything left to do, we’ll just have to do at the studio!”

  All around us people were snatching up equipment and stuffing things into boxes. The plan was to take all the key volunteers down to New York in five separate cars, each driven by a volunteer parent. But there was a problem. Even though not everybody was traveling with us, it soon became clear that we hadn’t arranged for enough vehicles to hold all the extra people and equipment we needed. There wasn’t any time to make a bunch of new phone calls either. This sudden realization set off yet another panic, and I could see in the anxious faces of the band and their parents, who stood staring at the final unpacked load of giant props, that they weren’t sure what to do.

  That was when Scott stepped in.

  “Um … I have an idea,” he offered. “What about Penelope? The passenger seats are removable, so we could take them out and pack the stuff in there.”

  “In the wiener van?” Sydney asked, her forehead wrinkling as she fiddled with a loose lock of her hair. “But it’d have to go all the way down to New York, and besides, we don’t have a driver.”

  Scott shrugged. “Her exterior is old but her engine is solid. She can make it. And if you need a driver, how about me?”

  Everybody stared at that yellow monstrosity with its patches of rust and that humongous plastic hot dog mounted across on top. If there was ever a rock-and-r
oll vehicle, this was definitely not it. But the truth was that it did have a big storage area and there really wasn’t time to rustle up anything else.

  Wen’s dad grinned. “It’s a good idea, Scott. As long as it’s okay with your parents, I say let’s do it.”

  I felt a rush of emotion—for Scott and for all of us. Scott called home and got the okay, and a few minutes later the Lemonade Mouth convoy was on its way to New York: three cars, two minivans, a limo, a refurbished ice cream van, twelve dancers, fourteen volunteer assistants and drivers and a band of revolutionaries. I was riding shotgun with Scott. We had three hours, just enough time to get to the studio on schedule. My adrenaline was pumping. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d ever felt so excited to be part of something.

  We blasted the music as we hit the highway.

  CHET ANDERS

  Greenroom C

  People ask me why I did it. Why would I allow Lemonade Mouth to go ahead with such a crazy idea when I knew there might be a backlash? I tell them that our show has always prided itself on taking risks. We air in the wee hours of the night, so our viewership isn’t the largest out there, but that’s why we can sometimes get away with things other shows can’t. Besides, our fans tend to be young and hip and college-aged—exactly the demographics the network wants to attract, so even though I realized I’d probably hear from the bigwigs in the morning, I also felt certain I’d get away with this, as long as I promised when it was over never to try anything like it again.

  But I had another reason too. Even as an entertainer on a graveyard-shift talk show, it’s always been my secret goal to do television that matters, that makes a difference in the world, and I guess I had an inkling about those Lemonade Mouth kids. I admired their nerve and I liked what they had to say.

  That was the real reason I decided to take the risk.

  Before we taped the show, my staff assigned Lemonade Mouth to wait in greenroom C, the biggest prep area we have, because they’d brought a lot of people and equipment with them. I checked in on them a few minutes before the final call time. At first they didn’t notice me standing in the doorway. Even at that point, just a few minutes until we started taping, the group seemed to be in a frenzy of preparation. There were dancers practicing steps, rubber costumes being adjusted, people calling out instructions from clipboards. The five band members themselves were sitting in the center of it all, looking pale and terrified.

  At last somebody noticed me and said hello. Everyone looked up and the whole room went quiet. It’s silly, really, how people treat you like royalty just because you’re on television every night, but there it is.

  “Hi, guys,” I said. “Just wanted to make sure you’re all set.”

  All around the room, scared-looking teenagers nodded. I noticed that Olivia Whitehead, the lead singer, was in the middle of some kind of deep-breathing exercise, and for a moment I wondered if she was going to be sick. But she nodded too, so I assumed she was okay.

  “I’m not much of one for pep talks,” I said, “but I’m not worried, so you don’t need to be either. Really. The rehearsal went well, and I’m sure you’ll do great. Just have fun out there. That’s all that really counts to the cameras.”

  More anxious stares. I figured I’d better quit while I was ahead, so I wished them luck, smiled and left. In just a few minutes the studio audience would be ushered in. After that we’d be ready to start. Even as I stood for my sound and makeup check, though, my thoughts were still on the kids back in greenroom C.

  I’ll let you in on a secret: I’d told a little white lie. After seeing the grim looks on their faces, I was just a little worried.

  NAOMI FISHMEIER

  Pandemonium

  The tension backstage was almost unbearable. Everyone had the jitters, and Olivia, poor kid, looked ready to fall apart. There was nothing else I could do to help her, though, and my job back there was done. With showtime approaching, it seemed best to give the performers a little space before they went on.

  All I could do now was take my seat in the audience and cross my fingers.

  The crowd was in a party mood. Even though the program was broadcast late at night, they actually taped the show in the early evening. Before they began the main event, a couple of comedians came out to warm up the crowd. I must admit, Dear Reader, that I had a difficult time paying attention to them, talented comics though they may have been. My heart was pounding and my mind was decidedly elsewhere.

  At last the house band started playing the theme music.

  The real show was beginning.

  Chet Anders strolled onto the stage, flashing his trademark gap-toothed grin at the cheering audience. He came across like a friendly neighbor, the kind of guy you could imagine pouring your heart out to just as easily as you could imagine inviting him to a barbecue. He pretended to pitch an invisible baseball into the still-applauding crowd and grinned again. The man was a pro at this. I, on the other hand, was new to this world, and so nail-bitingly nervous that I don’t even remember most of his opening monologue. Only when he started listing his guests for the evening did I realize I was digging my fingernails into the seat.

  “And we have a special treat this evening,” he was saying. “Remember that band of high-school kids who stood up to the judges of American Pop Sensation?” On the overhead screens they showed a few seconds of the video clip. The audience laughed. Of course they remembered—Chet had been playing the clip as a running gag just about every night since it’d happened. “Well, they’re here with us tonight, folks. Lemonade Mouth is waiting backstage!”

  After a few more seconds of applause he nodded to one of his directors. The stage lights started to dim. I knew this was it—the beginning of the introduction they’d practiced. My guts twisted. It felt like everything was at risk now. The future of Lemonade Mouth was on the line.

  Chet stood in the spotlight, his expression theatrically serious. The audience went quiet as he began to explain about his recent phone call from the quirky band from Rhode Island, how the kids had requested a change in tonight’s format due to their recent indoctrination into the world of advertising. He held up a copy of the Zephyr Stick ad from one of the many magazines it had appeared in. The camera closed in on it.

  “You’ve seen this, haven’t you? It just came out and already I’ve been spotting it everywhere I look. Anyone else?” The audience clapped—yes, many of them were familiar with the ad. “Well, believe it or not, the band wanted to mark this grand event on my show, here, tonight, with a brand-new song they’ve written just for the occasion.” He raised an eyebrow. “These kids take their newfound visibility very seriously, and I commend them for their thoughtful musical commentary. And now,” he said, gesturing toward the curtains behind him, “After Midnight is proud to bring you … Lemonade Mouth!”

  He stepped out of the light and the curtains opened. There was Lemonade Mouth. Except for the instruments in their hands, the band was posed exactly as they appeared in the ad—the same clothes, the same expressions—while the ad itself was projected behind them on a big screen. Seeing them this way, it was obvious that the kids in the photo and in real life were not the same.

  I held my breath.

  The song began with a pulsing bass line and a syncopated beat that Charlie played on a big funky-looking aluminum drum that was strapped to his side. Stella’s distorted ukulele groove oozed with cool. The effect was like a storm about to break, a riotous party on the verge of busting open. Around me I saw heads starting to bob to the rhythm. With the ad image visible over her shoulder, Olivia began to sing:

  I’m so slender …

  No lies, lies, lies

  I haven’t eaten in days—

  Just look at my pencil thighs.…

  Stella came next, sweeping the audience with her gaze as she sang:

  I’m so sultry …

  Look at my dainty hips.

  I scream and shout, d’you like my pout?

  ’Cause I got inflatable lips.…<
br />
  Then Mo:

  I’m so exotic!

  My brown eyes are freaky green!

  Take me to your leader—

  I’m a dreamy Martian queen!

  Charlie and Wen’s part was a chant they did together, like a robotic chorus line, as the music increased in urgency:

  Freaky, fakey, phony, baby!

  Let them give us what they got!

  Let the media decide for us

  What’s hot and what is not!

  Glancing around, I noticed a few mouths drop open. I think a lot of people had probably had these same secret thoughts—I know I sure had—but I doubt anyone ever expected to hear them expressed aloud on television, and with music that was so crazy fun and danceable that it was impossible not to want to move your feet. With each new verse the camera alternated between the ad and the real person so that the difference between them was obvious, and judging by the astonished expressions, I had the feeling that people got it. They understood even if they were still too stunned to react.

  Now it was time to hit them with the chorus. Stella’s chords were coming faster and harder, a hurricane unleashed. Olivia stepped back up to the mike.

  Freaky, fakey, phony, baby!

  So what if it’s unhealthy?

  As long as we all keep lapping it up

  We’re making someone wealthy!

  Freaky, fakey, phony, baby!

  Looking like a skeleton toy!

  Can’t think for myself, can’t be who I am

  I gotta beeee …

  Freakyyy! Fakeyyy! Phooonyyyyyyyy!!

  Wen raised his trumpet and let out a flurry of notes like a rogue merry-go-round. In the row ahead of me, a large, middle-aged woman in pearls was listening wide-eyed. She wasn’t the only one.

  “Don’t buy into the lies!” Charlie and Wen called out together.

  “Don’t fall for somebody else’s idea of what’s pretty or cool!” shouted Mo and Olivia.