Face the Music

by Brian Weisfeld

  “Step right up! Step right up!” she went on. “Get your super-stylish Radical Skinks stuff!”

  Amelia stood next to Harriet, folding T-shirts into piles. She winced. “Harriet, can you maybe lower the volume? Just a bit?”

  Harriet looked at her with a bright smile. “That would defeat the whole purpose, silly! Gotta be heard, right?” She turned to face the group just entering the park. “Teeeeeeee-shirts!” she bellowed. “While supplies last!”

  Harriet gestured with a flourish at the T-shirt she was sporting, a bona fide Skinks tee. No one would ever have guessed from her 100-watt smile and chirpy voice that she thought the shirt was absolutely hideous.

  Okay, hideous was the wrong word. The T-shirt was too boring to even be hideous.

  Drab. That’s what it was. Dreary. Bleeeeeeeegh.

  If someone had tried to give her one of these T-shirts for free, she’d say, “Thanks, but no thanks.” No way would she ever be caught wearing the epic fashion fail that was this T-shirt. And yet, here she was, not only asking people to wear the T-shirts, but asking them to pay twenty-five dollars for the privilege. Thank merciful heavens she was a great actress.

  After some more shouting, Harriet put the megaphone down on the merch table and turned to Amelia. “We should’ve gone with the cherry-red shirt. Or lime green! Or yellow! Something eye-catching. Anything but…” She made a disgusted face. “White.”

  “White is the perfect color for a T-shirt!” Amelia replied. In fact, basic colors—white, black, and especially gray—were her favorites. Her closet was dominated by shades of gray—from slate to platinum to moon glow. “You can’t go wrong with a basic color. It matches with everything!”

  “Yeah, it matches really well with this ink,” Resa chimed in. “So well I can’t even see the writing.” Resa looked down disdainfully at her own T-shirt, the same bona fide Radical Skinks tee. “Why’d you go with light gray ink, Harriet? Were they out of invisible ink?”

  “Ha. Ha. Ha,” Harriet grumbled gloomily. “Very funny. I was going for a minimalist look! It’s very in right now! And I was in a rush to place the order, if you’ll recall! We didn’t have time for a sample!”

  “Well, it’s too late now,” Didi broke in sensibly. “We have to act like these T-shirts are high fashion.”

  Harriet lifted the megaphone to her mouth. “Ooooooh-ooh! Style and comfort? These shirts have it alllllll!”

  “Just like that!” said Didi. “You deserve an Oscar.”

  “Thanks,” said Harriet, but without her usual pep.

  At least the weather was good, Harriet reasoned. She’d been worried about rain all week, but the afternoon had turned out to be gorgeous—not a cloud in the sky. Not too hot and not too cold; perfect T-shirt weather. If only the T-shirts were not so grim and bleak.

  Didi elbowed Harriet to rouse her from her daydream. “We’ve got a customer!”

  “Hell-o!” Harriet sang, beaming at the small, dark-haired girl in front of her. She had three piercings in her left earlobe and a hoop in her lip. Harriet wanted to ask if they hurt but thought better of it.

  “I ordered a T-shirt,” the girl said. “Dondelstein.”

  Harriet scanned the order sheet, which Amelia had typed up, printed, and attached to a clipboard. She couldn’t find the name. “Uhh, okay … Is Dondelstein your first or last name?” she asked.

  The girl fixed her with a withering stare for a long moment. Finally, she said through gritted teeth, “Last.”

  “Hello!” sang Didi with high-octane enthusiasm, taking the clipboard from Harriet’s hands. “Let’s just take a quick little look here.” She scanned the list, once, then twice. “Uh-huh … hmmm … one moment, please!”

  She turned her back on the customer and beckoned the other girls over.

  “Her name’s not on here,” whispered Didi.

  “I know,” Harriet whispered back.

  “Do you recognize her from when you collected money at the high school?” Resa whispered.

  Harriet shook her head. “And I’m sure I didn’t sell to her. I never forget a face.”

  Resa spun around toward the girl.

  “Are you sure you preordered?” she asked.

  “Uhhhh, yeah,” the girl replied. “Because I’m not an idiot.”

  Resa’s eyes narrowed in anger. “Well, your name’s not on here. So I don’t know what to tell you.”

  Amelia stepped in. “Do you remember what day you met Harriet after school?”

  “I didn’t meet her,” the girl said with a scowl. “I don’t know who this girl is.”

  “Then who’d you give your money to?” asked Resa impatiently.

  The girl rolled her eyes dramatically. “Joe,” she said. “In Spanish class.”

  “Joe took your money? Perfect! As if this mess isn’t complicated enough—” Resa started in what was obviously going to be a rant. Didi, sensing this, yanked on her elbow and pulled her away.

  “Just one more little moment, ma’am,” Didi said.

  “Ma’am?” the girl scoffed. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  Didi joined the huddle that Resa, Harriet, and Amelia had formed behind the table.

  “Did you know Joe was collecting money?” Resa asked Harriet. “That makes everything way more complicated! Did he write his orders down? Where’s the money for his orders?”

  Harriet shrugged, panic in her eyes.

  “Let’s go ask him,” suggested Amelia.

  “Oh, no no no!” Harriet’s eyebrows wrinkled up. “Joe doesn’t like to be disturbed before a show. He’s in the zone, and he has to be left alone. Otherwise, the show’ll be ruined. It jinxes him!”

  Amelia smirked. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “No, it’s true!” Harriet insisted. “Every time I’ve bothered him when he was in the zone, the show was a mess!”

  “Uhh, sorry to interrupt your little meeting or whatever, but any chance you could give me the T-shirt I paid for?” the Dondelstein girl asked.

  “What do we do about Snarky Snarkerson over here?” asked Amelia.

  “We should give her a T-shirt,” said Didi with assurance.

  “Are we operating on the honor system now?” asked Resa.

  “Annnnny day now would be fine,” said the girl.

  Resa spun around, grabbed the first T-shirt her hand clutched, and tossed it at the girl. “Here. Next!”

  “That’s not even my size—”

  “Take it up with customer service!” snapped Resa.

  The Dondelstein girl shook her head. “You people are the worst,” she muttered as she walked away.

  “Us?” Resa sputtered, flabbergasted. “We’re the worst?!”

  Didi laid a hand on Resa’s arm, ready to offer some reassurance, but her words were drowned out by the high-pitched squeals emanating from Harriet’s mouth. Equally high-pitched squeals were coming from Cam-Thu, who stood on the other side of the merch table. The cousins hugged awkwardly over the table, still squealing.

  “Sooooooo,” said Cam-Thu when she let go of Harriet, “where are these T-shirts I’ve been hearing so much about? I must see them!”

  Harriet flung her arms to the side and spun around. “Ta-da!”

  Cam-Thu wrinkled the top of her nose like she’d smelled something rancid. “Nooooooo,” she said, waving her hand as if to shoo away the offensive odor. “No no no no no.”

  “It’s understated,” Harriet said.

  “Harry,” said Cam-Thu, tilting her head to the side and narrowing her eyes, “you know I don’t do white. Or crewneck tees. Where are the V-necks? And tanks? Where are the colors?”

  “White is a color,” Amelia argued. She knew it was nothing personal, but she felt defensive.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Cam-Thu decisively. “I’ll just take my money back.”

  “Umm, okay.” Harriet looked stressed. “Just hold on—”

  “We can’t,” Amelia jumped in. “We used the money to pay for the T-shirts. They’re
nonrefundable.”

  “I’m not wearing that T-shirt,” exclaimed Cam-Thu. “It’s worse than those weird gowns they give you in the hospital!”

  “Lemme talk to my associates, Cam Cam,” Harriet said with a smile. “Come back after the show.”

  “Fine,” said Cam-Thu. She leaned over to Harriet and whispered, “They can’t force you to wear that, you know. It’s a free country.”

  Amelia’d had about enough of Cam-Thu and her fashion advice. She waved over the next person in line. “Next!”

  12

  The next half hour whizzed by as the girls tried to distribute preordered T-shirts. The hardest part was getting people to accept the shirts once they saw them. Lots of people asked for a refund.

  “Who are the Radical Skunks?” asked one teenager with red curly hair.

  “It’s not ‘skunks’!” Harriet protested. “It’s ‘skinks.’”

  “Yeah, of course it is” said the redhead. “So why do your T-shirts say ‘The Radical Skunks’?”

  Harriet scrutinized a shirt, bringing it close to her face and then pulling it away for a better look. The logo had been perfectly readable when she gave it to Lucy, but it had printed out way smaller than she’d expected—and now the word skinks was sort of squashed. The boy was right—the i did look a little like a u.

  “’Cause the thing is, I hate skunks,” the redhead reflected. “I was at sleepaway camp this one time, and we were on a hike, and I went out in the woods to use the bathroom, you know? So I ran into this skunk. And I musta scared him, because he let loose on me, right? And ever since then, everyone at camp called me Skunky. That was five years ago.” He shook his head decisively. “I cannot wear this T-shirt. I need a refund.”

  Harriet knew Amelia didn’t want to issue refunds, but she couldn’t help but feel sorry for this guy. I mean, did she want to be responsible for kids calling him Skunky even just one more time? She pulled a crumpled twenty and five singles out of her wallet—her saved-up allowance money. She glanced to her left, then her right, to make sure no one was looking. “Here,” said Harriet, handing him the cash quickly. “Just keep it hush-hush. We don’t want word getting out that we’re doing refunds.”

  “Hush money,” said the redhead, nodding. “Got it.”

  But a few minutes later, a cluster of three girls walked up to the table demanding a refund from Amelia and Didi.

  “Sorry,” said Amelia, shrugging. “The shirts are nonrefundable.”

  The tallest one, with hair pulled back into two tight braids, pursed her lips. “Then why’d you give a refund to Jeremiah?”

  “Who is Jeremiah?” asked Didi.

  “Oh,” said the shortest friend, who wore blue lipstick and blue nail polish. “You probably know him as Skunky.”

  Harriet overheard the exchange from where she was crouching a few feet away, drawing chalk arrows on the sidewalk by the park entrance to direct people to the concert. She felt the need to intervene and rushed over, chalky-fingered. “See, that was a one-time thing,” she explained. “Because of his emotional pain and suffering.”

  “Harriet!” Amelia scolded her.

  The third girl in the cluster, whose eyebrows had been plucked into a thin, high arch, blinked one time slowly. It was a “Listen up, ’cause I won’t say this twice” sort of blink. “I don’t fry jalapeño poppers all weekend at the Burger Barn so I can throw my money away on lousy T-shirts with typos on them.”

  “It says ‘skinks’!” Didi protested. “The i just printed out kind of squashed.”

  The girl with the arched eyebrows blinked again slowly.

  So Amelia, Resa, and Didi pooled the money they’d brought from home to go out for a celebratory dinner and gave all three girls refunds.

  “We are hemorrhaging money,” Amelia moaned to Harriet and Resa as Didi helped the next customer. “We haven’t sold even one extra shirt tonight, and we’ve had to give refunds on four.”

  “Hey,” Didi interrupted, “where’s the rest of the large shirts? I can’t find them.”

  “We’re out,” Resa said. “I just handed off the last one.”

  Didi scanned the order sheet, making marks next to several names with her pencil. “But we have four more larges on this list who still haven’t picked up their order. I don’t understand. Most of these crossed-out orders are for smalls and mediums. What happened to all the large shirts?”

  Harriet peered over Didi’s shoulder at the order sheet. “Oh, I had to give some of those people large shirts instead of mediums. These shirts run really small!”

  Didi pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “But what are we going to give to this guy? He paid for a large, and that’s what he wants.” She nodded at the customer waiting at the table. The right side of his face was painted blue, and he had a streak of blue running through the middle of his brown Mohawk.

  “It’s Reginald!” exclaimed Harriet. “He’s the one who originally bought eight shirts when he thought they were half price. He needs a large T-shirt!”

  “Yes, okay, we agree,” said Resa. “But where do we get it from?”

  Harriet squeezed her eyes shut and hummed.

  “What’s she doing?” whispered Didi.

  “I think she’s thinking,” said Amelia.

  Harriet’s eyes flew open, and she spun to face Amelia. She grabbed the large Radical Skinks tee Amelia wore, which she’d tied at the waist.

  “Gimme!” Harriet cried.

  “Ah!” screeched Amelia. “I’m under attack!”

  “Your shirt!” Harriet cried. “It’s a large! Hand it over!”

  “Ew! No!” protested Amelia, squirming away from her.

  “Wait, she’s right,” said Resa. “You’re wearing a tank top underneath, right?”

  “Yeah, sure, but…” Amelia started. “I’m wearing this! You’re literally asking me for the shirt off my back.”

  “Yep,” said Resa.

  “Hand it over,” said Harriet.

  “Excuse me?” called Reginald. “Did you find my shirt? The show’s gonna start any minute.”

  Harriet rushed out from behind the table and positioned herself slightly behind Reginald so that he’d have to turn his back on the merch table to talk to her. “Reggie!” she said. “You made it!”

  “Uh, it’s Reginald,” he said. “So what’s the deal with my shirt?”

  While Harriet distracted Reginald, Amelia untied the knot in her T-shirt, slipped it off, and handed it to Resa, who shook it out furiously, trying to smooth the wrinkles.

  Didi grabbed the green apple body mist she always kept in her backpack and spritzed it a few times on the T-shirt, hoping it would make it seem fresh and new. The smell was so strong that Resa and Didi instantly started coughing and gagging.

  “Ugh! It smells like we dunked it in a bucket of apple juice,” lamented Resa.

  “Seriously, I want my shirt,” Reginald was saying. He was visibly annoyed, losing patience.

  “Your shirt is coming right up!” shouted Harriet to Reginald in an attempt to hurry things along.

  “Just hold your horses, would you?” snapped Amelia, smoothing down her dark gray tank top.

  “Yeah, we’ve got your shirt right here,” Resa said, tossing it at him.

  Reginald caught the shirt and grimaced.

  “Why does it smell like this?” he said, pinching his nose with his free hand.

  “It’s apples!” barked Resa. “Who doesn’t like apples?”

  “I want another one,” Reginald insisted. “One that smells normal. And isn’t all wrinkly.”

  “Listen, guy,” said Resa, who had depleted all her stores of patience and flexibility, “this is all we’ve got. Take it or leave it.”

  “It’s like they say in kindergarten,” added Didi. “You get what you get, and you don’t get upset.”

  Reginald said nothing for a moment, then he raised his eyebrows and shook his head slowly. “The Radical Skinks deserve better than you all,” he said as he turned
to walk away.

  Harriet flushed with anger. How dare he?

  “You’ve got it all wrong!” she found herself shouting at top volume. “The Radical Skinks deserve better than you!”

  As the girls watched Reginald recede, a silence fell over the group.

  “So, that was bad,” observed Resa.

  “That’s putting it mildly,” said Amelia.

  “When is this show going to start anyway?” asked Didi, near tears. “I just want this to be over already.”

  “Harriet, can you please go check on your brothers?” asked Resa. “They’re fifteen minutes late, and they’ve got to start before anyone else asks for more refunds.”

  “All right,” said Harriet begrudgingly. “But if I jinx them, it’s on you.”

  “We’ll take that risk,” said Amelia as she donned a too-tight size small Radical Skinks tee. “Go, go, go!”

  Harriet slipped out from behind the merch table and raced toward the backstage area, which was really just a bench between two oak trees. Halfway there, she collided with an obstacle. A very sparkly obstacle.

  “Sorry, Val!” Harriet exclaimed, scrambling to her feet. “I gotta run—”

  “Wait!” Val grabbed her arm. “Are you going to see the band?”

  “Uh, yeah, actually—”

  “Perfect!” Val pressed a Radical Skinks T-shirt into Harriet’s hands. “Don’t forget to make them sign this! Make sure you get all three signatures. And be sure to use this gold marker.” She handed a metallic Sharpie to Harriet. “It’ll look best on the white shirt.”

  “You brought your own gold marker?” asked Harriet, her voice a mix of disbelief and admiration. “How’d you know what color the shirt would be?”

  “I didn’t,” said Val with a shrug. “I brought an entire Sharpie collection.” She patted her backpack. “You can never be too prepared.”

  Unless you’re the Startup Squad, thought Harriet.

  13

  Harriet found her brothers collected around the park bench and decked out in concert garb, which consisted of denim for Larry, fake leather for Joe, and huge amounts of hair gel for Sam.

  Joe sat cross-legged on one end of the bench, his eyes closed and his hands palms up in a meditative pose. Sam sat next to him, swiping at his phone. Larry knelt on the ground, frowning and fiddling with an amp.