Stella leaned into the mike, still strumming her uke to the jungle rhythm. “So maybe we’re not rail-thin!” she shouted. “Maybe we don’t have perfect hair or skin or bodies! But who decides what ‘perfect’ even means, anyway—to you, to me? Isn’t that your decision and mine? And isn’t it our little so-called imperfections that make all of us who we are? That make all of us beautiful?”
There was a growing clamor from the audience. Ahead and to my left a threesome of wiry, bespectacled guys in college T-shirts were craning forward in their chairs. The woman in pearls sat frozen, hanging on their every word. I’m almost sure I saw her lip quivering.
But Stella wasn’t done.
“This is the real world, folks! Look around! This is what actual people look like! They’re you! They’re us! Not the fake images you see in certain advertisements! And if you ask us, being cool shouldn’t mean having to change yourself into something you’re not!”
Boom! A final slap from Charlie’s drum echoed through the room, and all at once the music stopped.
“Because if you ask us,” said Stella, “we’d say you guys are already looking plenty cool—just the way you are!”
The crowd went nuts. The woman in pearls raised her fists in the air and gave out a war whoop. All around me, people started to cheer.
On beat, the music kicked in again, full-force, only now it unleashed an all-out, pulsing, whirling party. The woman in pearls leapt to her feet and began what looked like a victory dance, shaking her sizeable hips like there was no tomorrow. Near the front, a group of pimple-faced teenage girls joined in, whipping their long hair in wild circles. The college guys stood too, giving each other high fives. I gaped at the scene unfolding all around me. Pandemonium. Everywhere I turned, people were moving to the rhythm or pumping their fists and calling out their approval. I knew this would mean trouble for them later, but for now it was clear that Lemonade Mouth had tapped into something important, something unspoken that must have been simmering just under the surface, waiting to be expressed.
No longer did it feel like I was witnessing a television show. This was more like an explosion—the first spark of a giant new rebellion.
SCOTT PICKETT
Welcome to the Revolution
Just when it seemed like things couldn’t get any crazier, the curtains on either side of the stage parted and I heard a bunch of people gasp. Lizzie and I were at the back of the audience, so we had a good view of the whole place.
The dancers came out in two rows, twirling and dipping and moving in formation as they filed onstage in giant foam costumes. There were about a dozen different ones—all of them oversized puppet-people. An eight-foot-tall girl with nerdy glasses. A giant bucktoothed boy with red-button zits. A matching bikini girl and surfer dude with oversized metal braces and poufy hairdos. There was even a wooden-framed two-person outfit that looked like a human-sized magazine. On the “cover” was a real face—one of the dancers, this kid Debbie Bloom from school—but she had a fake body with puppet arms and legs as thin as pipe cleaners. It was hilarious. And all the costumed dancers were stomping and gliding and spinning around the band. Once every two measures Charlie would move from the aluminum darbuka drum he was playing to a vibraslap, making a rattling sound, and the entire crowd of foam heads would dip and slide to the left in formation. It sounded and looked … well, amazing. Just amazing. Pretty soon Lizzie and I were doing it too, along with the rest of the audience.
If the excitement had already been high before the dancers came, it was in the stratosphere now.
I admit that when I’d first heard that Lemonade Mouth wanted to add costumed dancers to their act, I’d had my doubts. But now there was no denying that it turned out to have been a stroke of genius. That kid Rajeev—what can I say? He was brilliant. A phenomenon all on his own. I’d watched how he’d coached Debbie Bloom and Terry Cabeleira and the others, just regular kids, to do all of those crazy moves together. It’d seemed impossible that it would work out, and yet somehow he’d pulled it off. The whole effect was jaw-dropping.
When the instrumental part ended Olivia picked up the chorus again:
Freaky, fakey, phony, baby!
Gotta-gotta set myself free!
Thanks for the thought, but I like what I got
Don’t need to beeee …
Freakyyy! Fakeyyy! Phooonyyyyyyyy!!
Glancing at the pulsing scene around me, I couldn’t help thinking how different things were now, compared with just a few weeks earlier. When I’d left my old band, Mudslide Crush, because I wasn’t happy with the direction it was taking, things were pretty bad. Overnight my former band mate and best buddy, Ray, wouldn’t even give me the time of day. Look, I know a lot of people thought Ray was a jerk, but deep down I knew better than anyone that he wasn’t as bad as he came off—not all the time, anyway. I’m not making excuses for him, but with his troubled family and especially that domineering father of his, it was no wonder the kid was a little messed up. Plus, we’d been friends since nursery school, so it was hard for me to lose that.
But soon I’d started hanging out with Lizzie, this amazing girl, and I found myself with a whole new perspective on things. Lizzie made me happy, you know? When you’re happy I guess it’s easier to see stuff clearer. Someday I hoped Ray could be happy too, and that he’d get over his hurt pride so we could be friends again.
Despite everything, I still loved the guy.
Lizzie squeezed my arm. Chet Anders himself had joined Lemonade Mouth onstage now, laughing as he danced with a giant foam puppet of an old lady in gym shorts. Then the song ended and the audience went bonkers. I’d never experienced anything like this. I knew it was a big risk for Lemonade Mouth to stand up to their sponsor like this on national television (even if it was just a funky late-night talk show watched only by insomniacs and college students), but for now it seemed to have paid off. The music was over but the room was still rocking, with everybody on their feet screaming and clapping and calling out to the band as the five of them just stood there blinking back at everyone. I think even they were surprised at the effect their song had. As for me, I could feel my blood rushing. I felt totally alive. I can’t explain it better than him.
That’s when Lizzie whispered in my ear.
“Welcome to the revolution, Scotty. You and me, we’re part of it as much as anyone else.” She squeezed my arm again. “I’m so glad you came along.”
It was a powerful moment where everything felt right. I was on my feet and cheering along with everyone else, Lizzie was at my side, and Lemonade Mouth was on top of the world with a future that all of a sudden looked brighter than ever. And weird as it sounds, considering my history with them, I was glad about it.
Really and honestly glad.
If only things could have stayed that good. Looking back, I think it was a surprise to all of us that they didn’t. How could anyone have been prepared for how quickly things were about to change?
The sky clouded over and our hearts grew heavy.
—Pliny the Tremulous
MOHINI
The Pilots of Destiny
We’re on the road again. Hardly an hour into the long ride home, Stella’s phone pings with a text message. It’s Mr. Decker.
SAW THE SHOW. I’M
NOT HAPPY. I’M BACK
IN BOSTON 2MRRW.
CALL ME @ 10 AM.
WE NEED 2 TALK.
Our initial reaction is silence. Even though we all knew from the beginning that Mr. Decker wasn’t going to be pleased, seeing it in glowing letters on Stella’s phone makes it real, and all at once my mood is sinking into my shoes. I’m a little kid again. I’m in big trouble. I try to remind myself that we only did what we thought was right, but that doesn’t help much.
In hushed voices we make a decision. The conversation we need to have with Mr. Decker is far too important to have over the phone. If we’re going to figure out a better way to work with his agency, if we’re going to talk this through wit
h him and make sure we’re all on the same page in the future, then that discussion should happen in person. So even though we arrive home late and exhausted, all five of us drag ourselves out of bed early the next morning. We’re going to Boston.
“Are you all right, Monu?” my dad asks from the front passenger seat of the Penns’ station wagon. Stella’s mom is driving. “You’re very quiet.”
“Yes, Baba. Just a little nervous.”
“Of course you are,” he says. “Do your best, that’s all. Be clear with him. Speak your mind.” And then he adds, “I know you kids want to do this yourselves, but don’t forget that Mrs. Penn and I are here if you need us.”
I nod. I know they’re there for us and I’m grateful, but my friends and I feel like this is our problem and we should try to fix it ourselves. I force a smile. I don’t want him to see how terrified I am that everything is about to fall apart. Charlie, Olivia and Wen are staring out the windows like zombies. Stella’s silent too, but her knee bounces up and down with nervous energy.
We arrive in Boston a few minutes early. To kill time we each grab a Mel’s from the little convenience store across the street, which turns out to be a good thing, because the feel of the familiar green and yellow paper cup in my hands seems to calm me a little. The pretty girl at the desk buzzes Mr. Decker that we’re here. After a pause she tells us we can take seats in the lobby, and once again we’re waiting in that giant room with rock legends staring down at us like gods. Mr. Decker makes us wait for what feels like forever.
Not a good sign.
At last we’re called in to see him. Mr. Decker is standing at his giant panoramic window with a view of Boston Harbor behind him. He’s silent as we enter, and his arms are crossed. I’ve never seen him wearing glasses before. Black frames with a line of silver across the top, they give him the vibe of an aging hippie professor. He looks tired. He gestures for us to take a seat around the oak table, but he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t join us at the table either.
“So …,” Stella begins, breaking the weird silence. “We … uh … got your message, Mr. Decker. We came here in person because we want to talk this through, face to face.”
“We know you’re not happy,” Charlie adds. “We totally get that.”
“You get that?” Mr. Decker repeats quietly. He wrinkles his brow as if weighing the idea in his mind. “No, I really don’t think you get it, Charlie. That performance you guys put on last night? That little circus act? To me it didn’t look at all like you understood what we’re trying to do here.” He scratches his beard. “Gotta be honest, this isn’t good. Not good at all. The one silver lining is that you didn’t disparage the product itself. I’m thankful for that, at least. It leaves an opening for us. You’re lucky. I believe I might still be able to manage this situation.”
I’m staring at my Mel’s cup, which is almost empty now. I keep my expression blank, but inside, I’m relieved. I thought Mr. Decker wasn’t going to want to represent us anymore, but if he’s talking about managing the situation it means he isn’t about to drop us. Despite everything, I can’t squelch the part of me that wants Lemonade Mouth to be huge, that wants our music out in the world for everyone to hear. I know we all feel that way, even Olivia. She might not like the spotlight, but I know she wants our music to be heard, and we all know that Mr. Decker is still the best shot we’ve got.
To my left, at the far edge of my vision, I see Mrs. Penn shift in her seat. Instead of sitting at the table, she and my dad took chairs by the door. “Manage this situation?” she asks. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“As it happens, I have a good relationship with the Zephyr Stick people. Their CEO and I sometimes play golf together. This morning I left a message with her office and we’re scheduled to talk later today. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but I think I can smooth things over. This time. Going forward, though, you kids need to stick to the game plan. We spoke about this already, as you recall, but it seems that wasn’t enough, so from now on we need a new rule: no more changes without talking to me first.”
I don’t move or look up. Mr. Decker isn’t yelling, exactly, but his words are strained and it’s clear we’ve pushed him close to his limit.
“But we tried to talk to you, Mr. Decker,” Wen says, his voice low. “Don’t you remember? We called you but you wouldn’t—”
“This isn’t amateur night, guys,” Mr. Decker continues as if he doesn’t hear. He’s pacing the length of the table now. “This is the big leagues, don’t forget that. Everything we do follows a careful strategy. We’re creating a brand—an image that positions Lemonade Mouth in the music marketplace. You’re nerdy-cool. You’re the outsider kids. You wear great clothes. Do you think it’s easy to make a new product take hold in the minds of consumers? Do you think it happens by luck? No, it happens only because we’ve thought things through.” He jabs his finger into the air. “It happens only when everybody sticks to the same message.”
There’s a battle going on inside me. I want to speak up and defend what we did, but I also know that Mr. Decker is right, in a way. He is the expert at this. And as long as he’s still willing to work with us, maybe I’m better off keeping my mouth shut before I make things worse. We’ve already made our point. Why push him further?
In the end, though, I can’t stop myself. I can’t sit back without opening up my big mouth.
“Okay, we get it, but shouldn’t Lemonade Mouth’s message come from us? The band?” Everyone turns to me. I can almost feel the heat in Mr. Decker’s gaze. I don’t mean for my words to go quieter after that, they just do. “I mean, it’s not like we’re really a product, right? Like a pair of sneakers or something?”
Mr. Decker is gaping at me like I’m the Queen of the Clueless. “Of course a band is a product,” he says. “From a marketing perspective, Lemonade Mouth is exactly like a pair of sneakers, or a bar of soap, or a roll of toilet paper, or”—his eyes fall on our Mel’s cups—“or even that lemonade slush you kids like. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—I didn’t make up the rules, I just know what they are and that we all need to play by them. And this means not doing anything stupid.” He slaps the table. “It means never again publicly questioning the actions of our sponsor. After all, they’re the people with the checkbooks!”
I stay quiet. I want to shrink into my chair.
“Look,” he says, breaking the tension with a sigh, “there’s a disconnect here and we need to resolve it.” He removes his glasses, rubs his eyes and at last takes a seat at the table across from us. He folds his hands. “I know this is still a learning experience for you kids. I get that. If I didn’t see real potential here I might’ve dropped you as clients for what you did, but instead I’m going to give this one more shot. If you want to keep working with me, you gotta promise you’ll play by the rules. That’s all I ask. No more surprises. No more childish stunts. Believe me, I know how to get Lemonade Mouth where we all want it to be. Bestselling albums. Stadiums filled with fans. You guys want these things, right? Well, I’ve mapped out a course that can make it all happen for you. All you have to do is stick to my map.”
I’m still staring at the tabletop. What Mr. Decker is asking for doesn’t sound like a lot, I guess, considering where he can take us, and yet, I don’t know, it still feels unsatisfying somehow. Part of me thinks I should be happy. We made our big statement on television last night and it looks like we’re getting away without having to pay too big a price for it. Promising Mr. Decker we’ll follow his map should be no big deal, right?
So what’s the problem?
Why do I still feel bad about it?
I’m surprised when it’s Olivia who opens her mouth next, but as soon as she does I’m once again grateful that she’s one of us. More than anybody else I know, she has a knack for finding the right words. Her soft, gravelly voice cuts through the quiet.
“But Mr. Decker,” she says, “what if we don’t like your map?”
His expressi
on darkens. His hands are still folded on the table, but as I watch, the knuckles grow whiter.
“Like it?” he asks. “Olivia, I’ve been doing this for decades. Do you think you and your friends know better than I do how to position a band in this market? I’ve been turning nobodies into stars since long before you were born.”
His face is red. I’ve never seen him so irritated. It’s obvious that Mr. Decker isn’t accustomed to having his judgment questioned by a bunch of kids. My father promised not to interfere unless he had to, but I guess this is too much for him. His words are polite enough, but I know my dad and I can tell when he’s on the verge of losing his temper.
“There must be some misunderstanding, Mr. Decker. Surely you wouldn’t ask Lemonade Mouth—a group of children—to do something they don’t believe in?”
“Let me make this clear, then,” he says, leveling his gaze at Baba. “Let me outline the obvious so there can’t be any misunderstanding. If it weren’t for Decker and Smythe, Lemonade Mouth would still be playing at local clam festivals. We’ve been honing their image. We’ve been positioning them for the media. We own everything from the new recordings right down to their new signature clothes.” He sits back in his chair and eyes us. “Face it, we can ask Lemonade Mouth to do anything we want. We own Lemonade Mouth.”
At first I think maybe I didn’t hear him right, but I see in his face that he’s serious.
Can it be true? Is it possible?
All at once the atmosphere in the room changes. My heart is going a mile a minute. This is the legendary Earl Decker? This is how things work in the big leagues? I look around at my friends and see the same confusion and panic I’m feeling. If Decker and Smythe own Lemonade Mouth, what does that mean for us? What do we do about it? My dad and Mrs. Penn both look ready to boil over. They’re about to take over for us, I’m positive of this. They’re getting ready to tell Mr. Decker what he can do with his map and his new signature clothes.
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