Lemonade Mouth

by Mark Peter Hughes

  It started off all right. It was the Friday after our meeting at Bruno’s, and Mrs. Reznik let us clear a space in the music room. To my surprise, Naomi Fishmeier and Lyle Dwarkin came to cheer us on. Lyle, a tiny kid with an acne problem, even hooked up some microphones from the A.V. room for Olivia and Mo. We ran through the smile song first, replacing the rubber band, kazoo and ukulele with Mo’s stand-up bass, my trumpet and Stella’s electric guitar. Instead of the standard drum set I’d expected Charlie to bring, he’d set up a wall of bongos, congas, timbales and a box of other noisemakers I couldn’t even name. The song went okay. Listening from the long ledge over the room’s noisy old radiator, Naomi and Lyle applauded even though I thought we sounded stiff and nervous.

  After that we worked on Stella’s ideas.

  “No, no,” she barked at Mo. “Can’t you feel it in your bones? It’s E then A then D for two bars, then back to the E, then a B-flat. Ready?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Stella began bobbing her head up and down as she machine-gunned angry power chords through her amplifier. Mo and Charlie tried to follow, but were obviously having a hard time. I attempted to add a note here and there and Olivia hummed along a little but mostly we just watched.

  Stella had handed out a long list of tunes she wanted us to learn, all hard-rocking protest songs by this neo-surf guitar slinger named Sista Slash. Stella played the original recordings for us but, to be honest, I didn’t like them much. The one we were attempting right then was “Damn You Petty Tyrants.” Lyle had his hands over his ears. I could hardly blame him. We sounded like an unruly mob at a discount music store.

  “Come on, Charlie!” Stella called out over the noise. “It’s a straight-ahead four-four beat! Stop trying to make it so complicated!”

  His jaw tight, Charlie pulled back to a much simpler rhythm.

  Mrs. Reznik was in the little adjoining room she used as an office. Every now and then I could hear her coughing. Before we started, she’d told us she was going to keep out of our way because she believed in giving creativity space to grow. “Never let an outside influence interfere with the creative process,” she’d said. “You certainly don’t need me butting in just as you’re trying to work out your process. Don’t worry, I’ll let you know if I feel you’ve crossed the borders of artistic decency.” Now she appeared at the doorway and frowned. A moment later she quietly shut the door.

  Not long after, Mo, who had been struggling to pluck out a bass line the way Stella had instructed, stopped playing. Then, one by one, we all did.

  “What’s the matter?” Stella asked.

  I didn’t want to say anything. Stella was a big kid, and could be kind of intimidating. But finally it was Mo who spoke up.

  “This isn’t working,” Mo said. “We’re terrible.”

  “What do you mean? We’ll get it. We just need to keep practicing. Maybe we should listen to the song one more time.”

  Stella went to turn on her little stereo again, but Mo waved her hand to stop her. “Wait, listen. . . . I know these songs are important to you, Stella, but did you ever consider that maybe they’re not right for us? Let’s think about this.”

  For some reason, Stella seemed insulted. Her face went all pink and she looked hurt. “Are you saying I didn’t think about it? I thought about it plenty.” She glared at Mo, but Mo stared right back. Nobody else spoke. I was thinking how funny it was that the smallest of us was the only one who didn’t seem afraid to speak her mind. I suddenly had a new respect for Mo.

  “And as far as these tunes not being right for us,” Stella continued, “how can you say that when we haven’t even given them a chance?”

  That’s when I jumped in. “I think I agree with Mo,” I said. “These songs are okay, I guess, but they don’t feel . . . comfortable to me.”

  “Me neither,” Charlie said, setting down his sticks.

  Stella scowled. “These tunes are a passionate call to arms. They’re perfect for us!”

  Over her shoulder I could see Naomi roll her eyes.

  “All right,” Stella said impatiently. “Let’s see if everybody agrees. What do you say, Olivia? Should we give up on these songs already? And if so, do you have any better ideas?”

  Olivia had been standing quietly in the corner, shifting her weight back and forth from one foot to the other. She almost wilted under Stella’s gaze. “I don’t know . . . I guess I can try to work on them some more. . . .”

  “That’s more like it. Look, it’s going to be great. I think all we need to do is change our approach.” Stella scanned the room and settled on Charlie’s arrangement of congas and bongos. “Maybe you should try using a real drum set.”

  That’s when Charlie’s face went red. He stood up, set his hands on the bongos, and narrowed his eyes at her. “This is a real set. It’s my set. It’s what I play.”

  Lyle and Naomi exchanged glances.

  “No need to get offended,” Stella said. “I’m only trying to find a way to make this work. I, for one, am willing to be flexible. Okay, how about another idea. Mo, I don’t think your acoustic bass is powerful enough. Now, I bet if you were to get an electric one it would be much more—”

  “That’s it,” Mo said, setting down her instrument. “I’m out of here.”

  “What?” Stella asked. “Now you’re going to stomp away?”

  “Why shouldn’t I? I obviously don’t belong here.”

  “Wait,” I said, feeling a sudden rising panic. I wanted this band to work and besides, Sydney had gone up to Boston so I’d given up a perfectly good Sydney-free Friday afternoon with George and my dad for this. “Don’t just leave,” I said. “Let’s talk this through.”

  But Mo wasn’t interested. “In case you never realized, Wendel, I play classical bass, not surfer grunge or whatever Stella calls this. And I’m going out tonight so I don’t have time for this garbage.” She glared at Stella and then spun back around to unlatch her case, her long black hair swinging.

  Charlie followed her lead and began breaking down his set. Everything was suddenly falling apart. I was amazed at how quickly it had happened.

  “Come on, guys,” I pleaded. “We can work this out—”

  But nobody was listening. Before long, there was a lot of yelling going on.

  “You’re quitting before we’ve even started!” Stella growled.

  “If anybody’s a petty tyrant, it’s you, Stella!” Charlie shouted back.

  It went like that for a while. Naomi and Lyle, still perched on the ledge, looked uncomfortable, probably wishing they hadn’t come at all. It seemed obvious that this had been a complete waste of time. Any minute, Mrs. Reznik’s face would appear at the door again—this time to send us home. Surely we’d crossed the borders of artistic decency by now. Worse, Olivia seemed to be working herself up into some sort of crisis. She was rocking back and forth, hugging her shoulders. Was I the only one to notice?

  I felt a terrible sinking feeling. Everything was crumbling around me. As a high school pariah, and with Azra and Floey gone from my life, my only remaining chance at having any kind of social existence at all was riding on this group of kids—but now I was going to have to get used to being alone and friendless. But then I remembered that I was still holding my horn. I’d been thinking about the riff I’d been working on at home the other day, the two bars I’d come up with while listening to Dizzy Gillespie, and in all the commotion my fingers kept walking through the notes.

  I’m not sure what made me do it, but just as Mrs. Reznik’s door opened and her concerned face appeared, I put my trumpet to my mouth and played.

  What happened next was what Naomi liked to call the First Lemonade Mouth Miracle.

  After only a few notes everybody stopped shouting and Olivia stood still. At the end of my riff, I started all over again. Suddenly there was no other sound but my horn. Mo looked at me like I was crazy, but Charlie’s eyes lit up. A moment later, he was scrambling to put back the conga he’d broken down. By the end o
f my fourth time through the little melody, he held his sticks in the air. With a mad grin, he attacked his drums like I’d never seen. It was a primal beat straight out of the jungle, with Charlie’s hair whipping in all directions, his arms whacking at his congas like they were possessed.

  Lyle smiled, Naomi’s head started bobbing to the rhythm, and Mrs. Reznik, who only seconds before seemed about to send us packing, suddenly closed her mouth and leaned against the doorway.

  A moment later I was thrilled to see Mo upright her instrument again. This time, though, she took out her bow, waited two bars and then pulled it gently across the strings. What came out were four long notes, each one starting low but then sinking even lower, like a walrus slowly diving through deep water. It was hypnotic. Stella seemed to hesitate but after a moment she set down her electric guitar and went over to the ukulele, which still hung on the wall. She pulled it down and then stepped close to the microphone by Mo’s bass. The next time Mo began her pattern the ukulele came to life, sending out a high-pitched, rapid-fire series of notes that, to my surprise, blended perfectly on top of the other instruments.

  The total effect—Stella’s Hawaiian gunfire merging over Mo’s moaning bass, Charlie’s chaotic percussion and my jazz-inspired riff—bizarre as it was, somehow worked. It was as if electricity shot through the room. I felt it and I could see it on everybody else’s faces too. We were a wild party, a crazy, rhythmic riot. Lyle and Naomi sat up, their mouths hanging open. Mrs. Reznik stood like a statue in the doorway.

  And Olivia hadn’t even started singing yet.

  I looked in her direction. She was staring at the microphone and taking deep breaths. After a moment she glanced over at me and nodded. I had no clue what she was about to sing, but to make room for her voice I dropped my horn back. At exactly the same moment, Stella simplified what she was doing on the ukulele. It was as if we’d been playing together forever.

  After bracing herself with one more deep breath, Olivia put her mouth in front of the microphone.

  I don’t know where I’m going

  I don’t know where I’d like to be

  I cannot see beyond this moment

  But let this moment swallow me

  And I—

  I’m singing a new song—

  I—

  I’m singing a new song—

  She’d found a slow meandering melody, completely different from my trumpet riff and yet just right. With the reverb from Lyle’s speaker, Olivia’s voice echoed and sounded more emotional than ever before. I could hardly believe she came up with words like that off the top of her head, this girl who hardly ever spoke.

  My hair stood on end. The rush I’d felt in detention was back.

  After that, Stella and I took turns playing short fills between verses, and then we gave a longer space for Mo to play a solo that sounded like Mozart on acid. Finally, Olivia sang the beginning part again. When I felt like the end was near I nodded to the others. They seemed to understand or maybe we all just felt it, but it worked out perfectly. The four of us stopped playing on exactly the same beat, leaving Olivia’s vocal as the only sound for the final two lines.

  I . . . I’m singing a new song.

  I . . . I’m singing a new song.

  We stood completely still as the echo of Olivia’s voice faded. Even after that nobody moved or made a sound for a long time, as if doing so might break the spell.

  That’s when I noticed Naomi staring at us like we each had suddenly grown three heads. At first I thought maybe she didn’t like what we’d played, but then she started clapping. Lyle joined her but it was slow and uncertain, like he wasn’t sure that what he’d just heard was real.

  “That,” Naomi finally said in an awed voice, “was absolutely the weirdest music I’ve ever heard. Did you just make that up? Oh my God, you guys are . . .” She didn’t finish right away. She tilted her head as if seeing us for the first time. Finally she said, “. . . gigantic.”

  Lyle nodded. “You guys are going to be huge.”

  Mrs. Reznik seemed pleased too. “All right,” she said. “I believe you’ve worked out a process. But don’t let compliments make you overconfident. You still have a lot of work to do before you’re ready for your audience.”

  As for Charlie, Mo, Stella, Olivia and me, we were as surprised as anybody else at what had just happened.

  But we were all grinning. Even Stella.

  MOHINI:

  A Supernova of Irrational Thought

  It’s later that night and I’m on the Opequonsett town beach. A crowd of kids laugh and talk behind me while I gaze into the fire. The breeze from the ocean ruffles my hair like invisible fingers. Eventually, I feel a hand on my shoulder. Scott’s back.

  “Comfortable?” he whispers, easing himself into the sand beside me.

  I smile as he wraps his arm around my shoulders. “Oh yes. Very.”

  I’ve been looking forward to this evening all week. Scott and his friends have made a small fire by the water. There are about twenty of us. I’ve never been invited to anything like this before—a party with the coolest of the cool. I should be at home practicing the Rabbath piece, of course, or the Dragonetti concerto. I promised my parents I’ll perform at the temple on the last day of Durga Pooja, the ten-day festival of eating and celebrating that starts in only a week. Plus, I had to lie to them again this evening—I told them I’m with Naomi tonight. But right at this moment it all feels worth it. This evening is special. Scott and I have been seeing each other for twenty-three days, and now with the eyes of all his friends on us, I feel like he and I are more of a couple than ever.

  Besides, what could be more romantic than sitting by a campfire with the guy you like, the ocean waves gently crashing nearby?

  Ray Beech ambles by with a case of beer. God only knows how he got his hands on it. Ray is not exactly my favorite person, but he’s Scott’s friend so I’ve been trying my best to warm up to him. Scott takes a can so I do too. Another uncomfortable first. My family’s Hindu so we never drink alcohol.

  Somebody is playing Mudslide Crush’s newest album, recorded in Dean Eagler’s basement over the summer. Dean’s dark, warbling voice drifts through the air as the Patties and a bunch of other girls I barely know nod their heads in time. It’s a warm evening for October, but right then a cool autumn gust sends shivers through me. Immediately, Scott takes off his jacket and wraps it over my shoulders.

  “There,” he says. “Better?”

  I nod and pull it tight. I can barely contain my happiness. All I can think as I lean my head on his shoulder is that Naomi was so wrong about him. I asked him about Lynn Westerberg and he assured me it’d all been a terrible misunderstanding. He swore he would never cheat on anybody, that he doesn’t believe in dating more than one person at a time.

  We sit together, just Scott and me, staring contentedly into the flames. After a while, he turns his head and starts nibbling my ear. More shivers. I can’t help giggling.

  Here we go again, I think.

  Twenty minutes and half a beer later (swallowed in tentative, sour gulps that left me disappointed from the first sip—but since I’ve already broken a bunch of taboos, what’s one more?) we’re making out in the darkness behind a nearby dune. As I suck his upper lip into my mouth, I wonder exactly what it is about him that drives me wild? Why do I feel like a different person whenever he’s around? It’s actually a little scary. In fact, when I feel his hand start to reach under my shirt, a part of me goes into a panic. I worry just how far I’ll let him go.

  Maybe what happens next only happens because that part of me is desperately searching for a way out. Or maybe not—maybe it’s only the breeze, which carries a part of Ray Beech’s conversation from the other side of the dune to my ear.

  “. . . that’s right,” I hear him say. “I guess Mr. Brenigan, that butt-wipe, expects us to jump up and down for joy now. Lucky us, we still get to play half the gig.”

  Somebody snickers, a sound a little like a hor
se whinnying. Patty Norris. “Unless,” she says, “she convinces him to cancel you guys altogether.”

  “Don’t even get me started about that freak.”

  I freeze. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?” Scott’s hand is still attempting to make its way north despite the gentle barricade I’ve set up with my arm.

  “Were they talking about the Halloween Bash?”

  “Who?”

  “Listen,” I whisper, pulling away a little and nodding in the direction of the campfire. “I just heard Ray and Patty say something about Mr. Brenigan and how he wants you guys to play half a gig. He sounded annoyed.”

  “I don’t know, I didn’t hear.” He starts on my neck again. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Wait,” I say, trying to disentangle my body from his. I haven’t mentioned anything about our little band to Scott. I’m not entirely sure even now if I really intend to be a part of it. Still, I guess I’ve been expecting that if I do tell Scott, he’ll be pleased. “I want to know what he’s mad about.”

  “Why is it important right now? It’s stupid.”

  “Not to me it isn’t.” I scoot away and sit up, both relieved and disappointed.

  A moment later, Scott sits up too. In the moonlight I watch him rub his eyes. “Okay, okay,” he sighs. “Brenigan told Dean today that we don’t get to play the full night at the Bash.”

  “So?”

  “So that’s probably what Ray was pissed about. We all are. You know that girl Stella Penn? The one with the green buzz cut? Well, I guess she told Brenigan she has a band, and crazy old Mrs. Reznik is in on it. Anyway, the two of them got Mr. Brenigan to agree to give this so-called band half our time.”

  I nod slowly, trying to look sympathetic. I have to tread carefully. “Is that . . . really such a big deal?”

  “Of course. He’s a complete idiot.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because Stella’s a freak. Haven’t you noticed?” He scoots closer to me again and starts planting gentle kisses all over the side of my neck. It feels so good I don’t try to stop him. Still, I can’t help thinking about how only this afternoon Stella and I were hanging around together. Somebody left a fashion magazine under one of the desks, and while we waited for Charlie to pack his drums neatly away in the corner of the music room she and I took turns drawing facial hair on the models. By the time Charlie was done, the two of us were practically hysterical over a bikinied blonde we’d turned into a pirate, complete with a mustache, a goatee and an eye patch. The parrot that Stella drew on her shoulder was particularly hilarious.