Lemonade Mouth

by Mark Peter Hughes

  It seemed like a weird thing to be so ecstatic about, but there it was. And however odd the reason, I felt glad for her. It wasn’t long before everybody was laughing along with her, and giving her our congratulations. Sydney cut us each a celebratory slice of her Doberge cake, and Mrs. Reznik even made a toast:

  “To friends, family, food and taking exams in comfortable, quiet areas without distractions or time restrictions!”

  Everybody clinked glasses. Stella practically glowed.

  OLIVIA:

  A Great and Mysterious Design

  Dear Naomi,

  Of course, you already know how it all played out that spring, how that first Providence Journal article led to a flood of letters of support for us and our lemonade cause. And that led to more articles and even an interview on the local news. And with the continued radio play, and with WRIZ-TV never seeming to tire of showing that clip of our disastrous performance at Catch A RI-Zing Star, interest in Lemonade Mouth kind of snowballed. People seemed to think we were hilarious. It even got to the point where complete strangers would sometimes come up and ask me if I was one of those funny kids they’d seen on TV or read about in the paper. For a few weeks there, we were almost like celebrities.

  It was a weird time. My grandmother kept a scrapbook.

  One day a columnist at the Providence Phoenix wrote an opinion piece that even called us “icons of their generation.” “You don’t have to be in high school to sympathize with their plight,” the writer said. “In a way, Lemonade Mouth is like Everyman. We can all relate to the difficulty of finding ourselves in over our heads, trying to maintain our dignity and sense of humor while undertaking tasks that sometimes seem out of our grasp.” After Stella read that one aloud at the Freak Table I still remember all the puzzled faces.

  It was all pretty overwhelming.

  Needless to say, with so much media coverage, the pressure on Mr. Brenigan and the finance committee to bring back the lemonade machines eventually got pretty bad. So bad that they eventually had no choice but to give in. The administration tried to play it all down—they didn’t even make an announcement about their change of heart. But somebody must have tipped someone off because word not only got out that the machines were coming back, but we even found out ahead of time which day the delivery truck was coming.

  I’m sure you remember that Saturday in early April, the morning we all waited in the high school parking lot. After all, you were there too, along with what seemed like half the school. Despite the cool temperature, a bunch of kids set up lawn furniture, others ran around throwing Frisbees or playing guitars while we waited. It was a blast. There were reporters there, too, including Carolyn Brussat from the Providence Journal, the lady who’d written that first article about us. There were even camera crews from a couple of local TV stations.

  Terry Cabeleira stood lookout at the corner of the street so he could spot the truck before anybody else. Finally he shouted, “I can see it! Here it comes!”

  As the truck backed up to the loading dock everybody cheered and waved, and some kids held up signs. Along with the usual HOLD IT HIGH! RAISE IT UP! were others like VICTORY FOR THE UNHEARD! and WHEN LEMONADE MOUTH SPEAKS, THE WORLD LISTENS!

  Turned out, I recognized one of the delivery people. It was Phil, one of the two guys who’d ended up calling the cops on us that day we’d all lain in the snow in front of his truck. But today he was in a much better mood. He seemed to eat up the attention. He grinned and waved to the crowd, and after wheeling the machine out of the cargo area he tipped his cap and bowed to the cameras. Which made us all cheer even louder. The TV crews loved it. loved it.

  I wish I could have somehow recorded the giddy grins I saw the following Monday on the faces of so many kids—and some of the teachers, too. Sure, the school would have to return some of the scoreboard money to the soda company, but word was already out that the sports teams were going to make up the difference by selling chocolates.

  At lunch Stella barely said a word. I knew she was trying not to gloat, but she looked like she might burst.

  So now, Naomi, I’m grappling with a question: Where to end my part of the story? It’s a tough decision for me because, like I said before, I don’t think of stories as having any precise moment you can point to and say “right there is exactly when it all began” or “this is where everything finished.” Especially in real life, it doesn’t work like that. But I guess there’s no getting away from it, because wherever I happen to stop writing becomes, by definition, the end of the story, or at least my part in its telling.

  So where to set down my pencil?

  I suppose I could end with Mrs. Reznik, how after pressure from students and parents, she was eventually moved back to her old, quieter classroom, which was on the first floor but still not too far from the lemonade machine. When I asked her if she ever missed the symphony she just laughed. “It’s still there. Anytime I want to visit, I can. But I’m a music teacher now, and despite what certain people may want, they’ll have to drag me out kicking and screaming before I’ll retire!”

  Or maybe I could write about Ray Beech, how with Dean about to graduate and move to Ohio for college, and with Scott Pickett uninterested in continuing Mudslide Crush, Ray decided to form his own band called the Vicious Circles, which featured Ray on the electric ukulele and Patty Norris on the timbales. They didn’t last long, though, because Patty quit in a huff after Ray told her she wasn’t keeping a steady beat and why doesn’t she at least take a couple lessons for godsakes? Patty Keane followed her out the door since she only agreed to sing because the other Patty was in the band.

  But if I have to pick a single moment to end on, I guess I’ll choose a day that happened before any of that, one Sunday afternoon in mid-April that Brenda and I spent selling shell ashtrays at the church fair. In a fit of energy my grandmother had painted about fifty of them and we wheeled them all into town in our little red wagon. A bunch of people I didn’t even know stopped by our table only because they recognized me from the TV clip. And every one of our ashtrays sold.

  On our way back home this grizzly old guy in a black coat, some random person on the street, walked right up to me, stuck his unshaven face directly in mine and growled, “You’re that plump girl with the voice like a brake problem.”

  Now, another person might have been taken aback, insulted even, but I’m a reformed Virgo working hard to go with the flow, so I chose to see it as a compliment. This was merely one stranger expressing his brotherhood with another, a kind of hello. I smiled and then he smiled and we both continued on our separate ways.

  Weird but okay.

  Brenda and I rolled our empty wagon up our driveway and had just rounded the corner to our house when I noticed somebody sitting on the front step. It was Wen.

  “Hey,” he called out.

  “Hey yourself,” I called back. “What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you. Hello, Brenda.”

  As we came closer I noticed that he was holding something on his lap. Something small, furry and orange. I got near enough to see what it was.

  It was a kitten.

  “I brought this for you,” he said, stroking its head. “A present.”

  I blinked at it. It was a little tabby, probably eight or ten weeks old. It flopped on Wen’s lap and peered back at me, sleepy and content.

  “Where did it come from?”

  “One of Sydney’s friends found her under a tree in her backyard. She asked around but nobody seems to know how she got there or where she belongs. She can’t keep her, though, and neither can we because Sydney’s allergic. If you don’t want her, I can figure something else out.”

  I looked behind at Brenda and saw in her expression that the kitten had already won her heart. Then I crouched down low to get a better look. When our eyes met, her tiny face perked up. She was only a baby. She rolled onto her back and wiggled playfully.

  “Of course we want her,” I said, watching her bat at some invis
ible object in the air. “Thank you, Wen. She’s lovely.”

  I held out my hand and the kitten let me scratch behind her ears. Her body vibrated under my fingers. I already knew what to name her. She reminded me of Daisy Buchanan in The Great Gatsby, careless and charming, a beautiful fool.

  Wen grinned and I felt a warm glow and an odd dizzy sensation. And then I remembered something my dad once wrote me about falling in love. He said the phrase was apt because falling is exactly what it can feel like, as if you’ve finally allowed yourself to let go of some safety bar you didn’t even know you were clinging to, and suddenly you find yourself tumbling towards the exciting unknown.

  I picked up Daisy and stared into her face. I recognized at once that I’d found another kindred spirit. And I thought about all the people that had contributed, one way or another, to the events that led her to Brenda and me. Not just Sydney and her nameless friend, but also Charlie, Stella, Mo and of course Wen. And so many more, too—some that I knew and some that I would never know. I believe in a great and mysterious design. There’s no telling what’s ahead for any of us, but it feels right to be reminded that our lives are all connected, and that whether we realize it or not we are each playing an important part in some larger plan. Nothing happens without a reason.

  And as I already mentioned, I don’t believe in accidents.

  STELLA:

  A Pomegranate in the Throat

  Leonard maneuvered the Volvo between the cars that lined the street and finally brought your Sista Stella and her family to a stop near Wen’s long driveway. It was a May afternoon, clear and warm. A beautiful day for a wedding.

  My mom turned around. “Need help carrying anything, Stella?”

  “No,” I said, popping open the door and grabbing my stuff. “It’s only my new uke and a little amp. Plus, you’re already late. Don’t worry, I got it.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Leonard. “It’s no trouble.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  My mother had decided to stay with the lab after all. Some of its initial investors had indeed backed out of the project, but following a round of frantic phone calls and a few all-nighters, my mom had been able to organize an impressive presentation that managed to win over a new batch of investors. So the quest for the perfect, world-saving Frankenstein plant would continue, at least for a few more months. Today, in fact, the company was having an open house for families. I would have gone too if I hadn’t had this other commitment. But it was great to see my mother busily doing what made her happy.

  “Well, okay . . .” the biochemical crusader said, checking her watch. “Good luck and have fun, sweetie. And give Sydney and Norman our congratulations.”

  Through the open backseat window, my brothers looked bored. Clea eyed me skeptically. “Wait, don’t go yet, Leonard,” she said. “That’s a long, pebble driveway Stella has to navigate, and it’s her first time in heels. This I gotta see.”

  I ignored her. As I headed toward the house, Leonard called out to me before he pulled away. “Hold it high, Stella!” he said. “Raise it up!”

  I smiled and waved again. Leonard was all right.

  By that time the song “Everyday Monsters” was starting to get pretty regular airplay on WRIZ radio. Crazy as it sounds, the manager of Results May Vary, a local band successful enough to go on tour every now and then, called to ask if Lemonade Mouth wanted to open for them when they played the Waterplace Park amphitheater in July. You should have seen the look on Olivia’s face at the thought of that—the poor kid practically needed oxygen. After several long discussions the five of us finally agreed that we wouldn’t give in to any pressure to do anything unless everybody wanted to. And as far as Results May Vary went, well, Olivia was still thinking about it.

  But of course, when Sydney and Wen’s dad asked if we would perform at their reception, how could anyone say no?

  Before I even reached the top of the driveway (and despite Clea’s taunting, your firm-footed phenom was able to keep the wobbling down to a minimum), a blue Subaru pulled up and Mo and Charlie stepped onto the sidewalk. It’d felt weird at first that the two of them were going out, but now I was getting used to it. Mo’s parents, waving stoically at them from the front seats, seemed to be going through their own adjustment process, but I admired them for making the effort.

  “Oh my God, Stella! Look at you!” called Mo, her jaw dropping.

  I couldn’t help grinning. I wasn’t usually a dress person, but the previous day I’d suddenly decided to wear one. My mom had helped me pick it out—a shiny black, knee-length spaghetti-strap thing. Plus I was growing my hair out a little longer and only the night before had dyed it black, almost my natural color, to go with my outfit.

  But even though my mother had rolled her eyes, I’d insisted on wearing a matching black Sista Slash dog collar too. I didn’t want anybody to think I’d sold out.

  Still, it was a whole new look for me. And from the amazed expression on Mo’s and Charlie’s faces, and the sideways glances I was getting from the two young khaki-and-tie GQ guys whose eyes had followed me up the driveway, you would have thought nobody ever noticed I was a girl before.

  All I could think to say was, “Thanks. You both look great too.” And they did. They looked glamorous together, like they stepped out of a magazine.

  Mo’s dad honked goodbye before driving away. Then we all headed around the house to the big tent that was set up in the side yard. Clea had been right about one thing—those shoes weren’t exactly designed for comfort.

  We sat in fold-up chairs arranged in rows in the grass. The ceremony was short and sweet. Sydney wore a simple white dress and sandals, with wildflowers in her hair. I couldn’t stop staring at Wen standing next to his dad, fidgeting nervously with the rings. With his glasses and his new blue suit, I could almost imagine him someday working at a bank, or maybe a government office—some real job. Scary.

  A couple of people read poems and then Sydney and Norman recited their vows. They wrote their own. Even before they started talking, I could already sense Mrs. Reznik beginning to choke up to my left, but when Norman shed a tear in the middle of his speech, that was enough to send the old music teacher over the edge. I felt her shake quietly beside me. Mo reached out for Charlie’s hand, but I pretended not to notice that either. When Sydney made her speech about how lucky she felt that she’d finally found the love of her life, though, it must be admitted that even your dyslexic diva, normally the poster girl of self-control, may have succumbed just a little to the pomegranate she felt in her throat.

  Not that I was about to admit it to anybody.

  After the meal, a DJ played pop tunes for a while and the five of us went out on the dance floor together. It wasn’t my kind of music and I’m not much of a dancer, but in my new dress I felt like a different kind of girl, the kind that goes out there no matter what tune is playing. Still, there was no way I was attempting any fast moves in those heels, which by that time were killing me. I threw them off and danced in my bare feet. Moving around in my new dress, I sensed that it wasn’t only the two GQ guys who had their eyes on me now.

  I had to admit I was having a great time.

  When the cake came out, everybody went back to their seats. I hadn’t yet caught my breath when two giant bearded muscle guys who looked like they knew their way around a Harley Davidson leaned over from the next table.

  “Oy, you’re Lemonade Mouth then, right?” asked one of them in an accent I couldn’t place. He was a fearsome fellow with a grizzled beard and two missing teeth.

  “Uh . . . yes,” Mo said.

  “I knew it!” He gave a broad, hairy grin and slapped Charlie hard on the shoulder. “Chuffed to meet you. Spank and I are ape-nuts about you guys!”

  His friend, an even larger specimen with a shaved head and an alarming scar across his left cheek, held a little flowered teacup in his thick fingers. He nodded bashfully. “Can we get you lot to autograph a napkin?”

  So our heroes s
tarted up a conversation with them. Turned out, they were Spank and Dave, friends of Sydney’s who’d flown all the way from Australia to come to the wedding. She’d sent them a CD and, at least according to them, they were big fans.

  “We play Live at the Bash! all the time at home, don’t we, Spank? What’s the name of that one that always brings tears to your eyes?”

  “Nancy,” his friend said solemnly as he skewered his cake with a tiny fork. “Skinny Nancy.”

  “Right, mate! That’s the one. Bonzer, that is. Lovely.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. It was nice to be appreciated.

  After the cake part was over, Mrs. Reznik went away to chat with Wen’s dad. Sydney strolled over and told us we could start playing any time we wanted. Almost immediately, somebody called her away and then it was just the five of us again. And that’s when I looked at the faces around the table and suddenly felt as if everything about each of us was changing right before my eyes. Maybe it was just the novelty that we were all dressed up and at a wedding together. Maybe it was Mo, the way she’d spent the afternoon sitting back and laughing with the rest of us. I’d never seen her so relaxed. Or maybe it was the way Olivia and Wen kept looking at each other like they shared a secret. Whatever it was, I felt like we were on a rollercoaster ride and there was no getting off.

  We made our way to the corner of the dance floor where our instruments already waited. I grabbed my ukulele and took my position. I looked out at the audience and felt the thrill of their applause. And then we started playing. Soon I felt calm again. I knew I was exactly where I belonged, up there with my friends making the music we all loved.

  And I was reminded once again how a song really can change the world.

  About the Author

  Mark Peter Hughes was born in Liverpool, England, and grew up in Barrington, Rhode Island. Mark’s obsession with music has led to many ups and downs. Setbacks included getting ejected from eighth-grade music class for throwing a spitball and the heartbreak of learning that the accordion has no place on a thrash-metal stage. Success came later when he fronted an alternative-rock band. He owns a pennywhistle, a broken violin, and a boxful of other musical instruments of mass destruction. He now lives and often hums quietly in Massachusetts.