I couldn’t ask my friends to fight a battle we couldn’t win.
I gazed again at my altered face. My alien lips. My perfect, sculpted eyebrows. A distorted version of my own eyes stared back at me, taunting me. I was furious, but I also knew that if nobody else felt this way, then it didn’t matter. From everyone’s silence, I suspected I was alone.
But I was wrong.
For the record, it wasn’t me who spoke up next, stirring up our collective emotions and setting off the hurricane of events that followed. It was Charlie.
“You know what?” he said. “I hate to admit it, but Stella’s right. I didn’t even notice it at first, but now that I do, I think it’s totally uncool that they changed us.” He gestured toward the billboard. “Sure, we agreed to let them do an ad—but we didn’t say they could do that.”
Everybody stared at the image again. Olivia took a step back. She studied it. After a moment she said, “I agree. What’s up there is wrong. It’s a lie.”
Mo nodded too.
“Okay,” Wen said. “But … um … what are we supposed to do about it?”
The wind picked up, a warm gust like the start of a summer storm. Everybody looked at me.
Devoted followers, I confess that I, your own normally outspoken Sista Stella, had no answer to give. What’s more, I was too overwhelmed even to talk. I could hardly believe what I was hearing, the direction everybody seemed to be going in, even without me urging them on. Waves of emotion were welling up inside me. My band mates, my friends—they got it.
How could I ever have doubted them?
“All right, so we don’t know what we can do about this yet,” Charlie said, “but we’ll think of something, right? The point is, they say they want a revolution, so let’s bring it to them. Are we all in?”
Rajeev took my hand and squeezed it as, one by one, everybody raised their Mel’s cups into the air. Not only was I still unable to speak, but by then I was too choked up to even make a sound.
MOHINI
A Short Conversation Across Four Thousand Miles
This is big. My house is closest, so we all head there to think things through. Maa and Baba have already gone to the store and Madhu’s at an overnight with a friend, so the house is empty. As soon as we step through the front door, Rajeev announces he’s got letters to write. It’s obvious he’s just making an excuse to give us space, and that’s nice of him but not necessary. Everyone tells him he’s welcome to join us, but he disappears anyway. The rest of us sit around the picnic table in the backyard, where I set out cheese sandwiches, little bowls of rice and reheated rogan josh left over from last night’s dinner. The aroma of spice fills the air, even outside.
Our first idea is simple: we talk to Mr. Decker, tell him we don’t want to be a part of this sponsorship deal anymore and ask him to help us figure out how to get out of it. It won’t be an easy conversation, of course, but there’s no other choice. We don’t have a Plan B.
As it happens, Mr. Decker is in Germany with Tommy Bellclanger and the Ringtones—one of Decker and Smythe’s biggest clients—for the kickoff of their giant new European tour. It takes a few calls to his office and some waiting around, but at last we manage a video link to his laptop in the lobby of his hotel.
Mr. Decker is not sympathetic.
“Guys, calm down,” he says, frowning into the screen as we all stand around the computer on Maa’s cramped little desk. “There’s no backing out of this. Zephyr Stick is putting up big money for you. They’re gonna front a lot of the cost for the August tour, where, need I remind you, Lemonade Mouth is scheduled to do ten already-sold-out shows opening for Too Shy to Cry. We don’t want to rock this boat. Your debut album is coming out, and that ad goes a long way toward building your presence. It’s a gift straight from promotions heaven.”
“Yes, Mr. Decker,” Stella says, obviously trying her best to stay composed and tactful despite herself, “but it also sends out a bogus subliminal message that exploits kids and ignores the fact that there are lots of different ways to be beautiful. We never agreed to be part of that. It’s a sham.”
Mr. Decker strokes his scruffy beard. He checks his watch. “Look, you know I admire your spirit, guys. It’s part of what makes your band what it is. But that doesn’t mean any of us can change the way things work. The world spins the way it spins, and you should consider yourselves lucky to be on the side of the people who happen to have their hands on the wheel.”
Over his shoulder we can see a youngish, slick-haired man in an expensive-looking suit. He’s been talking on a cell phone, but now he steps closer and whispers into Mr. Decker’s ear.
“One second,” Mr. Decker says to him in a low voice, and then to us he says, “Listen, I gotta end this. The Lord Mayor of Heidelberg is throwing a meet-and-greet with Tommy and the boys. I’m already late for—”
“But the ad—” I start to interrupt. I can’t believe he’s about to cut us off. There’s so much more we still want to say! Mr. Decker holds up his hand, though, and for an instant I’m almost sure I see irritation flash in his eyes.
“Sorry, out of time, kids,” he says. “Just remember this: there are zillions of unknown bands out there, and out of all of them, yours is getting a measure of recognition across the country. With my help, Lemonade Mouth is about to take the world by storm. Believe me, it’s gonna happen—I have it all planned out. I’ll be back in the office in a couple days and then I’ll fill you in.” He’s reaching toward the keyboard now.
“Mr. Decker, this is important. Wait!”
“Good luck with Chet Anders tomorrow night,” he says as if he doesn’t hear us. “Tell him I said hello.”
And then he’s gone.
The five of us are left gaping at the screen. My neck muscles are tense, and Olivia’s face is turning the color of overboiled beets. Lemonade Mouth has been changed into something we never wanted to be, and it’s clear we can’t rely on Mr. Decker to help us set things right again.
WEN
Plan B—The War Room
One of the things about Lemonade Mouth that people don’t always seem to realize is that if it hadn’t been for the support of the people around us, our families and friends, the things that happened could never have played out the way they did. For example, we couldn’t have signed with Decker and Smythe in the first place if our parents hadn’t let us. It couldn’t have been an easy decision for them, but in the end every single parent gave us the freedom to see how far this band thing could go, at least for the time being. And we all appreciated that.
But their help didn’t end there.
Some people might be surprised to learn that after that Zephyr Stick ad came out, when we told our families about our feelings and explained our reasons, they took us seriously right away. In fact, they all agreed to meet that same evening for a big gathering in Stella’s living room. All our families were there, plus Lyle, Naomi, Rajeev and Mrs. Reznik. The battle lines had been drawn, it seemed; it was time to gather our allies and plan a strategy.
The thing was, Mo, Charlie, Olivia, Stella and I had come up with a new idea. It was kind of a risky idea, though, and maybe even a little crazy, and it made each of us nervous just to think about it. Which was why we wanted to go over it with everyone. Before we ended up making a huge, stupid mistake, we wanted to know what our friends and families thought.
Everybody listened as we walked them through what had happened with the ad and our conversation with Mr. Decker. We told them the new idea and asked for their opinions.
It would be a lie to say that there weren’t mixed feelings.
“This is serious stuff. You do realize that, don’t you?” Stella’s mother glanced meaningfully toward Charlie, as if she thought he’d be the most likely of us to see reason. I guess it made sense. Out of the five of us he generally was the calmest and tended to keep his head during tense moments. But right then he looked as unsure as the rest of us. “Even if you kids can pull this off,” she continued, “you n
eed to realize that there’ll probably be repercussions.”
Mo’s mother was just as concerned. “Don’t you think you’ve caused enough trouble for yourselves? Monu, you can’t fight every battle that comes your way. When does it stop?”
“But, Maa,” Mo answered, “didn’t you and Baba always teach me to do the right thing even when it isn’t easy? Well, this might not be easy, but we think it’s important.”
Even Mrs. Reznik had her doubts. “I don’t know,” she said. “Your hearts are in the right place, but I wonder if you’re taking on more than you realize here. And doing this would require an awful lot of work in a very short time.”
But we knew that. We all understood.
There were more than twenty people in the room that night, and the whole group talked it over for more than an hour. Believe it or not, the one who spoke up for us first, the person who sort of turned the tide in our direction, was Mo’s dad.
“Here’s what I think,” he said, and right away everyone else went quiet, because until then he hadn’t said a word. “I think I have never been prouder of my daughter and her friends than I am right now. If Lemonade Mouth can do this, I say let them. And I will help in any way I can.” A hush fell over the room. This was Mo’s dad, probably the most conservative person there, a man who seemed to have a hard time saying okay to anything. A yes from him was a big deal.
Mo stared, her lip quivering.
After that it wasn’t long before we had the go-ahead. Lyle, Naomi and Rajeev were with us from the start, of course, and the younger kids in the room—Mo’s sister, Madhu; Stella’s little stepbrothers, Tim and Andy; and my own little brother, George—were practically bouncing off the walls with excitement. What was more, everyone said they were all in this with us. Everybody would pitch in to help.
Which was good news.
We were going to need all the help we could get.
Before our plan had any chance of working, we still needed approval from one last person. It was Stella who called the production office of After Midnight with Chet Anders. We assumed we’d have to leave a message, but somebody answered. Stella explained to the receptionist who she was and that she had an emergency situation to discuss with the producers. To our surprise, after a few phone transfers we found ourselves on the line with none other than Chet himself.
Try to imagine it.
There we were, five kids from Rhode Island, standing around a speakerphone talking with Chet Anders, the subversive underground hero of late-late-night television. And yet as unbelievable as it felt, it happened, and Chet turned out to be a nice guy.
“So I hear you kids are having some issues and need to talk,” he said. “What’s up?”
Mr. Decker had already arranged all the particulars of our upcoming appearance. The plan was that we would do a short interview with Chet and then perform “Let Us Begin.” But now, in a tone that sounded surprisingly levelheaded for Stella, she explained to him what was going on and told him our new plan. Chet listened. As the details came out, we heard him start to chuckle. I knew we had him then. He liked the idea.
By the time we hung up, we had his approval.
There was a part of me that felt almost disappointed when he said yes. If he’d said no, things would have been easier and a lot less risky. In a way, it would have been a relief. Instead, things had just gotten serious. We were going for it.
All I could do now was hope we didn’t screw it up.
Far better is it to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take up ranks with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat.
—Theodore Roosevelt
RAJEEV KUMAR
Master Guru of Dance
Putting me in charge of the volunteer dancers was Stella’s idea. The plan was for Lemonade Mouth to put together a special performance for a television show called After Midnight with Chet Anders, and my job was to choreograph a routine for the new song the band had written. Everything had to come together—the song, the costumes, the dancing—in only one day.
The pressure was rather intense.
I felt glad Stella had so much confidence in me, but I was secretly panicking. I’d never choreographed anything like this before—a dance for nondancers to perform on a show that would be seen across the whole country. How on earth was I going to pull this off?
But then I remembered being on the movie set with the great choreographer Shiamak Davar. I had spent two whole days watching him and studying his methods. Surrounded by chaos, movie executives and hundreds of dancers, Shiamak had been like a tranquil guru, the calm master of his art in the center of a mighty storm of activity. Three or four times I watched him retreat to a corner to meditate for a short while, and each time he disappeared he would then return with a new idea.
So that is how I decided to begin.
I set to work as soon as I arrived home with the Banerjees after the meeting in Stella’s living room. First I removed my shoes. I sat myself cross-legged on the floor and closed my eyes. It was already late at night, and I do not know how long I stayed that way, taking slow breaths and stripping away my terrified thoughts one by one. But it worked. In time my panic faded, which meant I was able to concentrate only on the new song. Stella had given me a rough recording—they had written it that afternoon—and despite the poor recording quality, the music itself was wonderful, with a strong, almost Middle Eastern beat, like a cobra slinking through the sand. A year earlier I’d gone with an older cousin to a dance club in Khulna, where the music was raw and wild and nobody left the dance floor all evening. This song reminded me of that.
For me music is all about movement. As much as I hear it, I also feel it. Now, as Lemonade Mouth’s new song played through my earphones, my head wanted to spin back and forth to the beat. With each rattle of Charlie’s vibraslap, my body yearned to duck and slide.
Crassssh. Boom, boom. Spin. Tappa-tappa.
Crassssh. Boom, boom. Sliiiiiide. Tappa-tappa.
In my mind I was imagining turns and flips. I knew we would not have any professional dancers for the show, of course, so I needed to keep things simple, yet somehow still visually impressive. To accomplish this, all I had at my disposal was the music and my own instincts. And one day.
This was my challenge. This was my moment.
Everything that mattered came down to that.
Crassssh. Boom, boom. Drop-lock. Tappa-tappa.
Jump. Boom, boom. Sliiiiiide. Tappa-tappa.
With my eyes still closed I rose to a standing position. It was time to let my body do the thinking. At first I simply swayed back and forth, shifting my weight and taking in the coolness of the floor against my bare feet. I raised my arms slightly, like a bird lifting its wings. I was calm. It must sound strange, but as I stood there alone in my temporary bedroom far away from home, I could almost feel the energy flowing through me. I was focused and ready—at least as ready as I would ever be.
I opened my eyes.
For most of that night I stayed up, working. Long after everyone else had gone to sleep, I was still awake in my room, mapping out moves and ideas.
Early Thursday morning another crowd gathered, this time behind the high school. This second gathering had even more people than the first. Apparently Naomi and Lyle had made phone calls to put the word out, and by eight a.m.—a time when many American kids would still have been sleeping, I’m sure—the field by the school parking lot was swarming with activity. People arrived by the carload. Adults and kids, all friends of Lemonade Mouth who were there because they wanted to help the band. It was remarkable to watch. Naomi walked around with a clipboard and organized everyone into teams, each concentrating on a different aspect of the preparations for the show. Some were to create costumes with Sydney, others would help make props or work with the band’s equipment, and still others would run errands or gather materials—or whatever else w
as required. When Naomi saw me she pointed to an area near the band’s equipment. There were already eleven volunteers there, waiting for me.
My dancers.
“Go get ’em, Rajeev!” Stella whispered. “Show ’em how they do it in Bollywood!”
“Um, okay,” I whispered back. “I will do my best.”
My earlier panic had snuck up inside me again. I looked into the line of eager faces waiting for me to start giving instructions. Stella squeezed my arm and showed me the thumbs-up sign, and just looking at her made my heart do a double skip.
I took a deep breath.
It’s incredible how everything can change in only a few weeks. Even as I began to talk, explaining my vision for the dance, I was remembering how just a month earlier I had been dreading my move to America. For a long time I had been sure this was going to be the worst summer of my entire life.
I was wrong. As it turned out, I was enjoying every minute of it.
LIZZIE DELUCIA
Organized Chaos
I got the message from Naomi Fishmeier the night before. Lemonade Mouth needed help, she said, and they were asking for volunteers to meet them the next morning. She told me it was important.
I didn’t need any persuading.
Lemonade Mouth is a very big deal to me and a lot of kids I know. That past year they were at the center of the storm at our school. They’d changed things and made them better—and had even inspired me to take up an instrument. I’d bought myself a bass guitar and was taking lessons, all because of them. If those kids needed help, I was glad to give it. And besides, I knew that whatever Lemonade Mouth was planning, it was bound to be a good time.
First thing I did was call Scott to tell him he should come along. Just as I knew he would, he hesitated, saying that he wanted to but he felt weird about it because of all the stuff that had happened between Lemonade Mouth and Mudslide Crush during the school year.
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