Lemonade Mouth Page 19

  “Do you believe this?” Charlie asked quietly.

  All I could do was stare.

  Whoever had drawn it was pretty good. Sure, Wen’s glasses were a little too rectangular, Olivia’s face a little too long and the green of my hair a little too fluorescent, but it was definitely us. And there was a lemon stuffed into each of our mouths—gags preventing us from talking. In thick purple lettering across the top of the wall was a long quote from someone I’d never heard of:

  WE ARE ALL, EACH AND EVERY ONE OF US,

  MISUNDERSTOOD. AND EVERY INDIVIDUAL IS ABNORMAL.

  BUT I ASK YOU, WHERE’S THE FUN IN NORMAL?

  —PHINEAS FLETCHER

  Scribbled below that in yellow chalk was:

  I’M A FREAK AND I’M PROUD!

  LEMONADE MOUTH—DON’T STOP THE REVOLUTION!

  I didn’t know what to say.

  And then I noticed Olivia, the real-life Olivia, standing beside me. As I’d walked up to the wall, she must have been only a few steps behind. I watched her face as she took in the giant picture. Her eyes lingered on the words.

  She stayed quiet for a long time.

  It was at the end of that day that Olivia came up to Wen and me as we got ready to walk home. Without any explanation, she told us she’d decided to sing at Bruno’s after all. When she walked away, we turned to each other, speechless. We couldn’t help grinning.

  Lemonade Mouth was back.

  CHAPTER 7

  Only the pure in heart can make a good soup.

  —Ludwig Van Beethoven

  OLIVIA:

  Houseplants, T-Shirts and Unrequited Desire

  Dear Ted,

  Happy New Year! It’s study hall so I thought I’d write. Sorry it’s been so long. I have so much to tell you.

  First, I’m resting my voice. Want to know why? Bruno asked us back again this Thursday because our first gig was packed. Half the crowd was in costume too. Most of the football team came as potted plants. Stella called them up onstage and they line-danced behind us. The audience went nuts. And remember I told you about those guys that don’t like us, the ones in that other band, Mudslide Crush? Well, even they showed up, although they mostly just stood quietly at the back with Bruno. We made a point to welcome them, though, and everybody cheered. Anyway, I’m doing a little better now. I figure if I stare at the back wall and don’t think about the people, I’ll get through it. I’m not saying it’s easy, just okay.

  I’m glad you received the extra CDs you asked for. Want to hear something bizarre? So many kids have been walking around listening to our music that Mr. Brenigan said nobody could play it anymore. Can you believe that? He banned it! Nobody is allowed to listen to anything in the hallways anymore. Personally, I think the rule has more to do with the soda machines than anything else. I think Mr. Brenigan is tired of people asking about them. Anyway, you can probably imagine how effective the rule is. It’s easy to sneak an earphone in when you want to. My guess is, more people are listening to us in the corridors now than ever before.

  My horoscope today: “Take unexpected changes in stride. Don’t lose faith. Get ready for a startling new experience.” They got that right. Charlie’s friend Lyle is selling Lemonade Mouth posters and T-shirts. I can’t tell you how strange it feels walking around the hallways and seeing your own face on other people’s chests. But not to worry. It’s only a matter of time before Mr. Brenigan outlaws the T-shirts too.

  Here’s another crazy update: Remember I told you about Catch A RI-Zing Star, the annual WRIZ battle of the bands with the most popular local groups from all over the state? I don’t know if you’ve heard of it, but Desirée Crane won two years ago, and this year the winner gets a one-album deal with Epiphany Records. Anyway, Naomi Fishmeier started a call-in campaign to get us on the band list. We’re not even signed up, but just the idea of it gives me stomach cramps. Performing at the Providence Civic Center wouldn’t be like playing at a pizza place. It holds over fourteen thousand seats. And the Catch A RI-Zing Star finals are shown on TV, so who knows how many other eyes would be watching?

  You asked about Wen . . . well, he’s pretty much the same as ever. Still oblivious around me and weird around Sydney. But I’m getting used to it. After all, do I have any choice? And no, I’m not going to tell him how I feel, because if I do it might drive him away, and then I really would be miserable. I guess some people are meant to find connections and others aren’t, and I’m obviously in the latter category and that’s just the way it is. I’m okay with it, so stop worrying about me. All right, sometimes I get secretly furious at the boy. A couple nights ago I stopped by his place (it’s stuffed with Sydney’s furniture now—his living room is almost as chaotic as ours!) to write some new songs. When I got there, Sydney told me Wen was out with his dad and would be a little late so she suggested we paint our toenails. When Wen finally came back and found us laughing on the sofa, our bare feet in the air, cotton balls between our toes, his face went all glum. Unfortunately, Sydney and I had a hard time fighting back the giggles. We weren’t laughing at him, it was just the situation. But Wen left the room without saying a word. He went back to his usual easygoing self as soon as we were writing upstairs, away from Sydney. Still, I couldn’t help fuming at how clueless he is.

  But I felt sorry for him too. Poor, sweet, confused kid.

  Miss you,

  Olivia

  P.S.

  Oh my God. It’s 11 p.m. and I’d already sealed and stamped your envelope but I had to rip it open so I could add this note.

  Are you ready for this?

  Believe it or not, I just heard “Skinny Nancy” on the radio.

  Let me set the scene: Brenda and I were sitting at the kitchen table playing a quiet game of gin rummy with the cats flopping around our feet and on our laps. Suddenly the phone rang so I picked it up and Wen’s voice said, “Turn on WRIZ right now.” And then he hung up. It was a weird message, but I did what he said and flipped on the radio. And there we were. I couldn’t believe my ears. Turns out, WRIZ has a local music show and somehow they got our CD. Brenda and I threw our cards into the air and screamed. Which sent the cats fleeing in all directions. But we didn’t care—Lemonade Mouth was on the airwaves!

  WEN:

  Have You Hugged Your Radio Today?

  I rushed down to the kitchen to tell my dad we were on the radio but when I got there I found him and Sydney standing really close to each other, Sydney’s arms over my dad’s shoulders and his hands on her waist. I felt like maybe I was interrupting something, and I expected them to pull apart, maybe act uncomfortable, but they didn’t. My dad just turned his head a little in my direction with this dopey grin.

  “What’s going on, kiddo?”

  “Uh . . . we’re on the radio,” I said, muffling the excitement in my voice because I suddenly felt embarrassed. “Right now. WRIZ.”

  After a brief hesitation, his expression changed. “You’re kidding.”

  I shook my head.

  He and Sydney suddenly let go of each other and my dad switched on the kitchen radio. Sydney shrieked. While my dad cranked up the music, she grabbed my shoulder and squeezed. George came pounding down the stairs in his pajamas to find out what the fuss was about. When I pointed to the radio it didn’t take him long to understand what was happening. It was a weird feeling, the three of us staring at the speakers, grinning from ear to ear, and George hopping all over the place like a Mexican jumping bean.

  My dad wrapped his arm around my neck. “That’s it, kiddo. The big time. You’re a star!”

  “Yeah right,” I said. I knew it wasn’t true, of course. But still, I couldn’t help feeling lightheaded.

  Then everybody started hugging each other and I guess I got caught up in it because a few seconds later I realized too late that I had my arms around Sydney and she had hers around me. It wasn’t a long hug or anything, but it was long enough. The moment after she gave me a quick congratulatory peck on the cheek and then moved on to George, I
stood there frozen. I realized to my horror that for a brief instant I’d sensed her breasts, under her sweater, actually brushing up against my shirt. It was an awful realization. I forced myself not to think about it.

  When the song was over the DJ said, “That’s brand new from a band called Lemonade Mouth off their CD Live at the Bash. Call and let us know if you like it as much as we do.”

  After that the phone started ringing one call after another. “How much did you hear?” I asked Mo.

  “Almost all of it. I was studying right by my radio when you phoned. Can you believe this? My dad’s bursting to call Calcutta.”

  Stella whooped so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear.

  But I couldn’t blame anybody for being excited.

  I had a hard time keeping my eyes closed that night. After all, who in their right mind would have predicted in September that the five of us would get this far? I wondered if this was how Dizzy felt the first time he heard himself on the radio. I know it was just some late-night exposure on a local radio show, but it felt like a big deal. Like we’d made it to the next step.

  But even as those exciting thoughts bounced around in my head, my alarming brush with Sydney’s breasts refused to stay blocked from my mind. It was a disturbing memory, not just because it was so unforgivable to think about the touch of your dad’s fiancée’s boobs, but also because I realized that the experience had left me feeling completely different than I would have imagined. I guess I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d felt some terrible, secret thrill, but that wasn’t what happened, exactly. It was weird. I don’t know if I could even explain the emotion I’d felt, but whatever it was, it hadn’t been what I’d expected.

  As I lay in bed that night it took me forever to get to sleep.

  MOHINI:

  A Surprise Visit

  One morning I show up for my regular every-other-day session with Mrs. Reznik and discover that she’s out sick. At the front office they tell me it’s just a cold. I don’t think anything of it. But she’s not back four lessons later, so by then I’m concerned.

  “She’s still out?” Charlie asks around a mouthful of PB&J. It’s lunchtime and as usual my friends and I are sitting together at the Freak Table. “Wow. How long has it been now? A week and a half?”

  “Almost two,” Stella corrects him.

  Wen frowns. “It’s hard to picture Mrs. Reznik getting sidelined by just a cold.”

  It’s true. She’s such a Rottweiler of a personality that it’s easy to forget she’s actually just a little old lady. Until now I think part of me doubted anything could ever hold her back—I figured she was too stubborn to allow it.

  Late that afternoon the five of us are assembled on the front steps of Mrs. Reznik’s duplex apartment. Her address was easy to look up because she lives right in town. In my arms is a big plastic container of chicken soup we made ourselves at Olivia’s. Stella knocks.

  We wait for a long time. Nobody answers. Stella tries again.

  Olivia eventually shrugs. “Maybe she’s not home.”

  More time passes and still nobody comes. And it’s only then that it occurs to me how our idea of surprising Mrs. Reznik might have been a mistake. Maybe we should have called first. And then disturbing questions start to form in my head. When was the last time anybody actually heard from her? What if Mrs. Reznik is lying dead on the floor in there?

  Wen shifts his weight from one foot to another. “Should we knock one last time or just give up?”

  But that’s when we finally hear something. Somebody shuffling. A throat clearing. “Hello? Is someone there?”

  I’m so relieved to hear that familiar cough. “It’s us, Mrs. Reznik. Lemonade Mouth. We heard you’re sick so we made you some chicken soup.”

  After a pause, I hear the lock unlatch and then the door opens, but only as far as the inside chain allows. Mrs. Reznik’s eye and nose appear in the crack. “Oh, it is you,” she says, her voice raspy. There’s an uncomfortable moment where everybody’s just standing there not saying anything. It’s hard to tell if she’s happy to see us or if she wishes we’d leave her alone.

  “We don’t mean to disturb you,” says Olivia. “You’re probably feeling too sick for company. We can just leave the soup and go.”

  “No, no. I’m a little better today. Let me undo the chain.” The door closes and then after a brief moment it opens again, this time wide.

  And what I see nearly makes me drop the soup.

  It’s Mrs. Reznik all right, but not like I’d ever seen her. And it isn’t just that she’s wearing a bathrobe and slippers. What catches my attention the most is her head. Her elaborate brown wig is gone. Her real hair, I now see, begins startlingly high on her forehead, and is short, wispy and gray.

  I think she senses that we’re all staring because she seems to straighten her back and hold her head higher, like she’s determined to maintain her dignity.

  “Are you sure this is all right?” I ask, absolutely mortified now.

  But Mrs. Reznik remains composed. “Yes, please come in,” she says calmly. “Just give me a few seconds to make myself presentable. I’ll be right with you.”

  After that she disappears through a doorway while we wander inside. The apartment is small and smells of cigarettes. I find a little, tidy kitchen and leave the soup on the counter. Embarrassed, everyone drifts into the living room. It’s modest but cheerfully and neatly decorated. There’s an armchair, a sofa, a TV and lots of pictures, most of them photographs of people I don’t recognize. There’s a button pinned to one of the lampshades that says, “I’m Pro-Accordion, and I Vote!”

  Nobody looks comfortable, but we’re here now so what can we do?

  “Check this out,” whispers Charlie, nodding his head toward an enormous bookshelf that completely covers one wall. It’s filled top to bottom with CD’s and old vinyl LPs. I scan the titles. Lots of classical, but an impressive mix of other stuff too. Amy Beach, John Cage, Patsy Cline, Tommy Dorsey, Ella Fitzgerald, The Gypsy Kings, Gary Karr, Edgar Meyer, Leontyne Price, Jonathan Richman, Michelle Shocked and even a whole row devoted just to the Beatles. Everything’s in alphabetical order.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have much to offer you,” Mrs. Reznik says, finally joining us after what seems like forever. “Would you like something to drink? Tea?” She has her wig on now so she looks more like how we’re used to seeing her. Instead of the robe, she’s now wearing penny loafers, slacks and a silk blouse with a scarf. There’s even a little makeup around her eyes.

  “You’re not supposed to offer us anything,” I say. “You’re sick.”

  She waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, I’ll live. It’s just a really bad cold. Honestly, I’m practically over it.”

  She takes a seat. In the oversized, winged armchair she looks tiny. She gestures for us to sit. Wen and I settle on the rug. Charlie, Stella and Olivia take the sofa.

  The conversation starts out pretty stiff. Even though she was the one who brought us together, none of us really knows her very well—even me, after all the individual lessons. She isn’t an especially easy person to get close to. She thanks us for the soup. We talk a little about how we were about to play our third Bruno’s show. Soon, though, we sort of run out of things to say. Mrs. Reznik’s hands stay rigid in her lap. She seems unsettled at having company and I wonder if we’re the first visitors she’s had in a long time. After a silence that seems to last forever, she reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the little table beside her. She puts one in her mouth, lights it and takes a deep drag.

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” Olivia says. “And I know it’s none of my business, but did you ever think of quitting smoking?”

  I’m surprised and even a little embarrassed that Olivia actually said this, but Mrs. Reznik seems to take the question in stride. “My doctor keeps telling me to,” she says, slowly exhaling a giant fog of smoke. “But I tell him that when I die I want to be buried with my lighter in my hand and a menthol ultram
ild in my mouth.”

  She says it so seriously that at first I don’t realize she’s kidding. But then a wry smile appears on her wrinkled face. Wen starts laughing and she does too, and I realize it was just a joke, her way of telling us that, for better or worse, she’s comfortable with who she is and doesn’t plan to change. On the one hand it’s kind of sad because I think smoking is such a nasty habit, but on the other hand, who am I to make another person’s decisions for them?

  Pretty soon everyone else is laughing too and I have to admit, it is pretty funny.

  After that, we all seem to relax a little. We end up drinking tea after all (I make it) and gabbing about a lot of things: the school, how crazy it is that they keep playing “Skinny Nancy” on the radio, Mrs. Reznik’s life growing up in Philadelphia, her time in the Newport Philharmonic. I ask her about a black-and-white shot on the mantel where she’s sitting at a table full of handsome looking people in fancy dresses and tuxedos. Turns out, one of them was Prince Albert of Monaco. I’m amazed. I try to imagine what it must feel like to be in the company of royalty.

  “Oh, don’t be too impressed with titles,” she says. “Still, though, you don’t eat with a prince every day.”

  Wen asks about a serious-faced young woman who appears in several of the photographs.

  “That’s Gina, my daughter. She lives down in Florida.”

  “Do you see her often?”

  “Once or twice a year, depending.”

  Funny, I had no idea she even had a daughter.

  As usual, even as the rest of us are chatting and laughing, Olivia doesn’t say much. But I notice that she seems to spend more time watching Stella, Charlie, Wen and me than she does watching Mrs. Reznik. I wonder what’s going on in her head, but I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that Olivia will forever remain a mystery.

  My eyes are drawn again to the picture on the mantel, the one with Mrs. Reznik and Prince Albert, and I wonder once more about being in the presence of royalty. But then I turn back to see the current Mrs. Reznik, older and even more dignified, listening with an amused smile as Stella tells a funny story. She really is an impressive person—accomplished, kind, oddly charming, uncompromising in her views but generous with her time. In her giant winged chair, she even looks like she’s holding court.