Lola Zola and the Lemonade Crush (10 page)

Lola packed up the pitchers, handed Melanie the cashbox, the MP3 player and speakers, and asked her dad to carry the card table outside. Then she sweet-talked
her mom into backing the Mustang out of the garage and parking it in the driveway. It didn't take much. Those peppers had worked their magic.

“I guess I'm doing the right thing,” said Lola's mom, reading the “yes” message on her eight-ball fortune-telling key chain.

Minutes later, right after Buck tweeted “Best lemonade ever @Buck's limo-lemonade stand” with a link to the address and a map, the battle of the bands began. On one side of the street, neighbors could hear Buck's techno-dance music blaring from the limo's speakers, while on the opposite side of Lemonade Gulch, Lola and Melanie danced to the catchy notes of “Lemonade Crush.” From under their improvised umbrella, the girls eyeballed Buck and his crew as the boys set up a long buffet table and placed an array of expensive crystal pitchers atop a yellow-and-white-striped linen tablecloth.

“Don't break that glass, boys,” said Mr. Wembly, poking his head out of the car window. “That's imported crystal.”

“How much did it cost?” asked Max, always curious.

“Not as much as this car, but more than the furniture in your house,” said Buck's father, annoyed at being asked such a nosy question.

“Even more than my trunk of magic tricks?” asked Magic Max while trying to make some coins disappear up his sleeve.

“Yes,” said Mr. Wembly. “Now pick up those coins and get back to work.”

Hot Dog and Max took the not-so-subtle hint, retrieved a bulky package from the Caddy's gigantic trunk, and unraveled a glitzy gold banner advertising “Boingo Bits,” Slime Bucket's father's company. While the two boys wrestled with the long canvas, they accidentally draped the banner around their bodies. Buck looked up from his comic book and smirked.

“Hey, knuckleheads, put the canvas over there,” Buck said, pointing to the buffet table.

Meanwhile, Mr. Wembly negotiated a business deal on his cell phone, the chauffeur polished the limo, and Buck went back to his video game.

As Lola stirred a pitcher of lemonade, cars arrived full of people Lola recognized, sort of—
Lawrence of Arabia
fans, silver-haired ladies from the beauty salon, meditators from the Unity Center, and thermal springs die-hards who whizzed by the previous weekend en route to the natural mud spa on the edge of town.

“Beat the heat! Try Lola's magical mixture!” shouted Melanie, over the din of retro pop songs.

“Buy a cup from Buck,” rapped Hot Dog and Max. “And meet the adrenalin gremlin.”

Buck paraded up and down his yellow carpet runner, balancing a cup of lemonade on his head, lip-synching the words to his blasting techno-tune.

Not to be outdone, Lola and Melanie flung open the doors of Lola's mother's Mustang, as Mrs. Zola started the ignition so she could, as instructed, play an instrumental version of “The Lemonade Crush” on the CD player. Adrenalin pumping, lungs bursting, the Twister Sisters sang and danced all around the Mustang while Bowzer sat on the hood of the car thumping his invisible tail to the upbeat music.

“Beat the cactus heat with a brand new notion.

Come on, desert dancers, do the pucker potion.

Feel the mighty magic when you give it a sip.

Its hot lemon zing tastes better than catnip.

Yes, do the pucker potion and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.

Yes, do the pucker potion and twist, twist, twist.

Yes, do the pucker potion and crush, crush, crush.

Yes, do the pucker potion with us, us, us.”

Cars pulled up and parked on the crowded street. Doors slammed. Hibernating neighbors left air-conditioned homes to venture outside and gawk at the dynamo sales team dancing, Lemonade Crush-style, around the Mustang.

Ruby Rhubarb watched from the sidelines, until Lola spotted her and waved her over to join in the dancing.

“If you insist, child,” said Ruby, who hadn't danced since her Harry had passed. “It's been a long time since my sweet husband and I used to tear up the dance floor. Let's make like a line, ladies—and do the Lemonade Crush.”

Side by side, Lola, Melanie and Ruby swung their hips, took three steps forward and three steps back, turned around full circle, then stretched their arms out in front of them and made like they were squeezing lemon halves. All the joyful singing and dancing stirred the crowd's curiosity.

“Where's the fountain of youth dew?” asked an older woman.

“Right here,” said Lola, handing the woman a cup of lemonade.

“Where's the disc jockey?” asked a teen with purple hair.

“Right here,” said Buck, pointing to himself.

“Where's the energy-enhancing soul-purifier?” asked a meditator, carrying a book of affirmations.

“Right here,” said Buck and Lola simultaneously.

Confusion reigned. People didn't know which side of the street to choose. Which lemonade was the authentic one, the best one, the one with healing properties and fountain of youth promises? Some chose sides, but others
waffled back and forth, from Buck to Lola and back again, sampling lemonade amid the patter.

“Did Lawrence of Arabia drink this on the set?”

“What's in the fountain of youth dew?”

“Is there a difference between your wrinkle remover and his energy enhancer?”

“Will this lemonade help me stop smoking?”

“Which one of these lemonades purifies the soul?”

*** *** ***

After the first hour, Buck boasted he sold seventy-five cups of lemonade—whoop, whoop—but Lola had Melanie keep track of who made the purchases, and sure enough, his father had bought thirty of those cups. Melanie even observed Mr. Wembly instructing his chauffeur to pour the sweet stuff into a jug in the limo's trunk.

Melanie, meticulous at recording her freckle tab, kept a detailed log of “Cups Sold to Date” on a poster board that she periodically held up for the crowd to applaud. Lola sold one hundred and fifty cups of her magic pucker potion.

Agitated by Lola's lead, Buck's father demanded a conference with his son, pulling him over by the shirt collar and spit-whispering in his ear.

“Do something! On the double, son!”

Buck saluted his father. “Yes, sir, Dad, Colonel.”

Trying to hide his anxiety, Buck sauntered over to Lola's lemonade stand.

“Lola Zola, may I please try a cup of your lemonade,” he said in a voice dripping with honey—a very non-Buck-like voice.

“Beat it, Slime,” Lola said under her breath.

“Please,” said Buck, not budging. “All I'm asking for is one little sip.”

With the crowd's eyes upon them, Lola had no choice but to pour Buck a cup of her secret-power pucker potion.

“You can have a whole cup,” said Lola, trying to out-sucrose Mr. Faux-Honey.

Buck took a sip, swooshed the lemonade around in his mouth, gulped hard for dramatic effect, and then went bananas—swaying from side to side, doubling over onto the street, clenching his belly, and moaning something about liquid poison.

“I'm sick,” Buck groaned. “My guts are exploding. I feel like I'm going to barf.”

The crowd backed off, out of vomit range.

“Oh, my stomach, it hurts,” gasped Buck, looking around to see how many people were watching him.

“Knock it off,” said Lola. “You're acting like a dweeb.”

“A total nut,” shouted Melanie.

“I'm not a nut and I'm not acting,” whined Buck, keeling over in the middle of the street, lying there, writhing in pucker pain.

“My intestines are unraveling. I could be dying,” he groaned.

Bowzer trotted over to sniff Slime's nose and make sure he was still breathing.

“Help me,” moaned Buck. “Lola's lemonade is killing me.”

The crowd stirred, though Mr. Wembly, still in his limo, forever on his cell phone, barely paid attention. Meanwhile, a young woman pressed her hand to Buck's forehead. “He feels hot,” she said to no one in particular, to everyone. “Maybe we should call an ambulance.”

Lola imagined Buck rushed to the emergency room, where he would convince the doctors Lola had poisoned him and should be reported to the beverage police.

Lola eyed Bowzer sniffing Buck's armpit, looking for a cozy place to nap. The cat, who often parked himself in Lola's armpit, must have smelled a foul odor (BO!). emanating from the Buckster, because he forsake Buck's pit for a spot on the writhing boy's chest—a purrfect perch for a closer examination of the suspicious bellyacher. Bowzer, the cat detective, tickled Buck's nose with his long
whiskers, presumably to see if the ailing boy was too sick for a tickle giggle. Slime, not sure what to do about the cat and his wild whiskers, couldn't suppress a smile, which soon turned into a laugh, which proved to be slam-dunk evidence that Buckster was a faker.

Once Buck's silliness was exposed, the crowd became Lola supporters, muttering…

“Now we know who's a fraud and who's real.”

“Imagine lying in the middle of the street and trying to pull a stunt like that!”

“He must think we're all fools.”

“Lola's got the real lemonade, the one with all the magical powers, and that's the lemonade we want,” shouted the same woman who just moments ago had put her hand on Buck's forehead.

The crowd swelled, and people, waving dollar bills in their hands, swarmed Lola's lemonade stand chanting, “LO-LA-LO-LA-LO-LA.”

Seconds later Lola ran out of lemonade, so she darted back inside her house to grab more pitchers from the fridge. On her way to the kitchen, she almost crashed into her parents, who were slow-dancing in the living room. What were they doing acting mushy at a time like this? Could it be that her lemonade had Cupid powers too?

*** *** ***

Maybe with her parents falling back in love and lemonade sales skyrocketing, the worst was behind Lola.

Maybe not.

From inside the kitchen, Lola heard a buzz in the street—a bouncing ball, excited voices.

“Is that him? In person? Do you think he'll give me his autograph? He's so handsome—so muscular—so friendly. I watch him on television—never miss a game—can't believe he's here.”

What was all the commotion?

She peered through the kitchen window to see her neighbors crowd around a tall—never seen anyone so tall—guy wearing a sports jersey and bouncing a basketball.

Sonny “The Rising Sun” Wilkerson—the best basketball player in the entire history of Mirage and the star of an upcoming Boingo Bits video game—had arrived to endorse Buck's brew as a favor to Slime Bucket's dad. Awestruck fans quickly switched lemonade sides to join The Rising Sun and his dribbling ball.

By the time Lola raced back outside, there wasn't anyone interested in her magical pucker potion.

“I'm back,” she announced, holding two more pitchers of her peppery beverage.

No one cared. Bowzer yawned.

Melanie whispered to Lola, “I've never seen a real live basketball star before.”

“Not you too, Mel.” Lola snapped her fingers. “Snap out of it, Mel, you're starstruck.” Wide-eyed, Melanie gazed at Sonny Wilkerson, while Lola hissed at the Buckster and vowed to beat her lemonade blues.

*** *** ***

Chapter 10

“Melanie Papadakis,” said Lola, roller skating across Lemonade Gulch in her orange shorts and lemon-yellow T-shirt. She stared at Melanie (a sudden traitor?), standing in line for The Rising Sun's autograph. “If I weren't your best friend, I might tell the world how many freckles you have.”

“Don't you dare,” said Melanie, just one person away from actually talking to Sonny “The Rising Sun” Wilkerson. The athlete, in his team sweats, was leaning against the Cadillac limo-lemonade stand, high-fiving fans and urging them to shoot for their dreams.

“My freckle tab is supposed to be a secret,” said Melanie.

“And we're supposed to be best friends,” said Lola.

“All I want is an autograph,” Melanie said, turning to smile at the most popular sports star in town. She stepped up to the front of the line, ready to buy her token cup and get it signed.

Figuring there was only one way to reach her starstruck friend, Lola linked pinkies with Melanie and said, “Pinky, pinky, never finky…”

Would Melanie even remember their secret oath? A half a second crawled by on its way to a full second before Melanie uttered the words Lola was waiting to hear.

“Knuckle, knuckle, always chuckle,” Melanie said, knocking knuckles with Lola and snapping out of her goo-goo-eyed trance.

The Twister Sisters returned to their mini-outpost on the other side of the street to watch in horror as Hot Dog held up a sign that read, “300 Buck-Cups Sold.” Slime was ahead by fifty cups and now would surely win the lemonade challenge unless Lola thought of something fast.

“Lola Zola, is this what you call a business?” asked Ruby Rhubarb, shaking her head in dismay and clutching her emerald-green pocketbook, which accented her designer attire—a purple and green sundress with a fitted jacket, matching heels, and a pair of real emerald earrings.

Lola never dreamed her lemonade benefactor would enter the commerce zone. Yet there she was, standing haughtily before her, and tsk-tsk-tsking as Mr. Wembly shook hands with the crowd, nursed a cup of what must have been lemonade, and every once in a while slapped some cologne on his cheeks.

“I think it's time you turned this situation around, child,” said Ruby Rhubarb. “That's what I told my Harry when our first business, Donut Delights, was on the brink of bankruptcy. People started counting calories, so we changed our business to Donut De Lites and just sold the donut holes, baked, not fried.”

“Got any suggestions?” asked Lola.

“Bluff it,” said Ruby Rhubarb. “Play it close to the vest and bluff. Never let the competition know what's really going on.”