Lemonade Mouth (8 page)

WEN:
Honestly, I’m Not Hungry

I was lying across the sofa listening to “A Night in Tunisia,” the bebop fighting it out with the explosions from George’s video game. For appearance’s sake, I’d set my American History textbook on the coffee table and my spiral notebook on my lap while my other hand fingered the valves of my trumpet and tried to keep up with Dizzy Gillespie. In my head I’d even worked out my own little staccato two-bar riff that contrasted with Dizzy’s wandering melody.

My American History essay was due the next morning but, needless to say, I was having a hard time getting started.

Sydney wasn’t exactly helping. Through the doorway I could see her at the kitchen table constructing a sculpture out of an old boot, a jar of peanut butter and a pile of colored feathers. From the sofa I had a terrific view of her bare shoulders and her long, narrow neck. Plus, every now and then she’d get up from her work, shuffle into the living room, and hover over me until I looked up.

“How was school today?” she’d ask fake-casually, or, “Should I open a bag of chips?” This time she said, “It’s a nice afternoon, want to go for a walk?”

I shook my head and immediately looked back down.

After a moment she backed away a couple steps. “If I make brownies, would either of you eat them with me?”

“No thanks.” I kept my eyes on the blank page. When I’d returned her sketches last Thursday afternoon, I couldn’t even look her in the face. She, on the other hand, had tried to laugh off the mix-up.

“Are you kidding?” George asked, his round, cherubic face glancing up sweetly from the massacre on the screen. He’d been defending the universe ever since he came home from school. “I’d eat them.”

Sydney smiled at him before padding back out of the room. I couldn’t stop myself from sneaking another look. Tight jeans today.

A moment later I laid back, closed my eyes and let the music distract me from my thoughts. Thank God for Dizzy. Now
there
was a player with
chops.
Sure, Miles was a genius, if you were in the mood, and Satchmo was everywhere, but if you were looking for a fearless, no-holds-barred improviser, an innovator who could take a melody to the highest registers and then completely change direction on a dime, nobody topped Diz. He was one of a kind.

That thought brought me back to what Mrs. Reznik said on Friday morning. On the one hand, I kind of liked the idea of being a part of a new, experimental quintet, especially since there would be no Marching Band for me. On the other hand, I knew we would never actually win the talent show, and a part of me still wanted to hide under a rock until graduation. That day, nobody’d sat with me at lunch and as I’d stood in line, two senior girls glared at me like I was some kind of juvenile offender. Azra and Floey were nearby and they hadn’t talked to me either. They were avoiding me.

I didn’t blame them.

If high school was a garden, I was poison ivy.

Not that it really mattered if I wanted to try this band thing. I got the feeling that the other detention kids wanted to make music together about as much as they wanted to eat fertilizer. Still, I spoke with Olivia in class later that day and told her she really did have an amazing voice. I wondered if she changed her mind then maybe the others might consider changing theirs.

If we did end up going onstage, maybe I could hide behind Charlie or something.

Just as the album ended, Sydney walked in again from the kitchen. By then George had finally turned off the computer and gone to his room. “You have a lot of homework tonight, hun?”

Hun?

“No,” I lied. “I’m almost done.”

“Great. I need a break. Mind if I watch a little TV?”

I gave up on my essay for now. “Fine. Whatever.”

She plopped herself down on the other end of the sofa and folded her legs. Not only could I smell her perfume, but the light from the window made her eye shadow sparkle. My mother, a high-flying executive who lived in Manhattan since the divorce seven years ago, hardly wore any makeup at all. What was my dad doing with a woman who painted her eyelids glittery blue?

Sydney picked up the clicker and turned on some afternoon talk show. A few seconds later she said, “Oh, I discovered a bag of Fig Newtons. Want one?”

“No, thanks.”

“Sure?” She leaned toward me, raised an eyebrow and held out a cookie. “They’re
reeaaally
good. . . .”

The way she was bending forward suddenly gave me a perfect view of her cleavage, like two oversized honeydew melons loosely wrapped in a cloth napkin. It was all I could do to maintain eye contact.

“Uh, no,” I said. “Honestly, I’m not hungry.”

“Okay.” She pulled back the cookie and put it in her own mouth. “Suit yourself.”

I decided to try and focus again on my essay but my eyes kept sneaking glances at her. After a few minutes, I got up and locked myself in the bathroom. When I went back out there, I decided, I’d be stronger. I wouldn’t even look at her.

OLIVIA:
Wish You Were Here

Dear Ted,

I know it’s only been a few days since my last letter, but I was in a used bookstore this morning and I saw this collection,
Tomorrow’s Castaways: The Complete Essays of Phineas Fletcher.
Do you remember reading me his Little Castaways stories when I was five? Remember “The Red Canoe”? I used to spend whole evenings imagining you and me in that canoe drifting merrily to wherever the river happened to carry us. I haven’t thought about that in years, and suddenly here was this collection. It felt like a good omen (I know, I know—you don’t believe in omens, but I
do
) so I grabbed it. Anyway, I thought it might brighten up your cell.

I’m concerned about Nancy. As I write she’s purring like a lawnmower but lately she hasn’t been mixing as much with Barbara, Hillary or Laura, who she used to adore. But then again she’s about two decades older than them in cat years. I think she’s feeling her age. Plus, I think the poor thing lost some weight. She’s like a feather on my legs.

Brenda, on the other hand, is in a frantic mood. Not only did she agree to put up a table at the church fair this weekend (I went down to the beach and collected a bagful of quahog shells to paint and sell as ashtrays) but she’s also working on four rush orders, including personalized announcements for a triple bar mitzvah in Michigan. It’s a big job with all new artwork so I’ve hardly seen her in days. Last night she even worked through “I Love Lucy.” But we’re glad business is finally picking up.

You asked how many friends I have at my new school. Well, if you count the lunch ladies and the librarian I guess I’m up to three. Yup, I’m practically in the running for homecoming queen (ha ha). The truth is, it’s pretty tough here. Seems like most of these kids have known each other since birth and, as you know, it’s always been hard for me to open up. I want to make friends, of course—you have no idea how much. It’s just that I feel like the only return item in a store full of happy customers. I’m trying to fit in but I keep freezing up. But I’m still on the lookout for a kindred spirit. Well, I guess there is this one boy. His name is Wen. Very serious, a Scorpio I think. For some reason I’m okay around him. Maybe because he kind of reminds me of you.

Oh, here’s a good one—ready for a laugh? Mrs. Reznik, the music teacher, wants me and Wen and three other kids to perform in the school talent show. Can you imagine? Me, with
my
voice, singing onstage? Just the thought gives me the shakes. I told her no, of course. And the weirdest thing is, since then Wen has been showing up at my elbow a couple times a day asking if I’m thinking about doing it. He says he actually likes the way I sound.

Clearly, the boy must be out of his mind.

By the way, to preempt the question I know you’ll ask: Yes, I like him. He’s very cute. And funny. Okay? Satisfied? Not that anything’s going to happen, of course, but at least now you don’t have to bug me about him.

Anyway, gotta go. The girls are meowing at me so I guess it’s feeding time. See you next Saturday.

Miss you.

Your Diva Daughter (ha ha),
Olivia

STELLA:
Lost in Translation

There I sat, wispy-headed and silent, barely listening to my sister tell a long, dull story. Wednesday was Family Night. My mother had recently discovered the idea in a discarded domestic bliss magazine, and this week she’d dragged the entire household to some chichi French restaurant on the East Side of Providence. As my mother and Leonard sat in rapt attention, Clea went into excruciating detail about a project she was working on for business class. It had something to do with bubble wrap, but her story was sprinkled with incomprehensible phrases like “supply chains,” “activity based costing” and “price erosion,” all of which flew completely over my head.

This wasn’t a new phenomenon.

Perhaps I’d ended up in the wrong family. Had there been a mix-up at the hospital, maybe a botched adoption from Planet Stupid?

While Clea droned on, I was relieved to see that I wasn’t the only uninterested person at the table. For a while I amused myself watching the step-monkeys stuff straws up their noses and pretend to be walruses.