Lemonade Mouth

by Mark Peter Hughes

  “What about your parents? I thought you didn’t want to sneak around anymore. Like you did with Scott?”

  She shrugged. “My parents already know. We worked it out. They want me to be happy and they trust my judgment.”

  They worked it out? Huh? Did I miss something? Were we talking about the same parents she always said would hit the roof if she even hinted she was dating anybody? Was she serious?

  I wondered if I would ever understand this girl. Who did she think I was? A toy she could play with? Some robot with no feelings? I pulled my hand away remembering what she’d said to me.

  “Well you’re too late Mo. I’m not interested. I have my own grand plan now and you’re not in it.”

  She bit her lip again and it looked like she might even cry. “I never meant to hurt you Charlie . . . I hope you can at least forgive me.”

  I felt a wave of heat and I was about to tell her what she could do with her apologies but that’s when she took my hand again and stepped even closer. The way she peered up at me all anxious it put the brakes on whatever I was about to say.

  All I could manage was “What are you doing?”

  “Remember that time you poked fun at me because I never do anything on impulse? Anything reckless just because I’m dying to know what it feels like? Well get ready. I’m about to do something reckless.”

  She suddenly raised herself on her toes. She must of lost track of how she was holding the umbrella because I felt the rain pelt down on my neck and the back of my jeans but I hardly paid any attention to that.

  Because that’s when she kissed me.

  It was quick and soft and so unexpected I nearly fell over.

  “Oh God I’m sorry!” she said seconds later as she readjusted the angle of the umbrella. “You’re all wet!”

  “What was that?” I asked. I was too surprised to be angry. The truth was that even though I didn’t want to admit it I still liked this girl just as much as ever. I never stopped thinking about her. Part of me wanted to find a way to get over my hurt feelings so we could be together only I didn’t know how.

  “It was a kiss” she said. Like that wasn’t obvious. “And you want me to tell you how it felt?”

  What could I say? My brain was on overload.

  “Right. It felt . . . right. Tell me you didn’t feel the same thing.”

  But I wasn’t ready to give up being angry yet. After all, she’d totally crushed me back at the clinic.

  “You’re out of your mind” I said.

  I started to pull away but she wouldn’t let go. She grabbed my hand tight and came in close again. Then for what seemed like a long time we both just stood there. Me fuming and Mo still squeezing my hand. Neither of us saying a word and the rain pelting down on the umbrella.

  And that’s when she stood on her toes again. And kissed me for the 2nd time only this one was even softer. And longer. OK so now let me tell you something I learned about the Universe. It doesn’t make any sense at all. For weeks I’d been licking my wounds over this girl. Practically pulling my hair out over her. And yet now here I was standing under an umbrella kissing her. And even the kiss didn’t make sense because in my mind I’d always pictured (when I’d dared to anyway) that if Mo and I ever did kiss (and I mean a real kiss) it would be exotic and wild the kind that leaves you on your knees. But in real life it wasn’t like that at all. The genuine article was quiet and much more comfortable than I’d ever imagined. And to be honest, much better.

  When it was over the calves of my jeans were soaked and I realized I’d forgotten to breathe.

  WEN:

  Green Specks and Suspicious-Looking

  Sea Creatures

  George was watching TV, but he kept wandering into the kitchen to steal pieces of dark chocolate off the counter, leftover ingredients from the concoction Sydney was working on. It was in the oven now, a complicated wonder she called a Doberge cake. Right now she and my father were too busy staring anxiously into a pot on the stove to notice George’s hand shoot out, grab a few loose chunks and pop them into his mouth.

  It was a Saturday in late March and my fat lip was only a memory. Sydney and my dad were taking a Creole cooking course once a week and today they were attempting some of the recipes they’d learned. Gumbo, jambalaya and God only knew what else. They’d spent the afternoon peeling shrimp and slicing vegetables. That’s why my friends were coming to dinner. Tonight would be an experiment with Lemonade Mouth as the guinea pig.

  “Okay, try it now,” my father said to Sydney, his voice a little anxious.

  She dipped a spoon into the pot and tasted the creamy goop. After a moment’s consideration her frown softened. “A little better, I guess. What do you think, more Worcestershire? I’m not sure.”

  My dad turned to me. “Wen, how are you doing out there, kiddo? Want to tell me what you think of this meunière sauce?”

  “Not especially,” I called from the sofa. “I’m reading.”

  It was weird to see him so enthusiastic in the kitchen. Not that my father never cooked before, but tuna noodle casserole and green beans mixed with canned cream of mushroom soup was about as adventurous as he ever got.

  Dubious as this culinary episode seemed, I had to admit that the spicy smells wafting into the living room weren’t awful.

  As I leaned back with my book, my legs automatically stretched out to rest on the black wooden trunk we’d kept for weeks in front of the sofa for lack of anywhere else to put it. Only when my feet landed on the floor was I reminded that we’d finally moved the massive thing along with most of Sydney’s other old furniture to a storage place in Warren. Besides her graphic design plans, Sydney was now also talking about starting up a part-time antiques business. I still wasn’t used to having so much space.

  On my lap was Shakespeare’s Complete Works, a thick volume I’d found on top of a box in Olivia’s room. I’d asked to borrow it. Olivia had agreed without seeming to give it much thought. When I brought it home and flipped through the pages, though, I found notes scribbled all over the margins in slanted black pen. In the same handwriting, the name printed on the inside back cover caught my attention.

  Ted Whitehead.

  Holding the book more gingerly now that I knew it once belonged to Olivia’s father, I opened to Twelfth Night, the play Olivia said her name came from. I spent an hour or so trying to plow through it, but the ancient, flowery language was like Swahili to me. I struggled with all the “perchances,” “know’st thous” and head-scratchers like “she hath abjured the company and sight of men.” But from what I could make out, it was this crazy love story where everybody is miserable from being in love with somebody who loves someone else. Olivia is this beautiful, rich countess with all kinds of servants and clowns milling around her house. This other guy, Duke Orsinio, lies around all day and listens to music. I forced myself to plod ahead, but to be honest there was a lot I didn’t get.

  “Are you ready to be astounded and amazed?”

  I looked up. My dad and Sydney stood over me grinning. Sydney held out a spoon and a small cup of lumpy brown liquid. “Come on,” she beamed. “Try this.”

  “What is it, exactly?”

  “Crawfish bisque.”

  I peered into the cup. Green specks and suspicious looking sea creatures floated at the top. I considered trying to postpone the inevitable until dinner, but they seemed so proud of themselves that I didn’t have the heart. I took the cup and the spoon and put a tiny dab of the stuff in my mouth.

  Not so terrible. Pretty okay, actually.

  I gave them a thumbs-up and they scurried back to the kitchen. From all the high-fives, you would have thought they’d just found a cure for cancer.

  It was then that it suddenly dawned on me that I hadn’t dreamt about Sydney in ages. I tried to remember the last time. Weeks ago, I guessed. Not since before the morning I’d seen her naked. In the days that followed that supremely awkward moment, I’d spent a lot of time thinking. What was it about that ba
throom incident that had left me feeling so confused? It took me a while, but finally I figured out what it was.

  Seeing Sydney’s body hadn’t felt exciting at all. I’d gotten no thrill out of it, no secret lust. Nada.

  Instead, walking in on Sydney without her clothes had felt more like mistakenly walking in on an older cousin. Or maybe an aunt. Somebody I didn’t feel any desire for. It wasn’t at all what I’d expected.

  I’d felt nothing but embarrassment.

  And it’d made it even worse when Sydney had fussed over my fat lip like a mother hen.

  Still, I was okay with it now. After so much shame, it felt liberating to realize that I didn’t burn with guilt around her anymore.

  George shut off the TV and switched on the computer. Pretty soon he was exploring some noisy underground cave full of angry trolls and vials of poisonous potions. I went back to my reading but soon felt myself losing interest. Finally I gave up. I flipped back through the pages, marveling at all the indecipherable scribbles Olivia’s father had made. My eyes fell on a passage he’d drawn a thick box around and marked with asterisks. I hadn’t understood it the first time, but I looked at it again. The clown in Olivia’s house was singing a song that went:

  What is love? ’tis not hereafter;

  Present mirth hath present laughter;

  What’s to come is still unsure:

  In delay there lies no plenty;

  Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,

  Youth’s a stuff will not endure.

  There was a tap at the window. I looked up. Olivia’s face peered in at me, her Scooby-Doo backpack over her shoulder. Recently, Mo had quietly taken me aside and warned me to be careful with Olivia. “Don’t hurt her, Wen,” she’d said. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you.” But now, looking at Olivia through the window, I finally recognized the warm rush I felt whenever she was around. It was a rush I could never feel for an aunt or a cousin. I suddenly understood why I’d been hoping she might show up early.

  Back in the kitchen, my dad and Sydney wore expressions of deep concentration, both of them busy chopping and stirring the ingredients of their weird, fishy food. For the first time, I realized that they looked kind of sweet together.

  That’s when I had a sudden idea what the passage might have meant. And it occurred to me that maybe Shakespeare was onto something.

  It’d been my idea to invite Mrs. Reznik. I was happy when she’d actually agreed to come. We had to pull the table away from the wall so everybody could fit. There were nine of us, including George, my dad, Sydney, my friends and me. I was surprised how fancy everything looked. Sydney laid out a tablecloth, dimmed the lights and lit candles to set the mood. My dad brought out the cloth napkins and the good china. Zydeco music bounced quietly from the stereo. There was so much food it was like a restaurant. Some of it was pretty spicy, and to be honest I’m not a big oyster fan so I could take or leave the chowder, but the gumbo was amazing and I ended up taking two helpings. There were even special meat-free versions of just about everything especially for Stella. Everybody gobbled it up.

  Well, maybe not everybody. George eyed the cake, which loomed on the counter like a monument, a champion chocolate dessert on steroids, but other than that I don’t think my little brother was much of a Creole fan. He picked at the jambalaya and had a few bites of a crab cake, but mostly he just sat there listening to everyone else talking and laughing.

  Mrs. Reznik told a hilarious story about how she once got locked out of the house in her bathrobe and shower cap one morning because she thought she saw a lame bird in a tree. She can be a hoot when she gets going. Sydney was laughing so hard I thought her ice tea might come shooting out her nose.

  But then toward the end of the meal, the mood completely changed.

  “Listen, everybody,” Stella said in the middle of a rare lull in the conversation. “I . . . uh . . . got some news today. Serious news, actually.”

  Of course, I didn’t have any idea what Stella’s news would be, and it didn’t occur to me at first that there might be anything to worry about. Sure, she’d been a little quieter than usual today, but it hadn’t seemed like a big deal. Plus, at that moment my attention was on Sydney. She’d just set the Doberge cake on the table and I was watching greedily as she began to cut it into slices. But when I finally glanced over at Stella and noticed her somber, unsmiling expression and the way she was waiting for everybody’s attention, I pretty much forgot about the cake.

  Something was clearly up. Something serious.

  It was obvious that everybody else sensed the same thing. Everyone got quiet. Sydney stopped slicing and even George looked up from the stack of breadsticks he’d been arranging as a fortress around his napkin. We all looked over at Stella and waited for her to tell us whatever it was. She looked down at the tablecloth.

  “I’m not exactly sure how to say this. My mother . . . well, she only told me this afternoon so it’s still something I’m getting used to myself.”

  “What is it?” Sydney asked anxiously, setting aside her cake knife and sitting back down. “Tell us.”

  Stella took a deep breath and then started into her story. Apparently her mother had taken her out to lunch, just the two of them. In the middle of the meal she’d reached into her purse and pulled out a long, white envelope.

  “We need to talk,” she’d said softly. Which of course made Stella kind of nervous. And it got even worse when her mother had put her hand over hers and said, “Now, I don’t want you to get upset about this, honey. It’s going to be okay.”

  “It was bad enough that I’ve had so much on my mind lately anyway,” Stella said to us now. “But the way my mom was acting was completely freaking me out.”

  “Go on,” Mrs. Reznik said with concern in her eyes. “What happened?”

  Her mother told her that the envelope had arrived a couple days earlier, but she hadn’t said anything to Stella about it until now because she was waiting for the right moment. She said she figured Stella was going to take it hard. She set the envelope on the table.

  “So as you can imagine, by then I was sweating estuaries. I looked down at the letter. It was from the high school guidance department.”

  Mrs. Reznik’s eyebrows pulled together.

  “Remember I told you all about how they made me take all those stupid tests? How my mother had to come in and later I had to spend a whole Thursday afternoon stuck in that little green room in the guidance area? Well, I’d almost forgotten all about that. It was just a bad memory I preferred not to relive. But here it was back to haunt me. Now, I didn’t really want to know what was inside the envelope, but my mom was waiting so I picked it up off the table and pulled out the letter. I could feel my heart thumping. Before I even started reading the thing I looked over again at my mom’s face and knew that whatever news this piece of paper had, it wouldn’t be anything good. Something was obviously out of whack.”

  At this point in Stella’s story she reached into her pocket and pulled out an envelope that I guessed, rightly, was the same one as in her story. As we all leaned forward, waiting anxiously to hear what she was going to say next, she slowly and dramatically pulled out the letter.

  Then she read aloud.

  “The Opequonsett Public School system recently completed a full core evaluation of your daughter Stella and testing resulted in a finding of dyslexia. After reviewing input from her teachers and mother, Stella’s physician reports a diagnosis of Attention Deficit Disorder. These problems would negatively influence Stella’s ability to read and fully comprehend written material as well as maintain focus in class.”

  I suddenly felt terrible for Stella. After all, we all knew what an issue this stuff was for her. She was always so sensitive about her bad grades, and if anybody ever kidded her about something she said, any innocent comment she could wrongly interpret as being a jibe at her intelligence, she went all moody. Somewhere she’d gotten the crazy idea that she was dumb. It wasn’t true, of course, but
that was Stella. Once a notion found its way into her head, it wasn’t easy for anybody to argue it out of her.

  Mo and Olivia started to open their mouths, probably to say something consoling, something to let her know that this really was okay and not such an awful thing. But Stella held up a finger to stop them. She continued reading.

  “The school has developed a plan for accommodating Stella’s needs. Going forward, Stella will be given individual and small group help from our Resource teacher who will supplement and support her regular classroom work as well as work with her on an alternative reading method. Stella will also be given preferred seating where she is closer to the classroom teacher and away from hallway disruptions. In addition, for written tests, Stella will be allowed to complete her work in a quiet, comfortable area without any distractions or time restrictions.”

  She lowered the letter. I was surprised to see the expression on her face.

  She was grinning.

  “You should have heard my mom,” she said, laughing. “She kept saying stuff like, ‘This is not the end of the world,’ and ‘a lot of people have these kinds of problems.’ She didn’t understand that this was the best news I’d heard in a long time!”

  But I still didn’t follow. I struggled to understand how this was good news.

  “Don’t you get it?” she said to our confused faces as if we were missing the obvious. “This is the reason I’ve been having such a hard time in school! This is why there’s always so much stuff I don’t get! Why my grades are so crappy! You know, I even failed an IQ test at my old school, but now I know the reason.” She jabbed her finger up and down at the letter. “This explains a lot!”

  Charlie and I exchanged glances. He looked as puzzled as I was. And after a quick glimpse around the table I saw that we weren’t the only ones.

  But Stella only laughed again, beaming at us like a convict relieved of a death sentence. “Don’t you see? It’s like I just had the idiot-stamp removed from my forehead! I’m not a moron after all, I’m just easily distracted!”