She made a futile attempt to cover herself with one hand while her other one swiped for the towel hanging on the rack. Horrified, I averted my eyes. “Oh my God, Sydney. I’m so sorry!”
Then I turned and ran.
Unfortunately, I forgot about the heavy stone-topped coffee table my dad and I had heaved up the stairs only that morning. It was long and narrow, and even though it didn’t fit anywhere in our house, Sydney said it had sentimental value and she couldn’t part with it. We were going to store it in the attic, but my dad and I had only gotten as far as the upstairs hallway, where it still leaned against the wall, legs out.
And that’s how I ended up charging into one of its thick wooden posts. It smacked into my upper lip like a punch to the mouth.
“Oof!”
The collision was swift and sharp. I screamed again, only this time in sudden, terrible pain.
A few minutes later I lay swearing on the sofa downstairs, holding an ice cube to my stinging mouth. Every now and then I put a finger to my lip to see if it was still bleeding.
“Is it any better?” Sydney asked. In her bathrobe and slippers, she was standing over me, her forehead wrinkled in concern. “Maybe we should bring you to the emergency room.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” She tried to brush my fingers aside to get a better look but I swatted her hand away. The truth was, my lip still felt warm. I was lucky I hadn’t dislodged a tooth.
“Come on. Let me see,” she said sympathetically. She tried again to move my hand and this time I let her. She came in close and squinted. Eventually she said, “Doesn’t look good, Wen. It’s still swelling. Better keep the ice on there a while longer. Your dad’ll be home in a half hour or so. Should I call him now anyway?”
I shook my head. To be honest, I was surprised at the fuss she was making. She was being so nice to me and seemed genuinely worried. I hadn’t expected her to care so much.
I have to admit I even felt a little embarrassed about it.
“Weren’t you heading out somewhere, Sydney?” I asked even though it hurt to move my mouth.
She shrugged. “Just to the hair dresser, but I can make another appointment. Your lip is more important. Listen, I’ll be right back. I’m going upstairs to find you some antibiotic cream. We don’t want an infection.”
And then she shot out of the room. My fingers numb with the ice, I found myself staring at the place where she’d turned the corner at the end of the hallway. I was still feeling the dizzying aftershock of seeing her naked. It wasn’t just the surprise of walking in on her; even more than that, it was the unexpected effect it’d had on me. And now all I felt was confusion. I’d thought I knew myself, but now I wasn’t so sure.
What a morning.
Soon after that the phone rang. A minute later Sydney came back with a tube of cream in one hand, the phone in the other.
“It’s for you,” she said, holding out the receiver. “It’s Stella.”
STELLA:
The Curse of Ray Beech #5.
The Unwitting Vehicle of Cruel Fate
It was too icy to bike, so our shivering subversive slogged the mile or so on foot through the snow and biting wind to the middle school. I was glad I’d grabbed my mom’s cell. As I walked I dialed my friends, each time crossing my fingers that they’d be around. All the while, I half-expected my mother’s green Volvo to pull up beside me and for her to roll down the window, still furious. But it didn’t happen. Eventually I arrived at the middle school parking lot. My pulse sped up when, at the rear of the building, I spotted the long white truck backed onto the loading area.
I ran over to look inside.
Nobody in the driver’s cab. The cargo door was open, so I checked that too. It was empty except for one item: A Mel’s Organic Frozen Lemonade machine.
My heart sank. I was too late.
But just then, your downhearted protagonist heard voices calling her name. Charlie, Olivia, Mo and Wen were approaching from four different directions. As each of them scrambled across the snowy field or slogged along the icy parking lot, I couldn’t help noticing the bandage on Charlie’s right hand. Or that there was something wrong with Wen’s lip. It looked like somebody had clocked him.
“Holy crap!” I called out. “What happened to you guys?”
Neither of them answered right away. They seemed embarrassed. And even when their stories did come out, it all sounded kind of sketchy. I wondered how Charlie was supposed to play his drums tonight with only one good hand. And could Wen even blow into his trumpet with a lip like that? But I decided not to push them about it right then.
One crisis at a time.
“Well, thanks for coming,” I said.
By then Mo and Olivia had reached us too. Then followed what I can only describe as an awkward silence. The four of them just kind of stood around, staring at their feet. Now, I may not have been the most perceptive person when it came to these kinds of things, but I could have sworn I felt a strange vibe in the air. Why weren’t any of them looking at each other?
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Nothing,” said Mo. But that’s when I noticed that her face was an odd gray color.
“Really?” I asked. “Everybody sure they’re okay?”
More quiet nods. More staring at the ground.
Luckily, whatever it was, it didn’t last long. “Look,” I said, pointing at the cargo area of the truck. “I’m sorry to say this now that you’re all here and everything, but they’ve already moved the lemonade machine. I’m pretty sure we’re too late.”
And that’s when everybody sprang back to life and seemed to put aside whatever cloud was in the air. They stepped around the back and peered in.
“The machine’s still here,” Charlie said, “so the driver must be around somewhere, right? Possibly inside setting up the new dispensers?” He looked back at us. “Maybe we could talk to him about not taking this one away.”
“I doubt it’d be that easy,” I said. But I thought about it. Charlie was right about the driver still being here somewhere.
Which gave me an idea.
Five minutes later two beefy men stood at the edge of the loading dock. One of them wore an oversized orange sweater that made him look like a giant pumpkin with glasses. “What’s going on down there?” he called. “What do you kids think you’re doing?”
The five of us were laid out spread-eagle in the snow, directly in front of the truck. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.
“We’re protesting the removal of the Mel’s Organic Frozen Lemonade machine!”
His forehead wrinkled. “You’re doing what?”
“You heard her!” Wen said. “We’re not budging until you put it back. In order to move this truck you’ll have to run us over!”
The two men glanced at each other.
A minute later they climbed down from the dock. Their boots crunched in the snow. Soon they were standing over us, staring quietly down into our faces. From where I lay, they looked upside down.
“A protest, huh?” the pumpkin asked. “How long you plan on sticking it out down there in the cold?”
“As long as it takes,” I said.
The other guy had kind eyes, shaggy black hair and a stubbly beard. He looked kind of like a male Sista Slash on steroids. He chuckled. “Jesus, of all the crazy things . . .”
There was another silence as I watched their breath shoot out in long, puffy clouds. Soon I had to brush the snow from my eyes. It was coming down hard.
“Okay, have it your way,” the pumpkin finally said. “We’ll wait inside until you guys are ready.”
And then they walked away, leaving us lying there on the ground. The two men climbed back onto the dock and disappeared through the door at the back, into the warmth of the school.
The wind picked up. I shivered again. “They’re trying to break our will. Are you sure you guys are okay?”
That’s when Mo coughed. A sinister,
phlegmy cough that came from deep inside her lungs. “Jesus, Mo,” I said. “That doesn’t sound too good.”
“I’m fine.”
But that’s when it came out that she’d practically dragged herself out of her deathbed. The rest of us tried to talk some sense into her but it was no use. “Mo, you can’t do this if you’re sick. It’s not worth catching pneumonia or something. You should go home, back to bed.”
“No,” she said. “I’m feeling better. Maybe it’s the excitement. Anyway, I don’t care. I’m not getting up.”
What could anybody do?
About ten minutes later the guys came out again. Looking down at us once more, the pumpkin blew into his cupped hands. By then the snow was freezing my back even through several layers of clothing.
Brother Slash squatted down. “Come on, kids. I gotta get this truck back. I’m on a schedule.”
“Nope,” Wen said. “We already told you the deal.”
“And we don’t care about your schedule,” added Charlie. “We’re not changing our minds.”
Brother Slash rubbed his eyes. “And it doesn’t matter that we don’t have anything to do with . . . whatever it is you’re trying to protest here? I just deliver the machines, and he’s just the custodian. Why don’t you wait until Monday so you can take this up with the principal or something?”
I had to fight to stop my teeth from chattering. “No.”
Of course I understood that these two weren’t the decision makers here. But they were all we had, and through them I was pretty sure the message would eventually rise up the ladder. And there was no way we could wait until Monday. By then the machine swap would already be history.
The pumpkin took a step forward. The way he was looking at my arm, I had the sudden feeling he was about to reach down, grab me and force me away. But I squirmed. Even though he was at least twice my size, I gave him the most threatening glare I could muster. “Don’t you dare!”
He froze, his eyes wide. He looked unsure for a moment, but he backed off.
After that, they used scare tactics. The pumpkin sneered at us while Brother Slash hopped into the truck and started the engine. He revved it for a while. Perhaps he imagined that this would be enough to send the inconvenient anarchists scurrying out of his way. But it wasn’t. Eventually he gave up and came grimacing out of the cab.
“Dammit, Phil,” the disappointed pumpkin called to him. “I can’t wait here all day.”
Brother Slash, whose real name apparently was Phil, narrowed his eyes. “Okay, kiddies. Enough playing around. You better move your butts away from this truck right now or I’m calling the cops.”
I have to admit that until that moment, I sort of liked Phil. Not anymore. At the thought of the police, I considered jumping up and running away. How far did we really want to let this go?
But that’s when I heard Olivia’s voice, so raspy and tortured it was more of a series of croaks than the already breathy voice I was familiar with.
“I’M . . . NOT . . . GETTING . . . UP.”
My God! What had happened to her? She sounded like a crank call! Sure, she’d been quiet the whole time, but Olivia was always quiet. And what about when we’d spoken on the phone? Had I done all the talking? Now that I thought about it, perhaps I had.
And then Mo said, “I’m not moving either.” Wen and Charlie were quick to follow. “Not a chance,” they said. “No way.”
Picture it. Five supine agitators shivering in the snow, four of them in bad shape, and yet none of them agreeing to move out of the cold. Your prone protagonist could hardly believe what was happening. I could barely take in the full significance of the situation. These were the same kids that hardly cared to speak with me that first afternoon in Mrs. Reznik’s detention. And even though your formerly ostracized heroine knew each of them felt strongly about the lemonade machine, I also sensed that the true reason they were sticking by me was that they really were my friends.
Needless to say, I felt a rush of emotion.
Suddenly I had a little more confidence. Maybe I could take the pressure after all. Maybe those guys were bluffing about the police. And even if they weren’t, I thought, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that my friends and I were sticking together. And even if the lemonade machine ended up going away, nobody was getting us up off the ground without a fight.
“Go ahead,” I said finally. “Call the cops.”
As it turned out, they weren’t bluffing. A few minutes later a police cruiser pulled up and a youngish guy with cropped blond hair ambled out. His boots crunched through the snow. Finally, he stood over us. I read the upside-down name on his blue jacket. Officer Schumacher.
“What seems to be the problem here?”
So, from my position in the snow I told Officer Schumacher the whole story, how the Powers That Be at the school, together with big business, were manipulating the students, how we never had any say in the decision to take the beloved machine away. It was unfair, I explained, to disregard one group of people in favor of another. In fact, if you really thought about it, the soda machine situation was actually symbolic of a much larger issue—rampant tyranny, the callous oppression of the powerful over the voiceless.
Officer Schumacher had a kind face, which I saw as a good sign. He listened patiently until I was done, but after that he didn’t seem as sympathetic.
“That’s all well and good,” he said, “but now you need to get up. You kids can’t stay where you are.”
I couldn’t help feeling disappointed in him, even irritated. After I’d given such a long, heartfelt speech, how could he give such an indifferent response? Wasn’t he listening?
I folded my arms across my chest. “I’m not moving.”
Phil and the pumpkin waited behind him, their hands in their pockets. Frowning, Officer Schumacher stepped a little closer. It was an impressive view, this red-faced policeman towering over us, the other two peering over his shoulders. Even in the cold, I felt the heat rise in my chest.
“Technically, guys, you’re trespassing,” he said, obviously trying to sound reasonable. “And causing a public disturbance. Now, I don’t want to have to do it, but unless you move aside and let this truck through, I’m afraid I’m going to have to arrest you.”
“Arrest us?”
He nodded.
It’s not easy to admit, but I nearly panicked. I forced myself to stay put, though. “If anybody wants to get up,” I called out to my friends, “go ahead. Everyone will understand.”
But by then I knew. Nobody was giving in.
All five of us stayed where we were.
By the time my mom picked me up at the station, it was a quarter to two in the afternoon. I was the last of us to get sprung out of there. The frigid air of the parking lot stung my face even worse than before. I slid onto the Volvo’s passenger seat and closed the door. I couldn’t even look at my mother.
Finally, I couldn’t stand the tension anymore. “Mom,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
My mother didn’t answer. She started the engine and let the wipers clear the snow off the windshield. She stared straight ahead.
“Did you hear me? I just apologized. You probably want to ground me for the rest of my life now.”
She sighed as we backed out of our spot. “Look, Stella. They’re only giving you a warning, nothing that stays on your record. So let’s leave it at that, okay?”
“Mom, my friends and I got arrested today.”
“Don’t remind me,” she said quietly. We pulled into the street. She didn’t say anything else until we came to the light at Rumstick Road. Even when she did, she still didn’t turn her head. “But on the other hand, you weren’t hurting anybody, and it wasn’t as if you were doing drugs, or destroying property or beating people up. You and your friends were just standing up for what you believed was right. If you had to get arrested, I guess that isn’t such a terrible reason.”
At first I didn’t think I’d heard right. “Wait . . . you’re n
ot mad?”
She gave a noncommittal shrug. “If you truly feel that strongly about this lemonade thing, I guess I can’t really fault you.”
This was too weird. I didn’t know what to say.
At last she turned to face me. “I guess I’ve been doing some thinking after our conversation this morning, Stella. You were right. Maybe I just needed reminding about backbones, and that some lost causes are worth fighting for.”
The light changed. I couldn’t believe my ears. But I knew enough not to say anything else. If this was really how my mother felt, I wasn’t going to ruin it by opening my stupid mouth.
Now I was anxious to get home and grab my uke. But instead of turning left on Rumstick toward the house, my mother took a right.
“Where are we going?”
She pointed her thumb over her shoulder. I looked around. My ukulele was resting in the backseat. “I hear there’s a revolution going on,” she said. “You don’t want to miss it, do you?”
The five of us agreed. It didn’t matter that we weren’t going to win. It didn’t matter how terrible we might sound. Even if we had to drag our broken bodies up onto that stage, we weren’t going to let anything stop us from playing Catch A RI-Zing Star.
Now, ten minutes before we were scheduled to go on, I sat backstage listening to the crowd. They screamed and cheered. Desirée Crane, this year’s emcee, announced the next band and then Jelly Belly, an electro-pop trio from Cranston, kicked into their song. The Civic Center, seating over fourteen thousand people, was almost full, both in the audience and in the dimly lit backstage area where we waited on fold-up chairs. Other musicians, most of them older, milled around. Some of them wore shiny, matching outfits, some had fifties pompadours or other mousse-dependent hairdos. Even here I felt like my band didn’t quite fit in. Instead of feeling nervous, though, I was experiencing an unexpected calm. I carefully set my uke on the fold-up chair beside me, closed my eyes, and grinned. I was enjoying the moment. Okay, so there was no telling whether we would be able to manage even one good song considering our various wounds and illnesses. But at least we were all here. I know it sounds crazy, but even then I thought we might somehow pull it off. After all that had happened, I was beginning to believe that together the five of us could do almost anything.
Lemonade Mouth Page 24
