Lemonade Mouth (20 page)

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 picture 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:

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.

“I don’t believe in luck,” Olivia said. And then after a pause she said, “A dandelion. In a flat gray vase.”

Olivia’s house was tiny. It stood in a small clearing in the woods so it was hard to see from the road. Earlier that afternoon, when I’d finally found the long dirt path that she called her driveway, I realized that I must have passed it hundreds of times without ever noticing it. I set my bike against a garage that leaned a little to one side, and then I took in the walkway, which was overgrown with weeds. The paint flaked from every wall I could see. I wasn’t convinced that I’d come to the right place. Or that anybody lived there at all. But then Olivia had appeared at the door, looking paler than usual with dark shadows under her eyes. Inside, the air smelled sweet, a little chocolaty maybe, like somebody was baking. The place was cluttered with stuff. Tattered armchairs, mismatched end tables, cat furniture, music boxes—there was barely enough room to move around. Jumbled onto shelves and piled onto coffee tables were stacks of old books, magazines, newspapers, photograph albums and box after box of what looked like dusty trophies, porcelain figurines, letters and other stuff I couldn’t even guess at. But the clutter somehow felt comfortable, like you just wanted to pull up one of the chairs, grab a box and spend the afternoon going through it.

Olivia introduced me to her grandmother, a square-jawed turtle of a lady with a walking stick. I told them both how sorry I was about Nancy. Eventually Stella, Mo and Charlie joined us. We went outside and held a little ceremony for the cat, and after that we came back in and sat around on ancient sofas. It wasn’t long before Charlie and I got Brenda (Olivia’s grandmother insisted we use her first name) laughing with our stories about the Halloween Bash, which already seemed longer ago than just the previous night. Olivia even smiled, which made me glad I’d come—that all of us had.

More than three hours later, none of us felt ready to break up our little gathering. Now on the roof, I think we were all feeling relaxed, peaceful even. Charlie’s voice broke the long silence. “You guys are way off,” he said. “It’s a one-eyed zombie pushing a baby carriage.”

Mo chuckled. “How do you figure?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Look, see the head? The monster’s shoving hard like the wheel is stuck or something.”

I squinted but I didn’t see that at all.

“Maybe it’s just me,” Stella said. “But once again all I see is a blob. A giant white, fluffy blob.”

Nobody spoke for a couple seconds, but then we all laughed, including Stella.

I think that was the moment when it first struck me that something had happened. With the five of us up on Olivia’s roof gazing at the sky, I suddenly realized that everything felt different now. And I was sure I wasn’t the only one who sensed it. I didn’t know exactly when it’d happened, but hanging out after Nancy’s funeral that Halloween afternoon, Lemonade Mouth felt almost like a family.

And as weird as this family was, with everything that was going on with my messed up family at home, I was grateful to have this new one to fall back on.

Olivia’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts. “How bad did we mess up last night?” she asked nobody in particular as far as I could tell. “I mean, what do you think they’re going to do to us on Monday?” It was a question that had probably been on all our minds but which until now none of us had actually asked aloud.

“Detention,” I guessed. “At least. Worse, maybe. Mr. Brenigan was pretty unhappy.”

“You don’t think they’d actually suspend us, do you?” It was Mo’s voice. “My parents would disown me.”

“Who knows?” I imagined having to explain it all to my Dad. My stomach sank at the thought. With the whole Sydney thing going on, I’d already fallen off his A list. “It’s possible.”

But that’s when Charlie chimed in. “Come on, guys. You gotta stop thinking that way. Yeah, sure, we might get in a little trouble—and just so you know,
my
mother wouldn’t exactly be thrilled about that either—but we all talked about this last week and decided it was important to make a statement. Remember?”

Nobody argued. It was true.

“So we need to keep reminding ourselves that we did the right thing. And there’s nothing anybody can do to us now that would take that away. Plus, didn’t we pull it off with style? Weren’t we everything we wanted to be? Unconventional? Fearless? And even if some kids tried to stop us, didn’t we make it happen anyway, without compromises? I have no regrets. None.”

I didn’t know what to think. Even if we did the right thing, I still felt like we’d made big trouble for ourselves. And that Mr. Brenigan wasn’t going to let us off without any punishment at all.

“I guess you’re right,” Mo said, even though she didn’t exactly sound convinced. “Maybe we did okay.”

“Okay? Are you kidding? We were
great
! We
blew them away
!”

An airplane came into sight from behind one of the branches that framed our view of the sky. We watched quietly as it crept along, trailing a white line across an otherwise clear patch of blue. Eventually it sank behind another tree and disappeared.

That’s when Stella finally spoke up again, but there was a lot less confidence in her voice than in Charlie’s. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just too stupid for anything I do to ever work out.”

“How come?” asked Olivia. Like me, she was probably remembering what Stella had said through the bathroom stall at the Bash. “Why do you say that?”

“Look what happened last night. If only I’d thought it through ahead of time, I would have realized they were going to shut us down.”

I hoped she was joking. “Stella,” I said, “you could say the same thing about any of us. And in any case, who was it that got us all over to Bruno’s and convinced us to form a band even though not everybody wanted to? Who persuaded Mr. Brenigan to let us play the Bash? As far as I’m concerned, you’re an absolute genius.”

The others chimed in, but Stella was too stubborn to listen.

“Well, as long as we’re confessing,” Mo said after a while. “I guess I’ll go next. Sometimes I feel like the biggest fraud in the world.”

Her words seemed to drift up into the sky. At first I didn’t understand, but then she started telling us about her Indian family, and how no matter what she did she never felt like either a genuine American or a genuine Indian. I never really thought about that before, but it made sense. How could you ever feel comfortable if no matter where you went you felt like you belonged someplace else? It made me see Mo in a new way.

“Okay, I have one,” Charlie said. “Sometimes I’m convinced that the only reason I’m alive is because of some gigantic cosmic mix-up.”

It was a strange thing to say, but then he told us all about his twin brother who died at birth, and how he thought about him a lot. This was all news to me. “It makes you think,” he said. “It’s like, why was I the one who lived? What if it was supposed to be my brother but for whatever reason there was some screw-up, some major celestial mistake? You know what I mean? I wonder about that sometimes.”