Puckers Up

by Mark Peter Hughes

  So now we’re on the bus again, and all this time I’ve been going over and over the things we said. Why did I have to go and tell her I needed her? It’s not true! Brenda is great and I have my dad and I have my friends and that’s good enough. One thing I understand now is that my mother is not a well person, and it isn’t just her kidneys either. She’s not well in the head, which makes me feel sad for her. But that’s still not an excuse for the things she did and didn’t do. If she’s not responsible for her actions, who is? She may be my mother, but in some ways she’s more like a kid than I am.

  In any case, I’m glad I wrote all this down, because now I’m too exhausted to feel much of anything. I’m done crying. I’m too spent to think. I’m going to stare out the window and watch the lights go past until we get home.

  WEN

  All That Really Mattered

  I set the diary down. A few feet away, Olivia was still hugging her knees to her chest, staring out across the water.

  “I had no idea you were going through all this,” I said. “Are you okay?”

  She shrugged. “I’m fine.”

  I tried to imagine how it must feel to be her. I wish she’d told me sooner, but at least now I understood a little better. “So, are you glad you went to see her?”

  “Not sure,” she said after a pause. “I thought I’d feel relieved in some way, you know? Like talking with her would resolve something. But it didn’t. My visit only ended up raising more questions than it answered, and when I think about all this stuff, I still feel … I don’t know … kind of empty.” She looked out at the water again. “Maybe Brenda was right after all. Maybe it would have been better if I hadn’t gone.”

  She picked up a piece of broken shell and tossed it into the water. The air smelled of the ocean, and from somewhere far to my left came the distant sounds of little kids playing in the waves.

  “I’m sorry I waited so long to tell you,” she said at last.

  “Why? This was never about me. You had to do whatever was right for you.”

  “I’m not saying I should have done it for you, exactly. Looking back over these past few weeks, I think talking to you sooner would have made the whole thing easier. For me, I mean. I guess I was just …” She seemed to search for the right word.

  “Scared?”

  She nodded. “Like I said, old habits die hard.”

  We sat there quietly a while longer, but then she stood up. After brushing the sand from her legs, she tucked the diary back in her pocket and then reached for my hand. Without a word we started walking along the water together. The tide was going out, and after a few steps we took off our shoes so we could go barefoot, letting the waves roll over our feet in the soft wet sand. There was a sailboat in the distance. Behind it, a line of pink puffy clouds looked like the castle wall of a faraway country. We stopped to look.

  “Do you ever feel lonely?” she asked. “Like we’re just small parts in a giant, complicated universe?”

  “I’m not lonely,” I said. “I’m here with you.”

  She blinked at me, and then something unexpected happened. She reached out and touched my cheek, staring right into my eyes, and then she kissed me. And I kissed back. It was a real kiss, gentle and quiet, the kind that gets your blood racing and your head spinning, and when it was done I just stood there, surprised, looking at her.

  And she was looking back at me.

  A warm breeze blew a few strands of her hair into her face and she swept them aside with her fingers and took a step back. She turned and walked away, continuing along the edge of the water, almost daring me not to follow. But I didn’t wait. I caught up with her and took her hand and we kept walking. No need to talk. No need to pick through the exact meaning of what had just happened. We both knew. I was her boyfriend. She was my girlfriend. Maybe we’d already been that, but now it was official. And the sun was shining and the sand was soggy and cool under our feet and the world was full of mysteries yet to be explored. We were together and it felt good. It felt right. And that was all that really mattered.

  STELLA

  A Break in the Proverbial Clouds

  Picture the scene: There sat your troubled troubadour in depressed silence on the steps in front of the local Honey Fields Mini-Mart, having just received a call from Charlie with the disturbing news of Olivia and Wen’s recent blowup. Thank goodness Rajeev was there to console her with a bag of salted veggie chips. It felt like storms were swirling and the end of Lemonade Mouth was in sight. The band had nothing scheduled, no prospects, and now this newest debacle threatened to become the final nail in their sad, citrusy coffin.

  Yet, unbeknownst to your somber Sista, change was in the air. Little did she suspect just how close she and her friends were to a break in the proverbial clouds—a small one, perhaps, but at this point any tiny glimmer of hope was better than no glimmer at all.

  Just as Rajeev and I were finishing the last of the crispy veggie treats I got a message from Lyle.

  Guys, can evry1 pls come 2 my house?

  U have 2 see something.

  It was vague but intriguing. I texted back to ask what it was but he didn’t answer, so Rajeev and I set out at once for Lyle’s place, which, unfortunately, was about a twenty-minute walk away.

  We were the last to arrive, right behind Olivia and Wen, who were walking up the driveway just as we approached the house. I noticed they were hand in hand. I had no idea what exactly had gone on between them, but I was relieved to see that the recent trouble seemed to be over.

  “All right, Lyle,” I called. He was in his garage, sitting in front of a crate with his laptop. Charlie, Mo and Naomi were already there, standing behind him. “So what’s the big mystery?”

  “I was waiting to tell you guys,” he said, running his fingers through his thick mess of hair. “I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up if it was only going to end up being a short-term thing.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Our website. I told you I posted a couple of tracks from the new recordings, right? Well, since your Chet Anders appearance I guess curiosity about Lemonade Mouth has been growing. I expected a surge in site visits for a couple of days, maybe, but I assumed it’d drop away after that. It hasn’t.” He pointed to the screen, where there was a picture of us and an area where people could get free downloads of two of our new songs—“Let Us Begin” and “Freaky Fakey Phony.” “Our daily visitor count has been rising, not dropping. Over the past twenty-four hours alone we got more hits than our server could handle. Earlier this afternoon the whole site crashed. I just had to upgrade it to a more powerful platform.”

  We all stared at each other. “So … uh … what does this mean, exactly?” Mo asked.

  Naomi grinned. “It means that even without Decker and Smythe, the word is still getting out about Lemonade Mouth.”

  What does not destroy me, makes me stronger.

  —Friedrich Nietzsche

  CHARLIE

  The New Cool

  Lemonade Mouth’s “Ninja Earthquake”—an up-tempo dance rocker—plays over a montage of short, grainy black-and-white film clips of some of the stuff from Olivia’s book New Perspectives: People and Ideas That Changed the World:

  A. 1955: ROSA PARKS, the future icon of civil rights, stands alone at a bus stop on a drizzly day in Montgomery, Alabama. A white couple walks past, ignoring her, as a bus approaches.

  B. 1936: The astronaut NEIL ARMSTRONG, still a little kid, gazes at the sky as his arguing parents change a flat tire behind him.

  CHARLIE (V.O. while the clips continue)

  Things happen for a reason. Sometimes a new idea, like a rocket, takes a little time fizzing quietly in the background just before it blasts off and demands our attention.

  C. 1902: THE WRIGHT BROTHERS, soon-to-be inventors of the airplane, try unsuccessfully to fly a crazy-looking jalopy, kind of like a giant lobster trap on wheels. It rolls for a distance but doesn’t leave the dusty ground. A solitary newspaperm
an shakes his head and walks away.

  D. 1860: ABRAHAM LINCOLN, future president and world changer, wipes the sweat from his brow as he hammers up a sign announcing that he’s running for president. Behind him we see the sidewalk of a bustling town. People rush past without even looking.

  E. ONE MILLION YEARS AGO: A bunch of CAVEMEN in a frozen landscape look bored and cold as another caveman rubs two sticks together to make fire. There’s a sudden spark, but only one or two of the cavemen see it. Most don’t even notice.

  The music fades to …

  EXTERIOR. A QUIET BEACH—EARLY MORNING, THREE YEARS FROM NOW

  Barefoot Charlie strolls along the empty beach talking to the camera.

  CHARLIE

  The online notes thanking us for our Chet Anders appearance were still coming in, more and more of them each day. It was as if no one was used to hearing a message like ours and people needed time to process it before they were ready to react.

  Hands in pockets, he continues walking in thoughtful silence. A seagull calls. Waves crash. Close to the camera, Charlie stops.

  CHARLIE (CONT’D)

  But then, to our surprise, Howit Iz, the third-largest independent news and culture magazine in the country, ran an opinion piece about us, calling us “champions for the unappreciated, a long-missing voice for the unpretentious.”

  (a pause …)

  I had to look up what that even meant.

  INTERIOR. BRUNO’S PIZZA PLANET—AFTERNOON

  Naomi Fishmeier holds open a copy of Howit Iz and reads aloud as the members of Lemonade Mouth, sitting with her in a semicircular booth, listen in stunned silence.

  NAOMI

  “Whether you’re tall or short, skinny or full-figured, bespectacled, bedraggled or bald, Lemonade Mouth wants you to know that this is your moment. The until recently unknown high school band from Rhode Island …”

  NTERIOR. SMALL, MESSY LIVING ROOM, OPEQUONSETT, RI—AFTERNOON

  Lemonade Mouth’s old nemesis, RAY BEECH, oversized and sad-looking in a faded Mudslide Crush T-shirt, sits at one end of a worn-out sofa. In his hand he holds the same article, and he reads it with an expression of both shock and defeat. Perched beside him on the sofa, oddly enough, is a large pink pig. The pig gazes over Ray’s shoulder at the article and seems just as forlorn as Ray.

  RAY (V.O.)

  “… has just opened the door for all of us, challenging people everywhere to redefine who and what we accept as cool, to take on the narrow notions of style and beauty that have been handed down to us from the bigwigs at …”

  INTERIOR. THE OFFICES OF DECKER AND SMYTHE, BOSTON, MA—AFTERNOON

  JENNIFER SWEET, assistant to Earl Decker, swivels her computer monitor slightly so Earl won’t see what she’s looking at—an online version of the same article. Earl is nearby, visible in his office, talking angrily on the phone. Jennifer continues to read silently, leaning into the screen.

  JENNIFER (V.O.)

  “… self-interested corporations. These kids seem to be saying that women don’t have to …”

  INTERIOR. MUSIC ROOM, BLOCKSTON BAPTIST CHURCH, BLOCKSTON, DE—EVENING

  In the out-of-focus background, church musicians are setting up for practice. In the foreground, GLENDA MAY and GLENDA LEE PUTRIDGE, the solidly built banjo-playing twins from American Pop Sensation, are seated cross-legged on the floor with their banjos at their sides. They’re staring at the Howit Iz article.

  GLENDA MAY AND GLENDA LEE (V.O.)

  “… have hourglass figures to be attractive, and men don’t have to be body builders.”

  INTERIOR. BIOCHEMICAL LABORATORY, OPEQUONSETT, RI—MORNING

  While BEVERLY DeVITO, lab tech at Stella’s mom’s lab (twentysomething, glasses, heavyset, friendly face), waits for a plant cell test to run, her rapt attention is on the article.

  BEVERLY (V.O.)

  “So you don’t own all the latest fashions? So your cheekbones aren’t prominent? Stand proud!”

  EXTERIOR. A SMALL BOAT ON WHITEFISH LAKE, WHITEFISH, MT—MORNING

  Fishing alone in the middle of a peaceful lake surrounded by mountains, Opequonsett High School’s vice principal, MR. BRENIGAN, appears stunned at the article he’s stumbled onto. Even vacationing in an isolated part of the country, he hasn’t escaped Lemonade Mouth. He gapes at the page.

  MR. BRENIGAN (V.O.)

  “So your hair isn’t perfect? So you’re not as young as you used to be? Hold your head high!”

  INTERIOR. HIGH-RISE OFFICE, NEW YORK, NY—MIDDAY

  With his feet up on his messy desk and a view of New York City skyscrapers, Chet Anders chuckles to himself. He’s reading the article too.

  CHET (V.O.)

  “The New Cool has arrived. Lemonade Mouth has ushered in a new era, and we are all invited to join them in being fabulous—just the way we are.”

  INTERIOR. BRUNO’S PIZZA PLANET—AFTERNOON

  Still in the booth listening to Naomi read, the members of Lemonade Mouth appear to be at a loss for words—except maybe Stella, who fidgets as if getting ready to say something. Naomi holds up her hand to stop her.

  NAOMI

  Hold on, Stella, there’s more.

  (pause)

  “And if that kind of revolution still isn’t enough for you, just wait until you check out the sound track. Lemonade Mouth’s mix of oddball instruments, together with their honest, emotional approach, creates a musical vibe that transcends description. It’s a sonic boom, a wild riot and a bright summer day all rolled into one. It’s quirky, raw and utterly unlike anything you’ve ever heard before—not to mention danceable as all get-out. So hold it high! Raise it up, America! Prepare yourselves for the revolution!”

  Naomi lowers the article and sweeps her eyes across the five faces of Lemonade Mouth, who are all too dumbstruck to speak.

  NAOMI (CONT’D)

  (dead serious)

  Guys, strap yourselves in. I believe you’re about to take off.

  DISSOLVE INTO: A television set. Three beautiful women stand at a podium in the front of a crowded room. The women are surrounded by microphones, reporters and flashing cameras.

  CHARLIE (V.O.)

  (over the television sound, which is inaudible)

  It was just the beginning. A few days later, three of the most famous supermodels in the world—Jara Shé, Rubia and Karen Sasky—got together for the first time ever to make a big announcement. The media was all over it.

  SUPERMODEL #1: JARA SHÉ

  After years of abusing our bodies through chronic starve-dieting, unnecessary surgeries and other unhealthy behavior, all just so we could achieve an unnatural look we were told was required by the industry, we are now announcing the launch of a new movement … a movement that demands change!

  The crowd cheers. Fist-pumping.

  SUPERMODEL #2: RUBIA

  (thick Brazilian accent)

  We here to protest the kind of corporate manipulation that idealizes a warped reality! We not gonna go along with it no more! We here to promote consumer demand for healthier body images in the media!

  More shouts of approval. More camera flashes. The audience is eating this up.

  SUPERMODEL #3: KAREN SASKY

  Join us! Celebrate your individuality—the real, natural, beautiful you! Because nobody needs to be what they’re not! And none of us need to be …

  (dramatic pause)

  … Freaky Fakey Phony!

  The crowd goes nuts. Behind the models a curtain rises, revealing a lineup of ordinary-looking people—women and men, boys and girls—all smiling and looking confident in their ordinariness. Above them a giant sign reads: SNAP! REAL IS THE NEW BEAUTIFUL! Cameras flash like crazy.

  CHARLIE (V.O.)

  They didn’t mention us by name, but it was obvious where the idea came from. They called themselves “Supermodels for the New Pretty,” or “SNaP,” and they urged everyone, no matter their age, size or shape, to tap into their “inner supermodel.”

  As the cheering and a
pplause continues, we see a montage of shots of people watching the scene on TV:

  A. Somewhere in middle America, four or five scruffy-looking truckers in a donut shop diner, all of them staring in disbelief at a screen above the counter.

  B. Somewhere else, a group of preteen girls at a sleepover party, all arranged on a carpet lined with pillows. Their eyes are wide as they watch.

  C. Seated on a leopard-spotted sofa, SISTA SLASH, Stella’s activist/anarchist, guitar-slinging hero (late thirties, spiky black hair with orange stripes, biker-tough), takes a bite from an apple and studies the television with interest. At her knee is an open copy of Howit Iz. Behind her we can see her huge, fancy-glitzy living room, which is decorated with dozens of wild-looking guitars and mementos from her impressive career. Far away, near the opposite wall, a young worker-guy vacuums a rug.

  Back to …

  The TV screen with the grinning supermodels. They’ve joined the line of ordinary people, and all of them are now waving at the ecstatic crowd.

  CHARLIE (V.O.)

  Watching all this play out … well, it was incredible. And surprising, even for us. It wasn’t like any of us ever expected our song would set off that kind of a reaction.

  EXTERIOR. QUIET BEACH—EARLY MORNING, THREE YEARS FROM NOW

  Barefoot Charlie, deep in thought, is strolling along the waterline again, except this time the camera is at his side and moving along with him, with the ocean as the backdrop.