Lemonade Mouth (22 page)

And when the school paper came out, the whole front page was about us:

The article went on and on about how great we were. According to Naomi we “opened up a new and vital musical landscape” and “provided a missing voice for the struggles of the less than glorified among us, a battle cry for underdogs everywhere.” Yikes! She even had quotes from kids who said our music had “touched their souls and opened their eyes to a whole new way of looking at themselves.” Which was crazy of course. OK sure I felt like we were a good band and everything. But come on.

The story ended by questioning why the administration shut us down just for challenging the social order of the school and for “shining a light on a shadowy, elitist decision regarding the soda machines—a subject the
Barking Clam
promises to investigate in full detail.” Mudslide Crush was mentioned only once. In the last paragraph.

There was even a picture of us from when we were sitting on that bench waiting to go on. At the time, I’d been in such a state that I barely remembered anyone taking that shot but now as I stared at the black and white image I couldn’t help being surprised. We looked good. In a moody kind of way. Cool even.

That’s when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Hey you’re Charlie, right? The drummer in that freshman band?”

I turned and there was this tall swanlike girl with feathery hair and a neck that went on forever. I’d seen her around. I was pretty sure she was a junior. I almost looked behind me to see if she was speaking to somebody else. But she wasn’t. She even knew my name.

“Uh . . . yeah?”

She brushed a plume of hair from her eyes. “How did you learn to do that? You’re
amazing
! I’ve never seen anybody play like you before!”

That woke Aaron up.
Oh. My. God.

I had to agree. In fact, I had a hard time getting my mouth to answer it was like I suddenly had shrink-wrap around my brain.

“Your band is so . . .
wild
!” she gushed. “I’m a
huge
fan!”

All I could think to say was “Thanks.”

“I’m Veronica” she said.

“I know.” It wasn’t true. Only 2 seconds earlier I had no idea what her name was but like I said I wasn’t thinking straight. Plus the way she was smiling at me was flooding my bloodstream with distracting Chemicals.

Even weirder, a part of me felt guilty because of Mo. Which I realized was ridiculous. When I’d called Mo Sunday morning to make sure she was doing OK with the whole Scott thing, she’d sounded kind of annoyed. All of a sudden I felt like she didn’t want to talk with me anymore. Besides, she’d pretty much spelled it out on Thursday that going out with me would be like betraying her
grand plan
—that ridiculous road map she’d set out for her life. Even when she 1st told me about it I’d said it was kind of crazy. “A plan like that doesn’t leave much room for the unexpected, Mo” I’d said. “Don’t you ever do anything impulsive? Anything reckless just because you’re dying to know what it feels like?” But it obviously didn’t have any effect on her. The girl was not about surprises.

I needed to give up on her and face reality. There really was balance in the world. Good with the bad. So now that Mo and I were finally friends of course she
couldn’t
feel the same way about me as I felt about her. Yin and yang, right? Anything else would’ve thrown off the symmetry of the Universe. Just like if people were excited about my band then it only made sense that Mr. Brenigan would
have
to take it away. Equilibrium.

Earth to Charlie! Earth to Charlie! The goddess Veronica waits! Don’t just stare at her say something!

I wanted to. I really did. But I was overwhelmed so I stood there like a moron. Eventually she said “See ya around” and left. A moment later I just raised my hand and waved.

Holy crap! You really are hopeless, you know that?

But it wasn’t as if I was used to beautiful girls throwing spontaneous compliments at me. This kind of thing never happened before.

And the shockers didn’t stop there. As I sat down at the beginning of Spanish class (I arrived late as usual), Lyle casually reached over and set a little square plastic CD box in front of me.

“What’s this?” I whispered.

“It’s you” he said. “Surprise.”

I took a closer look. Somebody had taken the picture of us on the bench and turned it into cover art. Over our heads was the title: “Lemonade Mouth: Live at the Bash.”

“It’s your show” he said speaking softly and keeping his eyes on the board. “We recorded it.”

“You did?”

“Yes don’t you remember I told you we would?” He grinned. “And I don’t mean to brag, but the sound quality came out killer.”

I could hardly believe it. I was looking at a Lemonade Mouth CD.

“Wow” was all I could think to say. “Thanks.”

But it got even weirder. “Listen, a bunch of kids already asked if they could buy them.” He shot me a guilty look. “I hope you don’t mind but I went ahead and sold 5 copies for $10 each. I figure they each cost less than a buck to make so that’s over $45 profit. But I also figure the A.V. Club should take 20% for doing the recording and packaging and distribution. That OK with you?”

I could only blink at my friend.

Finally I could see why the A.V. Club elected him Treasurer.

Over the next few days kids started walking around with our music in their headphones. I would hear people humming our songs. They even knew the words. It was bizarre.

Another big moment happened around that same time. 1 day Olivia and Wen and I were leaving the Cafeteria talking about how strange it all was when we suddenly came across Ray Beech outside the bathrooms. He was with Terry Cabeleira, this short nervous kid from the Drama Club, who had his back to the wall and looked terrified. Ray was leering down at him. But before we could push our way closer an amazing thing happened. 7 or 8 kids stepped out of the passing crowd and gathered around Ray. None of them was particularly big, but like a sudden swarm of angry bees they managed to move him to 1 side so Terry picked up his books and got away. Ray tried to push back but there were too many of them. “You’re a freak!” he shouted as they scattered off. “You’re all freaks!”

The 3 of us looked at each other. Other than Stella, we’d never seen anybody else even
try
to stand up to Ray before.

After that, lemonade seemed to replace soda as the drink of choice. Since you couldn’t buy Mel’s at school, people must of picked it up at Bruno’s. I saw Terry Cabeleira in the hallway a few days later. When he saw me he grinned and lifted a cup into the air. “Hey Charlie!” he called out. “Look! I’m holding it high! I’m raising it up!”

It was a strange feeling. I guess I was a celebrity, sort of. All because of a band that didn’t exist anymore.

MOHINI:
The Parking Lot Fleas

After that meeting in Mr. Brenigan’s office, I feel like my whole world is falling apart. Scott’s gone and Lemonade Mouth is dead. Being banned from the talent show means I won’t even be able to play my solo, the Ode d’Espagne that I’ve been working so hard to learn.

First period today happens to be my bass instruction with Mrs. Reznik and she’s in a bad mood. Her face is all pinched and she hardly says a word as I play. Eventually I put down my bow right in the middle. I can’t even look at her.

“What is it?” she growls. “Why did you stop?”

That’s when I tell her what Mr. Brenigan said. She doesn’t look particularly surprised. She coughs and it sounds even worse than usual. That’s when I realize she doesn’t look well. Her face is grayer than normal, and even her wig, if that’s what it is, seems a little off kilter. Finally, she looks at me with just a hint of sympathy. Her normally critical eyes turn unexpectedly soft.

“Never mind about him,” she says. “The thing for you and your friends to remember is that you are artists. There will always be those who don’t appreciate the work of true visionaries. It doesn’t matter. To an artist, beauty and honesty are everything. The fact that music has the power to stir up controversy should neither direct nor impede the pure creative impulse. Be proud,” she finishes with a wink. “You played beautifully and honestly.”

Which is a nice thing to say, but it certainly doesn’t help me feel any better when I run into the Patties and a pack of the other Mudslide Crusher girls on my way to my second period class. They’re coming in the opposite direction, talking and snickering. Their chatter quiets when they notice me. As we pass, one of them says, “Nice going, Drama Queen. Feel better now? Lynn says hi.”

Suddenly I feel more dumped than ever.

But that afternoon my mood takes an unexpected turn for the better and I realize that not only is word out about what happened with Mr. Brenigan, but there’s even a small faction of kids in the school who seem to think my friends and I are heroes. I realize this after a handmade sign mysteriously appears in the main first-floor hallway:

LET LEMONADE MOUTH PLAY THE HOLIDAY SHOW!

Of course, students aren’t allowed to post anything without permission, so the teachers pull the sign down almost as soon as it goes up. But soon another, with the same message, appears near the gym. It happens again and again. And word gets around about that too. The first day of the signs, the five of us get called to the office half an hour before my monster Trig exam. I’m not happy about having to see Mr. Brenigan again. That’s all I need—more stress.

“What are you trying to pull here?” he demands. “What’s the purpose of these messages? Do you
want
to make trouble for yourselves?”

The five of us just look at each other. “It’s not us,” Stella says. “We’re not putting them up.”

He gives us a hard stare. “You kids are playing a dangerous game and you’re going to lose.”

He doesn’t keep us there long, thank God, probably because he doesn’t have any proof that we did anything wrong. He lets us go with a warning. But I can tell he doesn’t believe us. To be honest, I have my doubts too. Alone in the corridor outside his office, I ask the others if it was any of them. Everyone shakes their heads. Even Stella.

“No, I swear,” she whispers. “I honestly have no idea who’s putting those things up.”

I study her face. She’s telling the truth.

On the second day, even more signs appear. I start seeing them everywhere, sometimes two or three on a wall. I know it isn’t all the same person now because different signs have different writing. And there are more messages now: “Raise your voices!,” “Bring Back Mel’s—This Is
Our
School!” and even, “Don’t Stop the Revolution!”

I’m in biology when Mrs. Ledlow makes an announcement over the intercom. “I wish to remind everyone that school rules limit the posting of student notices to the message board by the lobby restrooms. Any students found breaking this rule will receive disciplinary action.”

I’m sitting at my lab bench at the time. There’s stifled laughter all around. Everyone knows what she was talking about. It’s a weird feeling, knowing that some unknown kids are fighting for my friends and me. I can’t help glancing over at Wen, who’s at a bench across the room. He’s staring back at me.