Lemonade Mouth (11 page)

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 horse 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.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve talked to her. She may be a little different, but she seems all right to me.”

“Yeah, sure.”

By now he’s been working on my neck so long that I worry he might leave a hickey. I wiggle away. “So anyway, have you heard who’s in this band?”

“Not really,” he says. “I only know about Stella and that loser Charlie Hirsh. Oh, and Olivia Whitehead. Now there’s a real whack job.”

I ignore that. “Nobody else?”

“Why do you care?” He slowly runs his finger down the back of my blouse, sending a wave of electricity through me. “Those kids are nothing. The guys and I are going to blow those freaks away. Come on, let’s not talk about this anymore. We’re wasting time.” I feel his hand try to reach under my shirt again.

“Well,” I say, twisting away, “I was waiting to surprise you with this but, the thing is . . .” He follows me across the sand and puts his face directly in front of mine, his smile betraying only a hint of impatience. “. . .
I’m
one of those freaks.”

Even in the darkness I can see his eyebrows draw together. He stares at me for a second and then pulls back.

“We haven’t agreed on a name yet or anything—but we’re not bad, actually. You should hear us.”

He keeps staring. “You’re kidding, right?”

“It’ll be fun. We get to share the same stage on the same night. Isn’t that great?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “That’s just . . . wonderful.”

“But I thought you’d be
happy.
”

He shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Look, Mo, it isn’t that I care about you being in a band. It’s just that I’m pissed off that
this
band is taking half our night from us.”

I try to give him a playful smile. “So it’s
your
night, is it?”

“Yes. Well, it was supposed to be anyway, until Brenigan carved it up. We had big plans for this year’s Bash. I think you should tell Stella and the others to back off.”

“I don’t understand. Why should this be a problem?”

He shrugs. “I guess I’m just a competitive guy.”

For a long, quiet moment I watch his silhouette watch me. This reaction is surprising. In fact, he seems so ruffled about the Halloween dance that I decide not to mention about the Holiday Talent Show. Let him warm up to the idea first. I move closer and snuggle next to him. “Did you ever consider that maybe I’m competitive too?”

“Okay, but Olivia Whitehead? Charlie Hirsh? Come on, Mo, you guys are way out of your league.”

“What!” That’s when, laughing, I pop him one on the shoulder. “Scott Pickett, don’t be such an arrogant jerk!”

“Not
you.
I don’t mean
that.
” He laughs, but only a little. “It’s just that I honestly have no idea what you’re doing with those losers. Take my advice and tell them you’re not interested.” Then he comes in even closer. “Look, you’re a special person, Mo. I really like you. A lot. You should know that.”

I don’t answer right away. How can I? He takes my hand and a supernova of excitement renders me temporarily incapable of rational thought. Eventually I manage, “I really like you too.” I lean in and we kiss again.

A part of me realizes even now that he really
is
being a jerk about the band, but I decide that deep down he knows it and is going to feel bad about it later. Anyway, I don’t want to argue. After another long kiss we sit quietly and stare up at the stars. Eventually, he stands and helps me to my feet so we can head back to the campfire.

“So?” he whispers as we round the dune. “What did you decide about the Bash?”

“Decide?” I give him my best mischievous smile. “Well, after considerable thought I decided
not
to dump you for what you said.”

“What
I
said? About your friends?”

“About my band mates.” I grin and take his hand again, leaning my head against his shoulder the whole way back to the fire.

OLIVIA:
Bikini-Clad Policemen on Old-fashioned Bicycles

Dear Ted,

I’ve been sitting here in the backyard for almost an hour gazing into the woods, listening to the crickets and thinking. I get some of my clearest thoughts down here in the grass. And today I have a lot to mull over. I spent most of the afternoon at Wen’s house. Remember that talent show I wrote you about? Well, I decided to give it a shot after all. I figure it’s time for drastic measures unless I want to stay friendless for the next four years. When the time comes to go onstage, I guess I’ll just have to do whatever I can to stifle the panic. (She thinks, “Happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy thoughts . . .”) Very un-Virgo of me, I know. Impressed? un-Virgo of me, I know. Impressed?

Anyway, Mrs. Reznik is helping us. We decided we’re only going to play our own music because anything else we attempt sounds like crap (our ukulele player’s word, not Mrs. Reznik’s). So this morning in Social Studies Wen mentioned that he and I should maybe try and write some songs together. I guess I misunderstood because when I showed up at his house this afternoon he seemed surprised to see me. But it worked out fine. He introduced me to his father, Norman (Wen’s clone—short, wiry, baseball cap, big smile), his little brother, George (Eddie Munster with freckles) and Norman’s amazing girlfriend, Sydney. Sydney works in a used bookstore in Providence and loves to read so we had a lot to talk about. Plus she’s an artist. Listen to this: she painted a whole case of soda cans, each with its own bikini-clad policeman on an old-fashioned bicycle. So cool.