Lemonade Mouth (10 page)

After a moment’s hesitation, I do as I’m told. When I’m seated I notice the Patties aren’t there anymore. Their stuff is gone too. They must have packed up and left. “Let me get this straight,” I say. “You
lied
to Mr. Brenigan and now he thinks we’re some kind of rock band or something?”

“To quote Sista Slash, ‘To make good stuff happen, you sometimes gotta finesse your way around the system.’ ” I can see it in her face now. She is completely serious.

“But Stella,” says Charlie quietly, “playing rubber bands and banging on desks in detention isn’t exactly the same thing as having a band. Other than Mrs. Reznik, nobody thinks we can actually perform in front of an
audience,
right?”

“I’m not saying we should play rubber bands and bang on a desk. We’ll use our real instruments. You have real drums, right?”

I turn to him. To tell the truth, I have no idea if he does or not. But he nods.

“Okay then,” she says as if she just proved a point, “so why shouldn’t you play them in front of an audience?”

That’s when I jump in again. “For starters,” I say, looking around the table for support, “what would we play? The smile song over and over?”

Nobody says anything. Finally, Wen shifts in his seat and opens his mouth for the first time. “I don’t know. Maybe it isn’t such a crazy thought. We could
learn
other songs, right?”

I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Are Charlie and I the only sane people at the table? “Hold on, Wen. You actually think this is a good idea? How can we possibly come up with enough music to perform at the Bash? Halloween is less than a month away! I, for one, don’t have a lot of time to spare right now. I’m taking eight courses this semester!”

“I’m just saying it’s an interesting thought,” Wen says. “That’s all.”

Stella doesn’t seem fazed by anything we’ve said. She picks at a scab on her elbow. “Sure, we’ll learn plenty of other songs. I have a bunch of ideas. I was talking with Mrs. Reznik about this. We’re not going to be just some throwaway pop band. We won’t play any trash. No Desirée Crane–type sellout crap for us, only music that makes a difference. Our stuff will need to be”—she pauses for a moment, deep in thought—“
important.
Know what I mean?”

I don’t, but Wen nods.

Olivia still hasn’t said a word. I look over at her, wondering what she’s thinking. Trying to interpret her expressionless face, though, is like trying to read a blank wall.

I realize I’m biting my nails again so I stop myself.

But then it hits me. In all the excitement, I forgot the most obvious reason in the world why we can’t do this. The details of the Bash aren’t public knowledge yet, but I happen to have inside information. “Wait a minute. Hold on. How can we play the Halloween Bash when I know for a fact that this year’s band has already been chosen, and it’s going to be Mudslide Crush, same as last year?”

I turn to Charlie to get his reaction. My guess is he’ll recognize this as an injection of indisputable reality into this otherwise crazy conversation. But he looks away. His face reddens and he suddenly seems focused on a satellite hanging on the wall.

Across from me, though, Stella hardly bats an eye. “Mudslide Crush is going to play at the Bash. But Mr. Brenigan agreed that we will too. We’re splitting the night.” She grins again. “We play first.”

I open my mouth to answer, but I can’t think of what to say. I’m amazed.

Suddenly I’m looking at Stella in a new light. In her short time at our school I’ve seen her stalking the hallways, always alone, a supersized girl with an attitude as big as New England. She’s always seemed like trouble, maybe even a little unstable—definitely a person to avoid. And yet, sitting with her now I can’t help admiring her confidence. She really thinks we can pull this off. And the more I listen to her, the more I wonder.

Plus, I have to admit that the idea of sharing a stage with Scott and his friends wasn’t completely unappealing.

“But I just can’t,” says a quiet, scratchy voice to my right. “For one thing, my voice isn’t very strong. It doesn’t take much straining for me to go hoarse.”

“But you wouldn’t have to strain, Olivia,” says Wen. “We’ll get microphones.”

Olivia doesn’t seem convinced. “I’ll freeze up. I already told you, I get nervous. I’m not a real singer.”

“Listen, Stella,” Wen says, looking a little less optimistic than before, “maybe this idea just isn’t realistic. We shouldn’t do it unless all five of us are in.”

Stella sits back in her chair, looking thoughtful. For a long time, nobody speaks.

“Okay,” she says finally. “So like Mrs. Reznik said, it’s not going to be easy. But tell me this, guys”—she scans our faces—“aren’t you tired of living on the sidelines?”

No one answers. Stella looks directly at me but how am I supposed to answer a question like that?

“What’s the biggest problem with our school? I’ll tell you. It’s that most kids don’t step up. Why is it okay that only a chosen few are seen as important and everybody else is a nobody? Why do we accept the way things are? Are we afraid to make our own decisions?” She looks around the table. “I don’t know about you, but after
I’m
gone I don’t want to be remembered as just another face in the yearbook, another kid that people vaguely recall passing in the corridor.” She presses her big hands on the table. “Don’t you want to show the jocks, the popular kids, everybody you know, that you’re not somebody to overlook, that you’re exceptional? Aren’t you guys tired of being nobodies?”

I think for sure somebody’s going to protest but no one does.

Stella leans forward. “Look, Wen and I are in. Who’s with us?”

I glance around. I realize that the near impossibility of getting our act together in only about three weeks actually excites me.

Even so, I’m still surprised when, after a long, painful silence, I hear my own voice say, “Okay. I’ll give it a shot.”

Everyone turns to me. I feel my face heat up. I know I’m probably making a terrible mistake so I quickly add, “But only if everyone else agrees. And I’m only committing to one practice, that’s all. After that, if it feels like it’s going to work out I’ll keep going, but if it doesn’t I’m out.”

Wen is obviously surprised. Stella is beaming. After a moment Wen spins to his left. “Come on, Olivia. You can do this. I know you can. Say you’ll give it a try.”

Olivia looks up and takes a deep breath. For just an instant too long, her eyes linger on Wen. It’s subtle, but I notice. And I recognize that look. “Okay,” she says, practically whispering. “If everyone else wants to do this, I’ll try. But I can’t make any promises.”

Now all eyes are on Charlie. After a while he says, “Looks like it’s up to me then.” He laughs, but it’s an uneasy kind of laugh. “On the one hand, I’ve always
wanted
to be in a real band. But on the other hand, I think this might just be the stupidest idea I ever heard.” He laughs again, but everyone is still waiting. “Hey, guys, I don’t know what to say. I’m the worst in the world at making decisions.” Then an idea seems to come to him and I watch him reach into his pocket. “Tell you what,” he says, pulling out something and holding it up. It’s a quarter. “Let’s do it this way. Heads we go for it. Tails we don’t.”

And believe it or not, that’s how it happens. Charlie tosses the coin and we all watch it spin in the air. I hold my breath. By the time it lands in the center of the table all five of us are leaning forward, practically craning our necks to see what it says.

George Washington.

Everybody’s in.

CHAPTER 3

Following the light of the sun, we left the Old World.

—Christopher Columbus

WEN:
The Weirdest Music Ever Heard

One of the misconceptions about Lemonade Mouth is that we were a natural fit, like the individual parts of a five-piece puzzle. Not true. As a matter of fact, the way I remember our first practice we didn’t even get along.

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 of 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.

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.