Face the Music

by Brian Weisfeld

  “Sam, the drums are sounding great,” said Harriet with a smile.

  “Thanks, Harry,” said Sam. “What’d you make tonight?”

  “Please don’t say hamburger-a-bob,” pleaded Joe.

  “I like hamburger-a-bob,” protested Larry.

  “Yeah,” said Joe. “But you have no standards.”

  “I made mac ’n’ mystery cheese!” announced Harriet.

  There was collective whooping as the boys grabbed bowls of food. Joe and Sam nabbed seats and started shoveling big spoonfuls into their mouths. Larry, ever thoughtful, dragged over extra chairs for the guests.

  “You guys remember my business associates, right?” Harriet asked her brothers. She gestured to each girl as she named them. “Amelia, Didi, and Resa.”

  “Hey, we want to thank you ladies,” said Larry. “It’s really cool of you to help us.”

  “No problem,” said Resa. “After all, you guys helped us when we had our lemonade stand.”

  “Plus,” said Amelia, “it would be mind-blowing to personally know one of the acts on American Supahstars.” She took a small, careful bite of the macaroni, bracing herself for something truly revolting. Instead, she was surprised to find that while the pasta was a little dry and bland, it was pretty good. Definitely not terrible. Which was more than anyone could say about her own cooking.

  “Does it upset anyone else that they misspelled superstars?” Didi asked.

  “They do that on purpose,” said Resa.

  “Yeah, to trademark it,” Sam agreed. “Now they own that word.”

  “Really?” asked Didi, adding some Parmesan to her food. “You can own a word?”

  “Yeah, for sure,” said Sam. “That’s what it means when you see the little TM or R next to stuff. People can use the word superstars, but no one can use the word supahstars without paying them.”

  “Smart,” observed Amelia. “But shouldn’t it really be supahstahs?”

  “Ha!” said Harriet. “Yes!”

  “So,” said Joe, pushing his empty bowl away and leaning back in his chair, “what can we do to help sell the merch? What do you need from us?”

  “You just need to get the word out to your fans,” said Resa. “Like you did with the lemonade concert.”

  Joe and Sam pulled cell phones from their pockets and started tapping and swiping at super speed.

  “So,” started Resa, “if you could post something—”

  “Done,” said Sam, placing his phone on the table next to his bowl.

  “We’ve got”—Joe swiped at his phone—“thirteen … no, seventeen … hold on, twenty—who can keep up? We’ve got a lot of likes.”

  Sam’s phone was dinging continuously and vibrating so much it was about to fall off the table. He picked it up and read the alerts. “Skinks 4Eva is freaking out. They’re begging us for deets.” He scrolled down on his screen and smiled.

  Harriet sighed. It felt as if her brothers were glued to their phones most of the time—except Larry, who couldn’t keep a phone for longer than a week before he broke it or lost it. After the second replacement, their mom said he could get another phone just as soon as he could buy it himself.

  Harriet had been begging for a phone for what felt like forever, but her mom wouldn’t budge: Harriet would have to wait until she was in high school. Her mom said it costs too much and liked to throw around the term digital zombies, but Harriet suspected part of the reason was she wanted her baby to be a baby for as long as possible.

  “We have momentum,” observed Sam. “We should follow up right now with details.”

  “We don’t even have a logo yet,” protested Didi. “I mean, I’ve been working on one, but—”

  Joe waved his hand in the air. “We don’t need a logo to sell these shirts. Our fans will buy ’em sight unseen.”

  “We just have to tell them how much, and who to give the money to,” said Sam.

  “We were thinking,” said Amelia, “twenty-five dollars a shirt?”

  Sam and Joe tapped a few keys, and instantly their phones started dinging and buzzing again.

  Harriet was happy to see all her favorite people gathered around a table, working together. Didi, though, did not look happy. She was nibbling on her thumbnail, and she’d hardly touched her food.

  “What’s the matter, Di?” asked Harriet.

  “It’s just … that’s a lot of money,” Didi said. “What if people don’t like the design?”

  “Fear not!” Harriet said, putting an arm around Didi’s shoulders. “Everyone’s going to love it. You’re the next Vincent van Gogh! Just, you know, with both your ears.”

  Didi turned to the boys. “You guys should probably look at the logos I’m working—”

  Joe stood. “For sure,” he said. “But right now, we gotta practice.” His phone buzzed again, and he looked at it. “People wanna know who to give the money to.”

  “Me!” announced Harriet. “Tell them I’ll be in front of the high school every day this week at three fifteen. They know who I am.”

  “Everybody knows who Harry is,” Sam agreed, ruffling the top of her head like she was a Labrador retriever.

  “The hair!” Harriet protested, batting his hand away. She acted annoyed, but really nothing made her happier than when her brothers mussed her hair. The boys were always so busy with calculus and band practice and after-school jobs and the constant buzzing of their phones. She was thrilled to have their attention and their thanks.

  “Oh, we wouldn’t want to mess up your precious, precious hair,” teased Joe. He reached over suddenly and put her in a headlock.

  Didi, an only child, shot Harriet a concerned look. “Ummm—that looks … I mean … Hey, don’t hurt her…”

  But Harriet was laughing hard, belly laughs that made it tough for Joe to get a handle on her. “Don’t worry, Di, my dear,” she panted in between guffaws. “They don’t call me Harry Houdini for nothing.”

  And then, in one swift motion, Harriet slipped out of the headlock and kicked Joe’s leg out from underneath him. He went tumbling to the floor.

  “She schooled you!” Sam laughed.

  Joe stood with a proud smile. “She always does.”

  Larry grabbed a yellow apron from a hook on the wall and slipped it over his head. It was covered in small pink roses and had a heart-shaped pocket on the chest. “You girls relax,” he said as he walked to the sink. “I’ll get the dishes.”

  “We can work on the logo,” Didi suggested to the others.

  “We cooooooould,” Harriet said, glancing up at the clock. “But it’s almost eight, and you know what that means!”

  “Oooooh, American Supahstars,” said Resa. “Perfect. We can chill and do research at the same time. I love multitasking!”

  “Yeah, but…” Didi started as Harriet threw her arm around Didi’s shoulders.

  “You and I have been working over a hot stove all day,” she said.

  Didi shrugged. “It wasn’t really all—”

  “You know what they say,” Harriet said sternly, leading her down the hallway toward the television in the living room. “All work and no play—”

  “Makes Jerry a dull boy,” Larry called from the sink.

  “Jerry?” asked Didi. “Isn’t it Jack?”

  Harriet smiled. “Oh, that’s just Larry. A genius on the guitar but hopeless with names.”

  5

  The next morning, Harriet strutted through the door of homeroom in a purple pleather motorcycle jacket with lilac leggings. She spun around, unfolding her collar so that it stuck up.

  “My purple power suit,” she said to the other girls, raising one eyebrow. “I figured if we mean business, we should look like it. Today’s my first day of collecting money for preorders at the high school.”

  “Is that jacket from your cousin?” Amelia asked. “It has Cam-Thu written all over it.”

  “Yep,” said Harriet, doing a little spin in place.

  Resa was intently looking at Didi’s
sketchbook, which was splayed open on the table in front of her. She was frowning. Didi didn’t look too happy, either; she was nibbling on her thumbnail, looking like she was wound tighter than a jack-in-the-box.

  Harriet plopped into a chair next to Resa. “What’re we looking at?”

  “The logos I drew,” said Didi. “But nobody likes them.”

  “Come on, Didi.” Resa tipped her chin down and looked at her friend. “You know that’s not true.”

  Amelia jumped in. “Of course we like them. They just need some tweaks.”

  Harriet pulled the sketchbook toward her. It was open to a black-and-white pencil drawing of an animal that Harriet guessed was supposed to be a skink, even though it looked more like some kind of dinosaur. THE RADICAL SKINKS was written in block letters inside the animal’s body, but the letters were so small that it was nearly impossible to read.

  “I know, I know, the letters are too small,” said Didi, yanking down both sleeves so that they covered her hands. She was trying to stop biting her fingernails.

  “Yeah, sort of,” said Harriet. “And, uh, the skink…”

  “… looks like Godzilla,” Resa said.

  “Resa!” Amelia scolded. “A little tact!”

  “What?” Resa shot back. “It’s an amazing Godzilla! That’s what I’m saying.”

  Harriet flipped the page to a sheet marked Option 2, which featured a circle, inside of which THE RADICAL SKINKS was written in a flowery script.

  “I like that one,” said Amelia. “Simple. Classic.”

  Resa snorted. “It’s too cute. This is a rock band, not a preschool.”

  Harriet flipped to the next page, marked Option 3. This featured, simply, an enormous S, with the word RADICAL written around it in an arc.

  “See, this one I like!” Resa exclaimed. “It’s bold. Eye-catching!”

  “Ummm, it’s basically just the Superman logo,” Amelia pointed out. “With a random adjective on the top.”

  Didi shut the sketchbook in exasperation and put it in her backpack.

  Harriet could tell she was upset, even though she was trying to be a good sport. “Didi, they’re all great!” Harriet offered with a bright smile. “But do you think we could add some color?”

  Didi sighed. “Yeah, of course. I just didn’t get to that part yet. I’m not stupid.”

  All three girls, realizing they’d gone too far in their criticisms, talked at once, assuring Didi that no one thought she was stupid. Before she could reply, the bell rang.

  Usually Didi, whose next period was English in the room right next door, was one of the last to leave homeroom. Today, she was out the door like a bullet.

  Amelia looked at Harriet and Resa. “That did not go well,” she observed.

  “I’ll cheer her up at lunch! I brought cookies!” Harriet promised as she wove through the crowd to get to the door. Science waited for no one.

  But Didi didn’t come down to the cafeteria for lunch. Resa explained that Didi had gone to the art studio to help Mr. Ewoja sharpen the colored pencils. It settled her nerves.

  The next morning, Didi came to school late, at the very end of homeroom, and spent lunch cleaning paintbrushes for Mr. Ewoja.

  “Doggonit,” said Harriet, shaking salt onto her hot lunch: pasta with vegetables. “I brought her marshmallows today. No one can be sad when they’re doing the chipmunk challenge.”

  Amelia was mixing a carton of Greek yogurt into a Tupperware full of fruit. “Maybe we should go find her in the art studio,” she suggested.

  Resa looked at Amelia for a second, waiting for her to catch her mistake.

  “Harriet can’t go to the art studio,” said Resa. “She’s been banned.”

  “Banned? Are you kidding?” asked Amelia.

  “I keep forgetting you got here only a few months ago,” said Resa, taking a bite of her hummus-and-shaved-carrots sandwich, one of her mom’s creations. “You weren’t here for Glittergate.”

  “That sounds like something not to be missed,” said Amelia.

  “It wasn’t that big of a deal,” Harriet said. Glittergate was one of those stories that refused to go away, and though it wasn’t the most embarrassing thing she’d ever done—in fact, it didn’t even rank in the top five—she was still hoping it would eventually disappear from everyone’s memory.

  “So we were in fourth grade, making these Day of the Dead masks in art,” said Resa, ignoring Harriet’s expression. “Mr. Ewoja had the glitter out for us to use—”

  “Who doesn’t love glitter?” Amelia asked, smiling.

  “Yes! Exactly! Everyone loves glitter!” agreed Harriet. “Could’ve happened to anyone!”

  “Clyde McGovern was using the red glitter for his mask, and you know him—he’ll do anything for a laugh,” Resa said, pausing to take a sip of milk. “So he shook the bottle of glitter and sprinkled a little over his head.”

  “So I did, too, and that’s the whole story,” Harriet broke in.

  “Right—except Harriet’s bottle wasn’t opened to the sprinkle setting; it was just completely open—wiiiiiide open…” Resa started chuckling.

  “Oh no,” said Amelia, eyes wide with delighted horror.

  “And the whole bottle of glitter dumped out onto her head!” Resa finished.

  “The thing about glitter,” said Harriet reflectively, “is that it can really travel.”

  “It went everywhere,” said Resa, laughing. “The more she tried to get it out of her hair, the more it flew everywhere. It was like being inside a snow globe.”

  “Awww, that sounds kind of nice, actually,” said Amelia. She scooped up a large piece of cantaloupe with yogurt.

  Harriet’s face brightened. “I thought so, too! Mr. Ewoja, not so much.”

  “He banned her from the art studio,” Resa said. She took a bite of her sandwich, having concluded her story.

  “It’s a bummer. I’m dying to tell Didi how many preorders we got yesterday,” said Harriet. “I knew there’d be a lot, but sixteen? Already?”

  “I can hear those guitar chords!” said Resa.

  “The hardest part was getting the first few people to buy,” said Harriet, shaking a carrot off her fork so that it held only pasta. “Once there was a little crowd around me, people walking by came over to see what was going on. FOMO comes in handy sometimes.”

  “You’re a master salesperson,” said Amelia with admiration. “You’ve got serious skills.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” Beaming, Harriet pushed peas, broccoli, and carrots around on her plate, searching for any pasta she might have missed. When she’d asked Joan, the woman who served food in the cafeteria, for lunch, she’d said, “Pasta with veggies and hold the veggies.” For some reason, Joan had not obliged.

  “Can you believe that some people are buying more than one shirt?” Harriet asked. “Reginald Hargrove bought eight! And a bunch of people said they didn’t have money but would bring it today, so when I go back to the high school, I’ll probably get tons of more orders.”

  “Didi will be psyched,” agreed Resa.

  “Maybe I’ll check on her tonight, after tennis,” said Amelia, snapping the lid on the now-empty Tupperware. “She lives right around the corner from me. I can tell her the good news.”

  “Good idea,” agreed Resa. “After I beat you in tennis, I’ll go with you.”

  “You know what they say about counting your chickens before they hatch,” replied Amelia with eyebrows raised.

  “Sure,” replied Resa, “but chickens are famously unreliable. And my backhand is anything but. My backhand is foolproof.” She crumpled her aluminum foil into a tight ball, then pitched it toward the oversize garbage can a few feet away. It sailed directly in. She turned to Amelia. “I rest my case.”

  “I’ll come to Didi’s, too!” said Harriet. “Cam-Thu gave me this adorable dress I want to give her. It has tiny blue tulips all over it.”

  “That’ll put a smile on her face,” said Resa. “Didi’s never met a f
loral pattern she doesn’t like.”

  “Meet us at five thirty at Didi’s house?” asked Amelia.

  “With bells on,” said Harriet.

  “Bells are fine,” said Resa with a wry smile. “Just no glitter.”

  6

  Harriet was running late, as usual. It didn’t help that she couldn’t remember Didi’s exact address. She’d never been to Didi’s house before, and even though she’d made sure to ask Resa for the address, and to write it down on a scrap of paper, she’d left the paper at school.

  The address was definitely on Chestnut Street, and it definitely had a four and a seven in it. She just couldn’t remember which combination of fours and sevens it was. She tried 447 Chestnut, but no one was home. Then she tried 477 Chestnut, but an old man answered the door and had never heard of Didi. Now she was headed to 474 and really hoped this was it.

  She made a mental note to tell her mother this story as proof that she desperately, urgently, immediately needed a cell phone. “For safety,” she’d say. Or maybe, even better, “It’s a matter of public safety.” That sounded convincing.

  Her mother would almost definitely tell her she should have just remembered to take the paper with the address, silly girl. It was a long shot, but that did not dissuade Harriet. Harriet was a firm believer in the long shot.

  She passed 470 Chestnut, then 472. She quickened her step as she approached 474. The lights were on in the front windows—that was a good sign. She walked up the wide steps leading to the dark wooden door. She rang the doorbell.

  There was laughter, then footsteps, and then, in the front window, the curtains were pushed back and Didi’s face appeared.