Lemonade Mouth

by Mark Peter Hughes

  Mrs. Reznik was standing in the doorway.

  In the silence that followed, it was obvious she’d heard us. We waited for her to speak but she only stared, wide-eyed. Something important had just happened. Looking back, I could feel it even then. I think we all could. Only nobody knew what it was.

  And none of us could have imagined it would change our lives forever.

  CHAPTER 2

  Apathy is for butt-wipes.

  Get off your comfy sofas and do something!

  —Sista Slash

  MOHINI:

  Baba

  Naomi eyes me skeptically. “You’re serious?”

  “That’s right,” I say. “I can’t keep lying to my parents like this. I’m losing sleep and I’m starting to hate myself. If being with Scott means I have to make up stories, sneak around and worry all the time about getting caught, then I can’t be his girlfriend anymore. I have to drop him.”

  “Holy crap,” she says. “That’s huge.”

  It’s Thursday afternoon, less than an hour after detention let out, and Naomi and I are sitting in the storage room at the back of my family’s store. We own the only Indian grocery in the area. We’re surrounded by several large sacks of basmati rice, an unopened case of Nirav Kesar canned mango pulp and a stack of Glucose Biscuits. My father is playing Indian music through the stereo. He’s also burning incense at the front counter, and that along with the combined smell of chili powder, garlic, cilantro and dry curry powder, gives the air the familiar, pungent odor of home. When I’m not helping behind the register or stacking the shelves, my parents like me to study here too. They like to know where I am.

  Naomi and I have an American History essay due on Wednesday and neither of us has even started. The topic is Why Do Revolutions Happen? But Naomi has mostly been flipping through one of her Rolling Stone magazines. We have to keep our voices down. My dad is at the register only a few steps beyond the doorway behind me. I can hear him speaking Hindi with a customer. I didn’t tell him about detention, of course. I had to make up a story. I said I stayed late today because of a project. Another lie.

  Naomi peers at me sympathetically over her glasses. I know she always had her doubts about Scott, but from the first day I started going out with him she tried to be supportive—and I love her for that. She also knows about my parents’ no-dating rule. She’s heard the story of my uncle Ramesh and aunt Anita back in Calcutta, who practically disowned my sixteen-year-old cousin, Sashmita, a couple years ago when they found out she went out to a movie with a boy.

  She knows me. She knows what a mess I am.

  “Plus,” I continue, “I don’t have time for distractions. I’m barely keeping up with my schoolwork. Not only do I have to hand in this essay next week but I also have to read chapters four through six of The Great Gatsby, and on Tuesday we have a Trig test, remember? Not to mention Debate and working here at the store. And did I tell you I’m increasing my volunteering at the clinic to twice a week?”

  Her forehead wrinkles. “Don’t get sick, Mo. Everybody knows that people who work at those clinics are always catching something. Those places are swarming with germs.”

  I roll my eyes. “The point is, I can’t let myself lose my focus. On top of everything else, Mrs. Reznik wants me ready to play Rabbath’s Ode d’Espagne by the talent show. It’s a killer. I’m already freaking out about it.”

  “If it makes you so nervous, why don’t you tell her you’d rather play something easier? Why do this to yourself?” After a pause she says, “Look at your fingers. Are you biting your nails again?”

  I curl my hand so she can’t see. “This isn’t middle school anymore, Naomi,” I say, looking back down at my notebook. “When we apply to colleges, our grades and everything we do now, it all counts.”

  I feel her puzzled eyes on me. She’s heard all about my grand plan, of course. She thinks I’m crazy. “Don’t you think you might be taking things a little too seriously, Mo? You don’t have to be Supergirl.”

  I sigh. Naomi means well, but she obviously doesn’t understand. “I’m not Supergirl. Supergirl doesn’t end up with a bunch of losers in detention. Supergirl doesn’t get caught in the bushes in a lip lock with Scott Pickett.”

  That’s when I hear a voice from behind me. “Monu, how is your essay going?”

  My heart nearly stops. I spin around. My father is standing at the door, a clipboard in his hand, his gaze locked on me. My dad is a big man. He fills the doorway. With his dark, grizzly beard, intense eyes and accent, I can see why my friends used to be scared of him when I was a little girl. I feel my stomach rise into my throat because I’m not sure how long he was standing there.

  “Uh . . . ,” I stammer. “Fine, Baba . . .”

  When he nods, pleased, I relax. He asks, “Will Naomi be coming home for dinner?”

  Fortunately, Naomi is more composed than I am. “No, Mr. Banerjee, but thanks. My mom wants me home early tonight.”

  “Too bad,” he says. “Maach Curry tonight. Plus I got a video for afterwards. It’s an Amitabh Bachchan.”

  “You’re kidding! Muqaddar Ka Sikandar?” she asks, pronouncing the name completely wrong, saying Muhk-AY-dar Kay Sick-AND-ar instead of MOOK-uh-dar Ka SEEK-and-ar.

  “No. Mr. Natwarlal. We haven’t seen this one.”

  I force a smile. Thank God my parents love Naomi and she loves them. She often comes over to our house to watch Bollywood movies with us. She doesn’t always know what’s going on, but she likes all the music and dancing. She can even name a lot of the big stars: Amitabh Bachchan, Shahrukh Khan, Preity Zinta, Isha Sharvani. She knows more about them than I do.

  “Well, another time then.” And then to both of us he says, “Keep at the books like your future depends on it. Because it does.”

  We nod.

  The bell on the door jingles. My dad smiles again and then leaves to greet the new customer. After he’s gone, Naomi and I exchange guilty looks.

  A few seconds later she whispers, “So you’re honestly going to do it? Break up with him?”

  I nod.

  She studies my face. “Really?”

  I’m about to nod again, but then my eye catches an ad for zit cream in Naomi’s magazine. The photograph shows a crowd of laughing teenagers chasing each other on a beach in their bathing suits. At the front are a beautiful blond guy and a grinning redhead girl in a pink bikini. They’re running hand in hand and laughing like they just shared the funniest joke ever. Everybody looks so happy, but all I feel is frustration. I can never have a normal relationship—with Scott or anybody else. Unlike a real American girl, I’m going to end up in an arranged marriage, so if I find somebody I really care about, I’ll always have to hide it from my parents and eventually I’ll have to break it off.

  To be honest, it makes the whole dating idea kind of depressing.

  But now I try to picture myself breaking up with Scott and I can’t help thinking about his olive green sweater, how it smells so good when I rest my head on his shoulder, or the way his soft hand felt in mine that time he walked me almost the whole way home. And I think Naomi can see that this is what’s going through my mind. She doesn’t say a word. She’s known me since kindergarten. She knows I love my parents and I respect the sacrifices they’ve made, moving us here from Calcutta when I was two, getting used to a new language and working hard every day just to give my sister Madhu and me a better life than they had. She knows I want to meet their high expectations and that I hate the idea of disrespecting our family’s traditions.

  But she also knows that even though my family is Indian, the fact is I grew up here in America and deep down I want the same things every American girl wants.

  Which is why I can tell she doesn’t believe I’ll really drop Scott.

  And to be honest I’m not sure I believe it either.

  ________

  It’s first thing Friday morning and Naomi and I are heading to our lockers, which are across the hallway from each other. There’s
a note taped to mine. Even before I’m close enough to read it I recognize the handwriting and feel a faint throb in my forehead. I’m not sure why, but somehow I know this isn’t good.

  It says:

  Meet me in my office right away. We need to talk.

  —Mrs. Reznik

  “Oh my God,” I say to Naomi, showing her the note. “She’s going to make me drop my independent study. I just know it.”

  “What are you talking about?” she says, squinting at the piece of paper. “Will you relax? There’s no way Mrs. Reznik is going to drop you. Why would she do that?”

  “First I skip her lesson, then I break her detention rules. You don’t know what she’s like, Naomi. She’s kind of a musical drill sergeant. I always suspected she’d drop me at the first sign of weakness.”

  Naomi studies my face, concerned. “I believe you’re losing your grip, Mo. Think about it. Before the school cut the budget, running the student orchestra was probably Mrs. Reznik’s life. Now that it’s gone you’re like the closest thing she’s got. She’ll never drop you. I bet giving you lessons is the part of her day she looks forward to most. You even play her favorite instrument for godsakes.”

  It’s true. Mrs. Reznik used to be a bassist with the Newport Philharmonic. She traveled around the world. On her desk are photographs of her standing with famous musicians like James Levine and Placido Domingo. But she stopped touring a few years ago and has led the OHS Orchestra ever since. It’s not surprising she’s furious that the school cut the program. She’s a very serious musician. But that, I think, is the real reason she agreed to give me private lessons—she believed I was going to take them as seriously as she did.

  At least she did until yesterday. Before I ruined everything.

  “Go,” she says, handing me the note back. “She probably has some new sheet music for you or something like that.”

  But I’m not so sure. I can feel the panic rising.

  CHARLIE:

  A Stupendous Challenge

  of Celestial Significance

  I had no idea why Mrs. Reznik wanted to see me but to be honest when I read the note I was kind of happy. Because I was already late for homeroom and this meant I could get a late pass. I’d already gotten 3 warnings so far this year and Mr. Finnerty said next time he would send a note home. But now I wouldn’t have to see Mr. Finnerty at all. Now instead of having to hurry I could take it easy.

  The morning announcements were already droning out of the classroom speakers. The A.V. room was at the bottom of the stairs and when I passed it Lyle Dwarkin was standing on a rickety-looking stepladder stretching for something on a high shelf.

  “What are you doing down here it’s homeroom” I said. “Didn’t you hear the bell?”

  He craned his freckled head around. “Searching for a laptop projector for Mrs. Abraham.” Of all the extracurricular activities offered at Opequonsett High School the geekiest of all had to be the Audio Visual Club. But not only had Lyle joined, he’d been elected Treasurer. Which meant my buddy was practically High Priest of the Weirdos.

  I glanced around. The A.V. room was actually just a glorified closet: a bunch of shelves, a couple of tables, heaps of loose cables and boxes and keyboards and junk everywhere. In the garbage can I noticed a pile of empty Mel’s Organic Frozen Lemonade paper cups. I wondered if any of them were Lyle’s. A lot of the kids from the basement clubs seemed to go for that stuff maybe because it was the only machine nearby. The soda dispensers were at the other end of the building.

  “This place is a mess.”

  “Not for long. We’re getting ready to organize.” Lyle climbed another rung so I steadied the ladder for him and he pulled a cardboard box off the shelf. “What are you doing down here Charlie?”

  With my free hand I showed him the note from Mrs. Reznik. He read it. “Good luck. People get lost down here and never come back.”

  Yuk yuk.

  The announcements ended and I continued down the hallway. It was cluttered with filing cabinets and unused furniture. 1 of the lights was out and another blinked unsteadily. The doors on either side of the corridor led to other little rooms set aside for the school’s less glamorous clubs: the Chess Club, the Debate Team, the French Club, even the school newspaper. It was creepy. I wondered what Mrs. Reznik did to get banished down here. Overhead somebody was banging on the floor. Probably something to do with the construction of the team locker rooms. Bang. A couple seconds of silence. Bang. A couple more seconds. Bang. The Music Room was at the end of the corridor near the Loading Dock. The noise stopped just as I got to the door. Mrs. Reznik was sitting at her desk hacking away. She always seemed to have this nasty cough. It was kind of gross to listen to. But when she stopped she noticed me standing in the doorway and narrowed her eyes.

  “Charlie you’re late.”

  “Yeah” I said. “Sorry.”

  I would of asked what this was all about but she pointed her finger and said “Have a seat” and to my surprise when I stepped into the room I saw a row of chairs in front of the desk and in them sat Wen Gifford, Olivia Whitehead, Stella Penn and Mo Banerjee. The kids from detention. All at once I realized we were probably about to get chewed out for breaking the detention rules. Mrs. Reznik hacked some more but I barely heard. I was fighting back a full-body blush and trying to think of something charming to say to Mo.

  That’s when the voice came into my head again.

  Get a grip bro. You’re killing me. You keep going like this and you’ll never get a date. See, in my twisted imagination Aaron was the cool, smooth one, except, since he was dead, he was stuck living vicariously through me. And I was constantly letting him down. Just because you have a secret thing for this girl doesn’t mean you have to act like an idiot around her.

  He was right. I needed to control my natural impulse to make an ass out of myself. Still, it was hard to forget the rumor Lyle passed on to me when I’d called him the previous night. That Mo was supposedly going out now with Scott Pickett of all people. After that conversation I’d attacked my drums for 2 hours straight.

  Relax, man. Be cool. For me.

  OK. Enough pressure. I got it.

  I forced myself to walk in as casually as I could. The other kids looked as confused as I felt. Wen nodded to me we weren’t exactly friends but we knew each other. I nodded back but didn’t sit near him. Yesterday I’d heard somebody call him “Woody the Horndog” and it didn’t seem like a good idea to associate myself with that kind of bad PR. As I took the chair nearest the door I couldn’t help noticing Mo’s hair. It was tied back today, revealing her small, perfect ears.

  Even though it was 1st thing in the morning Mrs. Reznik had another cup of Mel’s on her desk. “I’m glad you finally made it Charlie. I was just talking with the others about the music you made yesterday afternoon. And I’m wondering what the 5 of you are planning to do next.”

  She stared at me like I was supposed to have the foggiest idea what she was talking about. Her eyes locked on mine and she kept waiting for an answer until eventually I said “Uh . . . what do you mean?”

  “Well surely you’re not going to let it all go to waste are you? That would be like throwing away a windfall! Some musicians spend their entire lives searching for artistic synergy like I witnessed yesterday. Many never find it. Do you know what kismet is?”

  I shook my head.

  “Divine circumstance. It’s not every day that life just drops into your lap. You 5 have been sent a gift. A band like yours is like a flower demanding the opportunity to bloom.”

  Huh? She wanted us to bloom?

  Eventually Wen spoke up. “But . . . we’re not a band.”

  “Of course you are. You heard yourselves. Didn’t you sense something?”

  She looked at me again. I was beginning to feel pretty uncomfortable. The truth was I did know what she was talking about. I had sensed something when we’d played. It felt good. Natural, kind of. But that didn’t mean we should quit school and plan a national
tour or anything.

  “Well . . . maybe we played well together” Wen admitted “but we were just goofing around.”

  She jabbed her finger onto her desk. “There. So it wasn’t only me. Now you need to get serious you need to start practicing.” She sat back in her chair and looked around at each of us. “That’s why I asked everyone here this morning. You have a lot of work to do if you’re going to win the talent show and I’m not going to help if you’re not planning to win.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. Was she kidding?

  I scanned the faces. Stella was glaring at her desk. Mo chewed on her pinky nail. Wen eyed Mrs. Reznik as if her head might start spinning at any moment. And that strange Olivia girl just picked nervously at the frayed edges of the ancient-looking backpack she held on her lap. It was a tattered pinkish thing with a Scooby-Doo decal. It looked embarrassingly like she might of stolen it from some defenseless 3rd grader.

  Suddenly the banging started up again. Only this time it was so loud it sounded like somebody hammering their way through the ceiling. Mrs. Reznik scowled up at the graying tiles. We sat there listening for a few seconds. When it didn’t stop she stood and walked over to a filing cabinet and grabbed a broom from behind it. Then to my amazement she started whacking the broom handle against a metal pipe that ran up from the floor. Whack! Whack! Whack! I could hardly believe what I was seeing. As she swung her arm over and over again she glared at the ceiling.

  Eventually the banging stopped and so did she. In the quiet that followed she set the broom gently back in its place and then took her seat again all dignified.

  “They must be tearing something down directly above us. Either that or they’re trying to drive us all out of our minds. Can you imagine allowing such a racket above a music classroom? Have you ever heard of anything so uncivilized?”

  The 5 of us just sat there. That proved it. This old lady was certifiably nuts.

  “Anyway” she said smiling again “what do you say about the talent show?”