Lemonade Mouth

by Mark Peter Hughes

  The truth was, I really liked her. And apparently I hadn’t stopped.

  “Scottyyyy—!” Lynn said, rising up on her toes to come closer. “Aren’t you listening to me?”

  But it was too late now for Mo and me. As I felt Lynn’s tongue slip into my ear, I couldn’t help thinking that I’d already gone and blown it.

  PATTY NORRIS:

  Aloha

  Ray and I couldn’t stop laughing. The whole thing was a joke.

  For starters you had that Stella kid up there playing this tiny little Hawaiian guitar. I was like, “Where’s her hula skirt?” Know what I mean? And then behind her the dumb-looking fern-haired guy had this crazy wall of drums that he went around whacking at like a spaz. The fat chick even broke out an accordion for a couple of the tunes. An accordion! Were they kidding? Yeah, maybe they had two or three okay songs, but come on! What was the big deal?

  If you ask me, those freshmen weren’t that great.

  DELILA CZERWINSKI:

  Charlie! Charlie! Charlie!

  I’ll never forget that night. Dina, Veronica and I were dressed to kill and having a fantastic time. It’d been Dina’s idea to come as cats. She said the Halloween Bash was the perfect excuse to wear something sexy, so we painted our faces and put on cute kitten ears and, most importantly, low-cut black leotards. We spent the whole Lemonade Mouth show near the front of the stage making up weird dances and flicking our tails at each other in time to the crazy rhythm. It was a blast. After each song we screamed at the tops of our lungs and checked out the drummer. I’d never seen anybody play like that. He was amazing. Somebody told me that everyone in the band was from our school but I didn’t ever remember seeing him before. The three of us decided he looked like that movie star—the one with the scruffy dreadlocks and those incredible blue eyes, what’s his name? Anyway, he kind of reminded me of him. At one point, Veronica tried to climb onto the stage but somebody pulled her back down, thank God. What was she planning to do, throw herself at the boy? Veronica pretended to be such a tramp sometimes. She was a riot. Eventually one of us found out his name so after each song we’d scream it over and over. “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie!” It was one of the best times my friends and I ever had together.

  MANNY VALDEZ:

  Of Life and Love and Yearning

  and Regret and Hope and Loss

  and Being Alone and Waiting

  By midway through the set, kids stood all around the gym making up freaky dances to go with the freaky music. I joined in too, which is saying something since I’m not normally much of a party person. I usually hang back at stuff like this. In fact, I only showed up that night because my friend Digby nagged me down so hard.

  At one point Digby and I climbed up onto a table to get a better view. It was a wild scene, lights flashing, all these kids dressed up in costumes and letting loose. At the end of each song we all screamed our heads off. It felt like the music tapped something in me that I never realized was there. I felt weird energy in my legs, my fingers. It was crazy. The words were about life and love and yearning and regret and hope and loss and being alone and waiting—it was like they were talking directly to me.

  NAOMI FISHMEIER:

  A Line in the Sand

  Yes, Dear Reader, I was there too.

  From where I stood in the audience, I can tell you that Mo looked completely focused on playing her bass. Which was a good thing. I was relieved that at least for now she seemed to be feeling better.

  Finally Olivia announced that their next song would be their last, and that it was something written by Stella. Stella? Mo never mentioned to me that Stella had written a song. I didn’t know what to expect, but I figured it was going to be memorable.

  I was right.

  It started off with Charlie banging his drums in a steady, regular beat, kind of like a march. That went on for quite a while and soon everyone was either clapping or stomping their feet in time. Meanwhile Stella, who’d stepped away from her place, pulled away a cloth that had been draped over something at the side of the stage. It turned out to be three oversized coolers. She opened the first one and pulled out a little paper cup, which she handed to somebody near the front of the stage.

  “Pass them back!” she shouted. “They’re for everyone!”

  Without any further instruction the kids at the front started handing the little cups to the kids behind them, who also handed them back, like an assembly line. In the middle of the crowd, where I stood mesmerized, everybody crushed forward. I craned my neck to see if I could figure out what she was handing out. But even before I got mine and sipped the sweet slush inside I recognized the logo on the cup.

  Mel’s Organic Frozen Lemonade.

  At that point somebody—Lyle, probably—must have flicked the switch to lower the movie screen because it rolled down from the ceiling.

  That’s when Olivia stood back and Stella took the microphone.

  “Friends, lend us your ears,” Stella said, her voice echoing over the hypnotic drumbeat. “We’d like to take a moment to shine a light on a recent event, a change at our school that may have seemed inconsequential to you at the time, that in fact you may not have even noticed, but one that nevertheless affects us all in ways both large and small.”

  The drumming abruptly stopped. Stella’s eyes moved significantly across the audience.

  “We’d like to talk about lemonade.”

  I exchanged glances with Floey Packer, the girl I was standing with. Where was Stella going with this?

  By now the screen had completely unrolled, and suddenly there appeared behind them a giant image of a Mel’s Organic machine. That’s when the drumbeat picked up again, but now Mo’s bass joined it with a series of sharp, low notes that made the moment feel urgent.

  “As many of you may know,” Stella continued, “there used to be a Mel’s Organic machine by the east stairway next to the basement club corridor and the music room. It was there for a long time.”

  The image on the screen changed to a shot of the club hallway in the school basement, including the Barking Clam office. In black and white, the corridor looked even more shabby and depressing than usual. “As everybody knows, it was mostly the kids from the basement clubs that drank the lemonade from that machine. That’s why the lemonade has come to symbolize the kind of kid who joins the A.V. Club, the Chess Club, the math team, the school paper.”

  I heard giggles from various places in the audience. Stella acted like she didn’t notice.

  Now the dreary hallway image was replaced with a shot of a younger Mrs. Reznik. Seeing her with long hair and in an evening gown was kind of startling. She looked beautiful and dignified. Not only that, but she was standing between Yo-Yo Ma, the world-famous cellist, and Elton John, the pop star.

  “This year,” Stella went on, “as many of you are aware, the budget for the music program was cut way back and Mrs. Reznik, our illustrious and beloved music teacher and fellow Mel’s Organic enthusiast, was banished to the same dingy, drafty catacombs as the basement clubs.”

  There was some uncomfortable fidgeting in the crowd around me. I don’t know about anybody else, but I felt bad for Mrs. Reznik. I never really thought about how she was down there in that gloomy room all day. But now it didn’t seem fair.

  “As any of the basement club kids can tell you, spending time in one of those noisy, cramped basement rooms is not exactly living in luxury, certainly not as comfortable as, for example, the cushy new locker rooms recently built for the exclusive use of the sports teams. Still, Mrs. Reznik and the kids downstairs made the best of it. And the best part of being in that basement was the lemonade machine. It was sort of a consolation prize for the outsiders, the second-tier kids.”

  She paused and let the driving beat pound for a measure or two.

  “But then came earlier this week. While most of us were unaware, two guys in green uniforms came and hauled the machine away in a truck. And do you know why?”

  Nobody made a sound. The pic
ture on the screen changed to a black-and-white shot of an old, grizzly guy in a suit sitting at the end of what looked like a corporate boardroom.

  “This is Mr. Harold Barkley, president of the Barkley Bottling Company in Detroit, Michigan. When he heard that the taxpayers of Opequonsett didn’t want to pay for a new scoreboard”—she pointed to the new electronic scoreboard, which was boxy and green and, in my humble opinion, kind of ugly, “. . . he had an idea. He called the town and offered to donate the money as long as the school agreed to remove any machines that weren’t owned by Mr. Barkley’s company. Which meant taking away”—she held up one of the little cups—“the Mel’s Organic Frozen Lemonade.”

  There was a murmur of surprise from the crowd.

  She kind of half-smiled. “Now, before okaying this deal, you might have thought somebody would have at least asked the opinion of those of us who used and loved that machine, right? Wrong. Now, I like soda as much as the next person, but I don’t appreciate it when somebody decides that it’s okay to use me as a corporate pawn.”

  The growing rumble of voices around me steadily increased. I heard indignant calls of agreement from all over the gym.

  I couldn’t help grinning. She was crazy, but she was brilliant.

  “Why am I telling you this?” she asked, the rhythm suddenly getting even louder. “Fellow travelers, this isn’t really just about a lemonade machine. It seems to us that there is a pervasive attitude at this school that certain people are better or more important than others. Ask yourself: Why did the school decide to build a state-of-the-art gym while slashing the music program? Why wasn’t the basement included in any of the renovation plans? Are the kids in the Chess Club and the French Club and the A.V. Club less important than the sports teams? And why did the school feel like it was okay to trade our beloved lemonade machine for a new scoreboard, lovely as it may be, without even asking any of the basement kids what they thought? Well, my friends, we’re here to tell you that some of us think that music is pretty important too! And that the basement clubs are cool—and no less important than any other club!”

  By then, the buzz of the crowd was pretty noisy. Stella had to talk loudly into the microphone to be heard.

  “And it’s not only the administration that has this attitude! We’ve noticed that certain people around here, certain kids, like to put you down if you’re a little different, if you have your own style that doesn’t quite match up with the norm.”

  I happened to be standing close to Richie Benedetti, a skinny, pimple-faced sophomore who hardly ever said much. He and two of his friends, all in jeans and black concert T-shirts, had already been nodding in agreement with Stella, but now their eyes grew even more excited and they started shouting their approval.

  “Well, I have a question,” she said. “Just because you’re not part of a particular trendy crowd, does that really make you a geek? A loser? Does it make you a freak?” Suddenly, she had to shout over the commotion. “Because if it does, then there certainly are a lot of us freaks around here!”

  The sudden roar of the crowd took me by surprise. Richie and his friends shook their fists in the air and started jumping up and down, wide grins across their faces. The cheering went on for a while. Eventually the giant picture on the screen changed to a huge cup of lemonade. Wen came in with a trumpet line that reminded me of a military call. Over the noise Stella called out, “We’re tired of being treated like we’re second-tier! We’re tired of letting other people make our decisions and set the rules! To some of us, basement kid or not, the sweet slush that the lemonade machine offered was more than just a drink—it was a freak badge of honor! And we want it back!”

  That’s when Stella stepped back from the microphone and Olivia started singing:

  I want lemonade In my cup!

  Hmmmmm, Hmmmmmm

  Hold it high! Raise it up!

  Hmmmmm, Hmmmmmm

  It was catchy. It felt like an anthem, almost a battle cry. Olivia repeated it and soon everybody joined in. While we sang, Stella held up her lemonade and called out, “Freaks unite! Raise your voices! Take a stand! Don’t let anyone treat us like second class anything! This is our school! Never let them forget!”

  There was an explosion of swirling colored lights and it seemed like the entire gym was full of excited kids stomping, cheering and holding up little cups. I have to admit, jaded concert-veteran though I was, she had even my heart pounding. Even Olivia smiled. A moment later Stella led us all in a chant. “Bring back Mel’s! Bring back Mel’s!”

  That’s when I felt someone push rudely by me. I turned. Mr. Brenigan was pressing his way through the crowd to get to the stage. At the end of the previous song I’d noticed him wandering out of the gym, probably to go to the bathroom or something. Now he was back, and he didn’t look happy at all.

  RICHIE BENEDETTI:

  Flying Buttons

  Mr. Brenigan seemed hell-bent on shutting them down. And that’s exactly what he did in the end, but not before Stella moved to the edge of the stage and started ripping off that long shirt she was wearing. Drew, Pete and I started screaming even louder then. We got so excited we nearly bugged out.

  Pete called over to me. “What the hell is that crazy chick doing?!”

  But I had no idea. I just stood there holding up my little cup of lemonade slush and watching her buttons fly off, one by one. Turned out, underneath she was wearing that T-shirt, the same one she got busted for wearing at that assembly at the start of the year. It had two big hands, one on each of her boobs—which, I don’t mind pointing out, were choice! Sweet! I’m sure my eyes nearly popped out of my head!

  A couple seconds later the lights went out. The entire place went nuts.

  It felt like a revolution.

  CHAPTER 6

  Children say that people are hung sometimes for speaking the truth.

  —Joan of Arc

  OLIVIA:

  Nancy

  Dear Ted,

  It’s 3 a.m. I can’t sleep. Nancy’s gone.

  It happened this morning (actually, yesterday morning now) sometime before dawn. I know that because she was purring in my arms on Friday night before I went to bed, but on Saturday morning Brenda and I found her curled up cold on her pillow. The other cats spent most of the day hiding behind the sofas. Brenda and I could hardly look at each other without tearing up. We laid poor Nancy in a shoebox but couldn’t bring ourselves to take her outside and bury her right away. Brenda cooked all morning. Breads, pastries, a gigantic pot of chili—far more than the two of us could possibly eat in a month. Which was all right, because I think all that cooking helped distract her.

  The whole morning all I could think was that I wanted to call Wen. The truth is, I think about him all the time and just then I felt like hearing his voice might make me feel better. I kept reaching for the phone but I always stopped myself. Even though Nancy is in one of our songs, I’d never mentioned she was a cat to anybody, not even Wen. It just felt funny having to explain it now. But then in the early afternoon the phone rang. It was Wen. After that, everything came gushing out of me. I must have sounded a little hysterical because the next thing I knew he insisted on coming over. A few minutes after he arrived, Stella, Charlie and Mo showed up too. Nobody pushed for any long explanations. All they said was that they wanted to be here with me. Can you believe that?

  At first it felt strange having so many people over since, as you know, Brenda and I usually keep to ourselves. But everybody was nice to Brenda and kind to me and eventually I felt comfortable—calm even. We went out to the yard and buried Nancy under the crabapple tree, the one she always liked to climb. We even picked wildflowers from the back garden and laid them on her grave. We held hands and I said a prayer. I wish you could have been there. It was beautiful.

  Afterward everybody came in and ate, which seemed to cheer Brenda up. Plus I think she was glad to see I really do have friends, that I wasn’t making them up. They even got her talking and laughing a little
. Anyway, I’m a bit better now. As Brenda keeps saying, Nancy was never in any pain and we did everything we could for her. Still, I can’t help thinking about what’s precious in my life. Which is why I wish I could be with you right now.

  I’ll come up next weekend. I promise.

  Love always,

  Olivia

  P.S.

  Almost forgot to mention—I got through the school dance without passing out. Thank God it’s over. The vice principal shut us down before we finished our last song, but Stella says not to worry. She and the others are even more excited now about the Holiday Talent Show. Stella says there’s no stopping us.

  Which is what I’m worried about.

  On the bright side, at least I don’t have to get in front of an audience again for another month and a half.

  And yes, I know you want me to bring my friends up so you can meet them. (Not exactly Mr. Subtle, are you?) But I hope you understand that I couldn’t possibly. I’m sorry. And it’s not you—you know that, right? I’ll never be ashamed of you, Daddy. Never. It’s just that I’m not comfortable. True, they’re all smart kids with kind hearts, but you never know how people can be. And yes, I know you always think I have trouble trusting, and maybe it’s true. But I’m just not ready.

  Please understand.

  WEN:

  Of Clouds and Confessions

  “How about that one up there?” I asked. “A person, maybe? A giant old woman with a skirt and an umbrella?”

  “No, that’s not it,” Charlie said. “Think bigger.”

  “Skip me,” Olivia said. “I’m not ready.”

  Mo took her time. “Hmmmm. An upside-down hand. A khamsa. That’s good luck.”

  Stella sighed. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t see either of those.”

  Saturday afternoon turned out to be unusually warm. The five of us had climbed out of Olivia’s bedroom window and were lying comfortably on the flat part of her roof. We’d arranged ourselves like bicycle spokes, our heads close together in a circle. We were staring up at the clouds.