Lemonade Mouth Read online

  I pretended to examine the top of my desk. The whole idea of playing at the talent show with these guys was ridiculous. Mrs. Reznik’s wig was obviously on too tight. Did she honestly expect us to get up in front of the whole school and play kazoos and rubber bands? We’d get laughed off the stage. OK sure I often daydreamed about playing dance music, maybe bringing out the timbales like Tito. But this would never be the polished salsa combo I pictured. Even if we didn’t end up making ourselves look like complete morons, I was sure I’d somehow embarrass myself in front of Mo.

  There was no way I wanted any part of this stupid idea.

  But I kept my mouth shut. Why should I be the 1st to tell the old lady she was a total moonbat?

  It was Stella who finally broke the silence. She wasn’t even looking at Mrs. Reznik. She stared at her knuckles like she was studying them. “I . . . uh . . . I don’t think so. I’m not much of a joiner.”

  Mrs. Reznik frowned.

  Mo was next. “I’m sorry too I think it’s a really, uh, interesting idea and everything but I can’t. I have a crazy schedule right now Mrs. Reznik I’m taking two extra courses and volunteering at the clinic. Not to mention working at my family’s store. So I honestly don’t have the time to squeeze in a single extra thing.”

  Not too busy for Scott though Aaron taunted silently.

  A moment later I felt the old lady’s intense eyes on me again. What was I supposed to say? In the end all I came up with was “Yeah I’m really busy too” but even as I said it I realized how pathetic I sounded. I could of kicked myself. Why didn’t I dream up something better? Mo looked at me like I was an idiot.

  “And Olivia?”

  Olivia’s face went pink. She seemed like a strange girl. I’d seen her walking alone in the hallways, her hands gripping the strap of her backpack as she crept around like some frightened ghost past rows and rows of lockers. She kept to herself and never seemed to say a word. It occurred to me that as low as I was on the social totem pole she was even lower.

  It was a long time before she finally answered. But when she did her voice was deep and gravelly and so quiet I almost had to strain to hear her. “The problem is I’m not a real singer. And I’m not comfortable onstage. The biggest audience I’ve ever performed for was at home.” She seemed to have more to say but she looked too anxious to go on. Her face got so red that I wondered if she was going to burst it was almost painful to watch. Finally she said “But singing to thirteen cats isn’t the same as singing to a gymnasium full of people. I can’t do that I get nervous.”

  Wen and I looked at each other. Thirteen cats? She sings to them?

  “Oh but Olivia” Mrs. Reznik said in a gentle voice “everybody gets nervous onstage. You’ll get over it.”

  “No you don’t understand. Once when I was in the 4th grade musical I threw up all over the other kids. I was only in the chorus.”

  I tried to picture the 5 of us onstage, Scooby-Doo Girl vomiting all over Stella’s ukulele.

  Mrs. Reznik frowned again. “What about when you sang in detention?”

  Olivia took so long to respond that I wasn’t sure she’d even heard the question. Eventually she looked up from the frayed edges of her bag. “That was . . . different. I can’t sing in a band.”

  After that everyone went quiet.

  Until Wen said “Well I guess that counts me out too after all we can’t exactly bloom if it’s only me.” I think he meant that to be funny but Mrs. Reznik gave him a withering glance and he looked down.

  Mrs. Reznik didn’t say anything right away. While everybody sat in yet another awkward silence she took a long thoughtful sip of her lemonade slush. To tell the truth I couldn’t wait for the bell to ring so I could get the hell out of there.

  “Reaching for greatness is never easy” she said finally. “And I understand that we all have our own obstacles to overcome. Still I can’t help thinking that you’re missing the point. This is a challenge worth taking. Something happened yesterday, something special. Call it luck call it celestial alignment, whatever you wish. Whatever it was, who knows when or if it’ll happen to any of you ever again. And I’m sure each of you knows what I’m talking about. You heard yourselves.”

  My foot tapped nervously. I wouldn’t of admitted it to anyone but part of me felt like maybe there was something to what she was saying. Glancing around the room though I wasn’t so sure. Did I really want to associate myself with Olivia Whitehead the silent nutjob? Or Wendel Gifford who’d publicly shamed himself into social exile? Or Stella Penn the she-warrior with a fondness for starting riots in school assemblies? Not that I was exactly Mr. Popularity or anything, but that only made the problem worse. Except for Mo, we had to be the most hopeless bunch of high school rejects ever.

  Sure, I always wanted to be in a band. But not this one.

  “Wait a minute Mrs. Reznik” Wen said out of the blue. “Didn’t Mudslide Crush win the talent show last year? Don’t you think they’ll enter it again this time?”

  “I know they’re going to” Mo said. “Scott told me.”

  And there it was. Scott told Mo stuff. This didn’t exactly prove what Lyle said about them but it was pretty good evidence.

  “So we can’t win” said Wen. “Mudslide Crush is really REALLY good. They have a huge following. Even if we did pull something together and competed, we wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance.”

  Mrs. Reznik waved her hand like she didn’t buy a word of it. “Nonsense. Look, I’ve been surrounded with music and musicians my entire life and believe me I can tell an ensemble onto something revolutionary from one that’s merely competent.”

  I couldn’t believe she said that. Merely competent? Mudslide Crush? She was talking about a band that everybody practically bowed down to. They had a huge following.

  Mrs. Reznik set down her empty cup. “Consider this. Music is a manifestation of ourselves. Of our unique voices, whether as individuals or groups. Think about that. Your collective voice is 1-of-a-kind. It’s so strong, so extraordinarily honest. How can you stifle it? Don’t you want to stand up and show everybody who you are?” She leaned forward. “Aren’t you tired of letting others carry the day? Aren’t you ready to be heard?”

  I couldn’t figure this lady out.

  “Think about it” she said. And then in a voice that sounded like she was trying to be diplomatic she added “Mudslide Crush is fine. You 5, on the other hand, should aim higher. You could be”—she squinted her eyes like she was searching for the word—“stupendous. You’re going to shake things up around here. I have a feeling about this.”

  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 ret
urned 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.

  “Pull those out, Andrew!” my mother eventually snapped, practically leaping over her plate of half-devoured roasted duck to pull a plastic tube from the boy’s nostril. “Tim, sit quietly in your chair! All right, tell me again Clea—what did your professor say about th
e destination-enhanced consolidation?”

  Leonard wasn’t talking much, typical for him. But he took this break in the story to cram a hunk of braised tuna into his mouth.

  “Yuck,” I said. “How can you eat that?”

  Either he didn’t hear or he was ignoring me. Still, I couldn’t help picturing the poor fish with a hook in its mouth. Some people argue that fishes can’t feel pain, but of course they can. Studies have proven it. Just because you can’t see the agony doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

  I picked at my dinner—asparagus with grilled goat cheese. Back when I first went veggie, my mother worried it would backfire, as if her foolish daughter was certain to give herself some nutritional deficiency or something. “She’s always getting these ideas that don’t work out,” I overheard her saying to Leonard at the time. “Like when she was four and decided to put her hand on the hot stove to see what it would feel like. Or the time when she was ten and she got it into her head to stand up on her bicycle seat and ride downhill. She broke her arm in two places! Did you know that she once stuck a fork into an electric socket just to see if her hair would stand on end? Sometimes I don’t know what to do with the girl. She can be so stubborn. She gets these crazy notions and doesn’t think them through.”

  Wrong, mother dear. More than four months of no meat and so far I still had all my teeth.

  I was surprised out of my reverie by a cold feeling on my arm. I looked down and realized that one of Tim’s spastic moves had knocked over his water, which now was soaking into my sleeve. I jumped back from the table.

  “Pissant! Look what you did!”

  “Don’t make a scene, Stella!” my mother hissed. She dove across the table, righted the cup, and hurled a linen napkin on the dark stripe that was expanding on the tablecloth. “It’s not the end of the world. Just wipe yourself off!”

  I clamped my mouth shut. Formerly easygoing, my maternal forebear had lately become the Queen of Stress.

  Before long the step-monkeys were fooling around again and Clea’s narrative had picked up right where it had left off. I once again found myself on my own, with the choice of watching the step-monkeys try to knock each other off their seats, listening to a seemingly endless story I couldn’t follow or watching my mom and Leonard devour their cuisine of cruelty.