CHARLIE (CONT’D)
(to the camera, like a conversation with a friend)
It was like we’d tapped into a well of pent-up emotion across the country. And with all this publicity, our songs were getting an increasing number of downloads—not chart-busting numbers, but still. For a bunch of kids with no corporate backing it was more than we’d dared to hope for.
He looks out across the water. The wind ruffles his hair.
CHARLIE (CONT’D)
But as amazing as all of this was, our excitement was tinged with sadness. The time had come to say farewell to a friend.
MOHINI
Might As Well Be the Moon
Rajeev’s stay in Rhode Island is over. All of us are accompanying him to the airport, where he’s flying off to his new life in faraway Lubbock, Texas. Nine of us are here: Lemonade Mouth plus my family plus Rajeev. There are too many of us to fit in our Volvo, so the Hirshes have lent my parents their Caravan, which was nice of them.
But this is no small goodbye. We all feel it’s important to be here.
The closer we move to the gate, the slower all of us walk and the quieter our conversation becomes. We’re like a band of heavy-hearted mourners, shuffling along the industrial carpeting while an overhead electronic voice announces arrivals and departures. Too soon, we reach the security gate. This is as far as the friends and family of passengers are allowed to come. But we’ve run out of ways to delay the inevitable. Rajeev already has his seat assignment. His bags are already checked. We linger a little while longer, but there’s no denying the truth.
There’s nothing left to do but say goodbye.
Rajeev starts by thanking my parents for maybe the hundredth time. He hugs Maa and then Baba and then Madhu (she’s biting her bottom lip and looking like a cloudy day) and then me.
“Stay in touch, Monu,” he whispers in my ear, giving me a squeeze.
“Of course” is all I can manage because of the heat in my eyes and the rock that seems to be weighing down my stomach. Saying goodbye to Rajeev feels worse than I ever would have imagined less than two months ago, back when I actually hid in my room just to avoid meeting him. In the weeks since then, I’ve grown accustomed to having him around. I already know I’ll miss his weird sense of humor and his water fights and the way he can make Madhu smile just by making a face at her. I’ll miss our easy conversations, the way I never have to explain certain things to him because we both grew up with the same kind of parents.
I feel like I’m saying goodbye to the brother I never had.
It’s Charlie’s turn next. He and Rajeev do one of those guy-handshake things that involve a long series of complicated steps and end in bear hugs. It’s sweet to watch, especially after the uncomfortable start I know Charlie had when Rajeev first arrived. That’s one of the things I love most about Charlie, how even when he feels strongly about something he’s still open enough to realize that his opinions might need adjusting. He takes himself seriously, but in a way, he kind of doesn’t. Charlie knows how to laugh things off and move on.
Rajeev is finished spending his final moments with Wen and then Olivia. Next comes the part I’m sure will be the hardest.
All week I think everybody has been feeling bad for Stella. Not that she’s been walking around in a depressed fog or anything. Olivia and Stella and I got together at Olivia’s two nights ago to listen to music and talk, and Stella seemed cheerful enough. But it doesn’t take a relationship expert to see that this is going to be hard for the girl. She and Rajeev have not only fallen headlong for each other, but even though I never would have guessed it, they turned out to be an incredible couple. Like curried chickpeas and hot sauce, they just go together.
Watching the two of them at this moment brings another lump to my throat. They both look haunted, like they can’t believe they’re saying goodbye. They’re gazing into each other’s eyes and holding hands. Not a word passes between them, and yet I can tell there’s real communication happening. It’s amazing to watch.
At last he kisses her forehead.
She puts her hand on his cheek.
He takes a step back.
After a heartbeat he turns and walks away, his expression resolute as he moves through the gate.
There. It’s over now. All of us step closer to Stella. Her eyes are red rimmed. Wen rests his hand on her shoulder. I hear Olivia whisper in her ear, “He’ll be back. Don’t worry, Stella. We’ll see him again soon.”
I want to believe it, but I don’t. I’ve never met Rajeev’s family—well, not recently, anyway—but I know how things are. Rajeev’s parents are superconservative, and they just arrived in this country. Stella is wonderful, but they don’t know that. Plus, Stella and Rajeev are going to be two thousand miles apart.
If you ask me, Lubbock might as well be the moon.
Everybody’s quiet as we watch Rajeev work his way through the short line, wheeling his carry-on luggage behind him. He steps through the metal detector. He’s on the other side now but he still hasn’t looked back at us. He’s walking farther away down the long hallway. It hurts. It feels like we’re watching a part of Lemonade Mouth disappear, like he belonged with us and is now being ripped away. Stella’s face is ashen. Charlie squeezes my hand and I can’t help feeling grateful that at least he isn’t going anywhere.
I can’t believe Rajeev still hasn’t looked back at us, but then, just as he’s about to turn the corner and out of sight, he spins around in a cool robot dance move that’s somehow both choppy and graceful at the same time, and he’s facing us again. He lifts an invisible lemonade cup into the air.
“Hold it high!” he calls out with a grin. “Raise it up!”
Even though my throat is tight and I feel my eyes welling, I smile. I think each of us feels the same way. We do what he asks. We all return the salute of our new, dear friend, holding up our invisible cups. Even Madhu, Baba and Maa.
I have no idea what’s going to happen to any of us next. Whatever it is, though, I can’t help thinking things won’t be the same without him.
CHARLIE
The Message That Changed Everything
EXTERIOR. QUIET BEACH—EARLY MORNING, THREE YEARS FROM NOW
Barefoot Charlie is walking along the shore again, hands in pockets.
CHARLIE
It was a roller-coaster ride. Even as we said our sad farewell to Rajeev, the media firestorm we’d set off was still raging. After the Howit Iz article and the SNaP announcement, the online messages started pouring in. I mean, loads of them—it was nuts. Lyle wouldn’t admit it, but I think he was getting overwhelmed.
Charlie stops. He looks out across the water, which sparkles with sunlight.
CHARLIE (CONT’D)
And that’s when we got the message that changed everything. It was only a day or two after Rajeev left, and in the slew of other emails, we almost didn’t see it for what it was. We didn’t believe it was real.
INTERIOR. SOUND ROOM—EVENING, THREE YEARS FROM NOW
At a huge control board surrounded by stacks of amazing-looking sound equipment, Lyle Dwarkin, disheveled as ever, is being interviewed.
Uncomfortable in the spotlight, his voice is quiet as he talks with an off-screen interviewer.
LYLE
I thought it was a joke at first. Through the website we received a private fan message from somebody who claimed to be Sista Slash. You know, the Sista Slash, the protest rocker. I figured for sure it must be bogus, somebody trying to fake us out by using the name of a celebrity. But … well, a couple more messages came through and I looked into it, and … yeah. Turned out it really was her.
(shakes his head, still wowed by the memory)
She said she was impressed by what Lemonade Mouth was doing. She said she wanted to arrange a meeting.
There’s a pause as Lyle lets the enormity of that statement hover in the air.
INTERVIEWER (OFF-SCREEN)
So what happened when you told everyone?
LY
LE
(shrugs)
Well … they could hardly believe it, of course. Especially Stella, who was like the biggest Sista Slash fan ever. After I showed her the message she didn’t speak for, I don’t know, maybe three whole minutes. I thought she was going to pass out.
OLIVIA
Barbecued Zucchini with a Rock-and-Roll Anarchist
Dear Ted,
I don’t know whether to feel good or to scream. My life just jumped into scary overdrive, and yet as I’m writing this I’m wondering how much you even know. Have you even received my last letter, the one where I told you that we were going to meet with Sista Slash?
Well, now we have. And boy, what a day it’s been.
We met her in a restaurant in Providence. She’s in New England anyway because the Take Charge Festival is this weekend (even you must have heard about that—the huge multiband benefit concert in Vermont? It’s all over the news), and since she’s putting up the money for the whole thing, she’s spending the week up in Vermont organizing the final preparations. She said she wanted to come down to Rhode Island to meet us, though, and in her message she said she’d be at a place called the Lone Star Veggie, a little vegetarian Texas barbecue restaurant on Federal Hill.
It was a good thing the trip from Opequonsett wasn’t long. For the whole ride into Providence, Stella was working up a major freak-out. “Are we going to be late?” she kept asking. “Oh god oh god oh god, can you believe this is happening?”
When we stepped into the restaurant, there she was, Sista Slash, the Lawless Queen of Anarchy. She was alone at a booth waiting for us. We recognized her right away, not only because a solidly built middle-aged rocker with spiky black hair striped with orange is kind of hard to miss, but also because there weren’t any other customers in the place at the time. When she realized how many of us had come (eight—us five plus Lyle, Naomi and Mrs. Penn, who drove) she started moving tables so we could all sit together.
Now, I’ll be honest. From what little I knew about Sista Slash—her shock-and-blast music; her reputation as a reckless, in-your-face crusader for a zillion different causes; even her whole retro-tough studded-jeans-and-leather look—I was secretly worried she would turn out to be a loudmouthed, full-of-herself, rock-diva type. But she wasn’t. She seemed genuinely thrilled to meet us. In fact, instead of talking about herself, she went on and on about how much she loves our music.
“Guys, I just have to get this out right from the get-go,” she said (she has a Southern accent—I didn’t know that, did you?), “I’m a huge fan of Lemonade Mouth. Your sound is outside of the everyday. It takes risks. It’s got an edge, know what I mean? An attitude. And, girl,” she said, turning to Stella, “I can’t get over that uke of yours! Holy crap! That little thing rocks!”
Stella was speechless. She turned purple.
Believe it or not, Sista Slash was super charming the whole time we were with her. And funny! You should’ve heard her talk about all the trouble she has getting her hair to stay spiky after wearing a motorcycle helmet. (“This darn do takes up more of my time than I care to admit, but I’m not giving up my ride, and appearances must be maintained!”) Or about how worried her accountant is because of the financial risk she’s taking on the Take Charge concert. (“The man is so frightened of taking chances that I think even if he was about to burst he’d be too scared to pee in the dark.”) Within minutes she had us all laughing and relaxed. The woman might have a pile of gold records, a Humanitarian of the Year award and the email address of the Dalai Lama, but Sista Slash is about as unassuming as they come. I began to see why Stella admires her so much. Even Mrs. Penn was impressed at how down-to-earth she was.
Sista introduced us to the restaurant owner, a tall, muscular guy named Pete (apparently Sista and Pete grew up together, another reason why she offered to make the trip down to Rhode Island), and he treated us like family. “Any friend of Sista’s is a friend of mine,” he said with the same Southern accent. After that he brought us plate after plate of the best vegetarian food I ever imagined. Who knew spicy barbecued zucchini with chipotle black beans would be delicious?
Then, about halfway through the meal, she dropped a bomb on us.
“Listen, guys,” she said, wiping her mouth on a napkin, “I have an idea I want to run by you. What would you say if I told you I’d like to squeeze Lemonade Mouth into the lineup of bands performing at Take Charge?”
I’d just bitten into a deep-fried artichoke and I almost coughed it up. By the sudden silence around the table, I think everybody else was just as shocked.
“Think about it,” she continued. “I’m talking maybe a fifteen-minute set, short but sweet. I know five days ain’t a lot of notice, but it’s an important cause and I think Lemonade Mouth would be a terrific addition to the festival. I’ll help you, you help me. What do you guys say?”
I looked around. Stella’s mom set down her fork. She looked too stunned to continue eating, and I guess she was waiting to see what everyone thought. But I knew exactly what my friends were thinking—that this was a colossal opportunity for us, that taking part in this huge event would bring us much further than APS or After Midnight with Chet Anders had. The Take Charge Festival is sure to be the biggest concert event of the whole year. Sharing the stage with famous, respected acts like the Swag Hags and Fade Out 321, not to mention Sista Slash herself, would establish us as real musicians, not just a novelty act of high school protesters. There would be worldwide satellite links and international coverage, and afterward, who knew what else? A retrospective concert album? Maybe even a documentary movie?
If ever there was a big time, this was it.
But needless to say, the idea scared the living crap out of me. My stomach had already tightened to the size of a marble and I had to fold my hands together in case they started to shake. Everyone stayed quiet. Stella, who probably wanted this more than anybody, looked at me and then quickly back down at the table, not pushing one way or the other. Wen squeezed my shoulder. I could tell none of them were even going to try to persuade me. They were just waiting to hear what I would say.
I think Sista Slash is a smart lady. I think she was aware of how we felt about the situation just from watching us.
“I understand about being scared,” she said after a pause, her voice gentle, even motherly. She was looking around at everyone, but I felt sure she was actually talking to me. “I’ll let you in on a secret. When I first started out I used to panic before every show I did. I’d break out in a cold sweat like you wouldn’t believe, and it got worse as the venues I played started to get bigger. But then I decided I had something worthwhile to say and that nothing was going to stop me from saying it, especially not myself. You kids have something to say too, something people need to hear. The truth is, up until now I’ve been wondering whether your whole all-for-one-and-one-for-all thing was just a marketing trick, but now that I’ve met you guys I can see that it isn’t. It’s real. And it’s exactly what Take Charge is meant to be all about.”
At last she turned to me and she touched my hand.
“Olivia, hon,” she said even more gently, “you can do this. I may have trouble balancing a checkbook, but trust me, I’m an excellent judge of character, and I firmly believe that you and your friends can do whatever you set your minds to.”
I’d been staring down at the tablecloth but I looked up at her now, and in her eyes I saw that this wasn’t about her trying to convince me to do her show. I could tell that she meant what she was saying. She really did understand the kinds of feelings I go through, and she wanted to help me. Realizing this, I felt my face heat up and I had to look away again. But when she squeezed my hand, I squeezed hers back.
The Universe really is a mystery, Daddy. Earl Decker is gone, but they say sometimes when a door closes a window opens. Maybe that’s what’s happening here. I’m told there are Take Charge posters not only all over the country but all over the world, each showing Sista Slash with her fist in the air an
d the slogan ACTIVISM MEANS DOING SOMETHING! IT’S YOUR WORLD! TAKE CHARGE! There’ll be over fifty thousand people in the live audience this Saturday. Tens of millions more are going to watch across the country and around the globe, from Burbank to Boston to Brussels to Bombay.
And Lemonade Mouth is going to be a small but real part of it.
We’re scheduled to play four songs.
We start at about 12:20 in the afternoon.
I can hear your voice now. You’re telling me to stay calm. You’re saying I need to take deep breaths and find some small part of this situation to focus on instead of letting the entirety of it overwhelm me. And, Daddy, that’s what I’m doing. I’m thinking about my friends and how much this means to them. I plastered my bedroom walls with life-size printouts of faces, hundreds of strangers who are watching me even as I write this. That was Sista’s suggestion. She told me that instead of trying to pretend the audience wasn’t there, what worked for her was when she went the other way, trying to imagine that she was being watched all the time. I know it sounds crazy, but she said it made her get used to the idea and after a while it didn’t affect her as much. Every now and then I look up at the images and I imagine they’re real. I try to see them without seeing them, without catching my breath, without my hands starting to shake.
I don’t know if it’ll work, but nothing else has, so I’m giving it a shot.
We go on in five days.
P.S.
It’s a couple hours later. You’re not going to believe this, but we just heard from Jess. She called to ask Brenda for two hundred dollars, and when Brenda asked her why, she only said it was for bills. Can you believe the nerve of that woman? And Brenda says she’s actually going to give it to her! I asked her why (it’s not like we’re rolling in spare money) and she told me it’s because Jess is her daughter. I understand that, of course, but it still infuriates me. It’s obvious that Jess uses people. When I said that to Brenda she just got mad.
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