Lemonade Mouth (9 page)

“Pull those out, Andrew!” my mother eventually snapped, practically leaping over her plate of half-devoured roasted duck to pull a plastic tube from the boy’s nostril. “Tim, sit quietly in your chair! All right, tell me again Clea—what did your professor say about the destination-enhanced consolidation?”

Leonard wasn’t talking much, typical for him. But he took this break in the story to cram a hunk of braised tuna into his mouth.

“Yuck,” I said. “How can you eat that?”

Either he didn’t hear or he was ignoring me. Still, I couldn’t help picturing the poor fish with a hook in its mouth. Some people argue that fishes can’t feel pain, but of course they can. Studies have proven it. Just because you can’t see the agony doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

I picked at my dinner—asparagus with grilled goat cheese. Back when I first went veggie, my mother worried it would backfire, as if her foolish daughter was certain to give herself some nutritional deficiency or something. “She’s always getting these ideas that don’t work out,” I overheard her saying to Leonard at the time. “Like when she was four and decided to put her hand on the hot stove to see what it would feel like. Or the time when she was ten and she got it into her head to stand up on her bicycle seat and ride downhill. She broke her arm in two places! Did you know that she once stuck a fork into an electric socket just to see if her hair would stand on end? Sometimes I don’t know what to do with the girl. She can be so stubborn. She gets these crazy notions and doesn’t think them through.”

Wrong, mother dear. More than four months of no meat and so far I still had all my teeth.

I was surprised out of my reverie by a cold feeling on my arm. I looked down and realized that one of Tim’s spastic moves had knocked over his water, which now was soaking into my sleeve. I jumped back from the table.

“Pissant! Look what you did!”

“Don’t make a scene, Stella!” my mother hissed. She dove across the table, righted the cup, and hurled a linen napkin on the dark stripe that was expanding on the tablecloth. “It’s not the end of the world. Just wipe yourself off!”

I clamped my mouth shut. Formerly easygoing, my maternal forebear had lately become the Queen of Stress.

Before long the step-monkeys were fooling around again and Clea’s narrative had picked up right where it had left off. I once again found myself on my own, with the choice of watching the step-monkeys try to knock each other off their seats, listening to a seemingly endless story I couldn’t follow or watching my mom and Leonard devour their cuisine of cruelty.

With this family, was it any wonder I’d hacked off my hair?

As Mom nodded in time to Clea’s droning voice and Leonard stuffed his face, my thoughts crept back to the conversation with Mrs. Reznik.

Revolutionary. That was how the old lady described the music those kids and I had made in detention. It was a ridiculous word to use, of course. It was just a stupid commercial played on weird instruments. But still, the word had been turning around in my head all day. And even though at first I’d been appalled by the thought of doing the talent show, I now found myself toying with the idea. After all, playing that dumb song had probably been the most fun I’d had since arriving in this godforsaken part of the country. And it wasn’t as if I had anything else to look forward to in my life at the moment.

Eventually, Clea put her monologue on pause so she could go to the bathroom. After a minute or so of silence my mother said, “What about you, Stella? Anything special going on at school?”

I was surprised at the question. It was the first time all week that my mom had expressed an interest in my life. But then again, I hardly ever saw her anymore now that she was busy being the big-shot biochemistry boss. Back in Arizona we used to do things together, just the two of us. We’d ride the Rio Salado bike path or go out to coffee and chat. Now everything was different. “Support me in this, Stella,” she’d said as we’d packed our bags. “The timing might not be ideal, but this is an opportunity of a lifetime, a chance for me to do something I really believe in.” But now that she’d dumped me into a new state and left me to fend for myself in an unfamiliar school, where was
her
support for
me?

Just as I was about to open my mouth to answer the question, my mom’s cell went off. “Sorry,” she said, checking the screen, her forehead wrinkled with concern. “It’s the lab. I have to take this.” She put the receiver to her ear.

It was while watching my mother listen to the phone that I had a revelation. I may have chopped back my locks, but there was still something very, very wrong with my life. And if anybody was going to fix it, it wasn’t my family. I was on my own.

For some reason a question occurred to me:
What
would Sista Slash do?
Surely that outspoken crusader for human rights, personal dignity and self-reliance wouldn’t take this wholesale relegation to the backseat of life without a fight.

And that’s when I made my decision.

Revolutionary. It meant causing a shift or change in the status quo. And that was exactly what I needed right then.

After my mom finally folded her phone shut I said, “Mother, in answer to your question, as a matter of fact there
is
something special going on at school. Or at least there’s about to be.” For dramatic effect, I speared an asparagus with my fork and brought it thoughtfully to my mouth.

“And? So what is it?”

Everybody was looking at me now. I let them wait. “I’m going to join a revolution.”

My mom looked puzzled. Tim and Andy glanced at each other and rolled their eyes. After a long quiet moment, Leonard, his mouth still full of dead tuna, said, “Well, good for you, Stella.”

I got the distinct impression that they all thought I was nuts. But just as I was about to explain about the band, Clea appeared at her chair again. Even before she sat down she plunged right back into her story and everyone’s attention returned to her as if there hadn’t been any break at all.

On the outside, I kept calm. On the inside, I felt like the fish on Leonard’s plate.

MOHINI:
Mysteries and Moonbeams

Thursday afternoon I find another mysterious note, this one tucked between the strings of my bass, a folded piece of neon-yellow paper with my name on it.

FLUKE OR DESTINY?
WHICHEVER IT WAS, WE NEED TO TALK.
COME TO BRUNO’S PIZZA PLANET TODAY
AFTER SCHOOL.
—S

“Weird,” says Naomi. “It’s from Scott?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “Doesn’t look like his handwriting.”

“No? So who’s ‘S’ then? And what’s this about fluke or destiny?”

“I don’t know.”

I can practically hear Naomi’s imagination whirring into overdrive. “Hmmm . . .” she says. “A mystery. Okay, let’s consider the possibilities. Sarah Obinsky? Sabina Boch? How about Seth Levine. Maybe he likes you and thinks you’re
destined
to be together?”

“Seth Levine does
not
like me,” I say, fighting a smile. Seth is the senior class president. He doesn’t even know I exist.

“How can you act so nonchalant about this? Somebody sent you a secret message and you have no idea what it means or who it’s from. Aren’t you intrigued?”

I nod. Of course I am. I just can’t figure it out.

“So are you going to show up to Bruno’s?” Bruno’s Pizza Planet is a popular hangout a block from the high school.

“I’m not sure,” I say, still staring at the message. And that’s when an idea hits me. “You don’t think . . . ‘S’ could be Stella Penn, do you?”

Naomi’s forehead wrinkles. “Stella? I don’t know. Anything’s possible, I guess.”

I hope not. I don’t think I want anything to do with that giant, scowling girl. With her freaky hair, towering height and that bizarre jacket she always wears around the school, she blends in about as well as a chainsaw in a chamber orchestra. Even worse, she seems like some kind of political fanatic.

“That’s all I’d need. What if Stella has some crazy idea like maybe we should play that song until they stop killing whales or something?” I crumple up the note and shove it into my pocket. “That’s it, I’ve decided. It’s too weird. I’m not going.”

But of course I do go. Even though I have Trig homework, even though I ought to be doing the pre-lab questions for Biology tomorrow, and even though I’ve been planning to go to the library to research the Battle of Brandywine Creek (I’m doing a four-page extra-credit essay for Mr. Dewonka), I’m too curious to keep away. After my last class ends I stay late to talk with Mr. Prichard because my Social Studies presentation is coming up at the end of next week and I’m completely flipping out about it. But after that I hurry over to Bruno’s. Five minutes later I’m rushing through the front door.

For midafternoon, the place is pretty busy. I scan row after row of tables that look like flying saucers, more than half of them full. With a star-painted sky, giant papier-maché craters and aliens and weird lights that glow in ghostly neon, Bruno’s is decorated to feel like you’re eating in outer space. Even the little stage area where Bruno sometimes features local musicians—mostly acoustic guitarists playing quiet, eerie chords—is decked out to look like the moon. Bruno’s Pizza Planet is a junk food joint with extraterrestrial ambitions.

It takes me a moment to spot anybody I know, but then, under the Milky Way, I see her waving me over.

S for Stella. Mystery solved.

I almost spin around and head back outside, not only because I figure that anything to do with Stella Penn means trouble but also because sitting with her at the circular booth in the corner are all the other kids from detention.

But Stella calls to me before I get a chance. “Mo!” she shouts across the room. “We’re all signed up!”

I’m not sure what she means, but her piercing screech temporarily halts the conversations at the other space ships.

“For the
talent show
!” Stella calls, as if it should have been obvious. That’s when I notice that there’s something different about her appearance today. Then I realize what it is. Her short, spiky hair is no longer black. It’s green. I also notice the Patties sitting at a booth at the opposite end of the room. Patty Norris and Patty Keane are juniors, Ray Beech and Dean Eagler’s girlfriends. They turn and I’m sure they see me but they don’t say hi, even after I wave. It bothers me but I don’t let it show.

I approach Stella’s table as calmly as I can, like meeting up with this unlikely crew is something I do all the time. Sitting next to Stella on one end of the rounded bench is Wen. He’s nodding his head and I’m wondering if he’s in on this with her. Aware that the Patties are probably watching me, I set my backpack by the table but I don’t sit.

“But, Stella,” I say. “We already talked about this. It’s not going to happen.”

“Sure it is. I wrote our names down on the sheet. It’s official.” She takes a sip from a paper cup of what looks like frozen lemonade. “That’s why I asked everyone to come here today. Mrs. Reznik is right. If we’re going to win, we have a lot of work to do.”

I’m not sure how to react. She’s obviously out of her mind.

I glance around the table. Wen is still smiling, but it’s kind of a nervous smile. Charlie is eyeing Stella uneasily as if her head might start spinning at any moment. Olivia just stares at the table like she’s imagining she’s somewhere else.

Stella curls her lip at all the silent faces. “Look, this is our cosmic shot at immortality. The winner of the talent show wins respect, right? Don’t you want that?”

For a few seconds nobody answers. “Well okay, maybe . . . ,” Charlie says finally, as if he’s worried that this green-haired oddity might bite him, “but even if that’s true—and I’m not saying it is or it isn’t—we won’t win. We’re not polished enough.”

“No problem,” says Stella. “All we need is a little experience. Which is why I
also
signed us up for the Halloween Bash.”

This is getting weirder and weirder. “But . . . how did you pull
that
off?” he asks. “How did you get anybody to even
consider
us for the Bash?”

She grins. “It’s amazing what a vice principal will agree to if he thinks his biggest problem student is finally working on something productive. Why don’t you sit?” She levels her gaze at me and points to the empty seat. “Join us.”