“The Skinks broke up?” Didi repeated. She was peering out from her cinched-tight hood.
“Wait,” said Resa, taking a seat next to Harriet. “I thought your brothers had a whole bunch of different bands—the Rancid Skinks and the Rambling Skinks and … others I don’t remember.”
“They stopped doing those and decided to get really serious about classic rock,” said Harriet. “They’ve been the Radical Skinks for a while.”
“Got it,” said Amelia, sitting down on the other side of Harriet. “So the Radical Skinks broke up?”
Harriet started constructing another marshmallow pyramid on the table, this one in front of Didi. “Well, the band’s not playing together anymore, but it’s not because they hate each other.” She cast her eyes downward. “It’s me they hate. I broke Larry’s guitar.”
Harriet didn’t often feel sad. Angry, yes, frustrated, sure, excited, restless, curious—all the time. But not usually sad. Now, however, she was heavy and low-down, feeling a lump form in her throat. Few things felt as bad as when her brothers were all mad at her.
“What happened?” asked Resa.
“It was an accident! I was chasing Zappa around the living room because she had a chocolate bar in her mouth, and skinks cannot eat chocolate. It’s like skink kryptonite or whatever.” Harriet began making a marshmallow pyramid in front of Resa. “So I didn’t see Larry’s guitar lying there, and I ran right over it. There was a craaaaack sound…” Harriet paused for dramatic effect. “And that was the end of Herbert.”
“Herbert?” Didi asked.
Harriet nodded. “That was the guitar’s name.”
“Larry named his guitar?” asked Amelia.
Harriet furrowed her eyebrows. “Of course. Doesn’t everybody?”
Resa opened her mouth to reply but thought better of it.
“It took Larry almost a year to save up enough to buy Herbert,” said Harriet. She finished Resa’s pyramid and started constructing one in front of Amelia. “By the time he saves up enough for a new guitar, Sam will be graduating and off to college. The band’s done for. And it’s all my fault.”
“So I guess that means no American Supahstars,” said Amelia, sighing.
“No to American Supahstars.” Harriet shook her head sadly. “But yes to the chipmunk challenge. Ready, everybody? Begin!”
The girls had no idea what the chipmunk challenge was, but it didn’t take long to figure it out. They watched as Harriet tucked one, two, then three marshmallows into her right cheek, making it bulge like an overstuffed suitcase. She repeated the process with her left cheek. She tried to smile, but her cheeks were stretched taut and wouldn’t budge.
Amelia could cram only two marshmallows into each of her cheeks. Didi, still nervous about Zappa and not a fan of choking hazards, opted for a single marshmallow on each side. Resa, though, fueled by her competitive zeal, easily stuffed three marshmallows into each cheek and then, while all the girls watched, readied to jam a fourth marshmallow in as well.
Didi shook her head and grabbed it out of Resa’s hand, shoving it back into the bag. Even soft, pillowy marshmallows could be dangerous if you weren’t careful.
Harriet clapped enthusiastically for Resa. Then she started chewing.
There was a moment of silence as all four girls set about the difficult task of consuming a huge number of jumbo marshmallows, all at once.
“Owmushduh agetacos?” Resa asked, her mouth full.
Didi swallowed, then said, “Sorry, we don’t speak Marshmallow.”
Resa made a big show of chewing, and chewing, and chewing, then said, “How much does a new guitar cost?”
“Five hundred?” ventured Harriet. “A thousand?” She picked up the curling iron from where it had landed on the table and squeezed it with her hand to open and close its clamp. It looked like the jaws of a shiny metal animal.
“Try one hundred and twenty-five dollars,” said Amelia, showing them the results of a quick internet search on her phone.
“We made more than that selling lemonade,” remembered Resa. She had a definite glint in her eye. Harriet had only just started to get to know Resa, but Didi, who’d been Resa’s best friend since kindergarten, knew exactly what that glint meant.
Resa was getting an idea. And when Resa had an idea, nothing would stop her until that idea had been fully realized.
“You want to run another lemonade stand?” asked Didi. “To raise money for the Skinks?”
“Nah,” said Resa. She readjusted her yellow stretchy headband around her curls. “Lemonade’s great and all, but that’s small potatoes. I’m thinking of something bigger.”
“Big potatoes!” cried Harriet. “I love it.” She leaned over her chair to plug the curling iron into the outlet in the wall.
“I’m thinking of something like this,” Resa explained, picking up a men’s T-shirt that was lying across the back of a kitchen chair. It was black with the words PASTA APOCALYPSE on it and a guitar dripping blood onto a plate of spaghetti.
The girls looked at her, completely lost.
“Are we talking about big potatoes or killer spaghetti? And also, have I entered the Twilight Zone?” Amelia asked.
“Merch!” announced Resa. “What better way to raise money for the Radical Skinks than to sell Radical Skinks merchandise? And who better to do it than the Startup Squad?”
Amelia was biting her lip as she considered. “Merch? You mean, like, Skinks T-shirts?”
“That’s exactly what I mean!” said Resa. “Maybe hats, too. The possibilities are endless.”
Amelia was nodding. “That actually could work.”
Resa raised her eyebrows. “Actually?”
“It’s a great idea,” said Didi. “After all, the Skinks totally saved us when we had our lemonade stand. That concert they put together was amazing.”
“And remember how many Skinks fans showed up?” Amelia said. “We were turning people away.”
“The Radical Skinks don’t just have fans,” Harriet said. She clamped the curling iron onto the end of her pigtail and rolled it upward in one deft motion. “The Radical Skinks have megafans. They have fanatics.”
“So … how would it work?” asked Amelia. She was a fan of big ideas only if they had a lot of small details to hold them up and make them solid. “We’d sell the merch and give the profits to the Radical Skinks for a new guitar? How would we sell it? Where? When?”
Resa frowned. Sometimes Amelia’s attention to detail felt like a pin popping her high-flying schemes.
But Harriet didn’t mind. The questions got her thinking. “Another show!” she exclaimed. She released her hair from the curling iron, revealing a perfectly corkscrewed lock. “We’ll plan a concert at the park. This time, I’ll get the right permits—trust me, I learned that the hard way. At the show, we’ll sell the merch! That way, not only will the T-shirts make money, but they’ll also create buzz!”
“We’d have to do it soon,” mused Amelia thoughtfully. “The Battle of the Bands is at the end of the month. There’s not much time.”
“Oh, there’s plenty of time!” Harriet was rolling up her other pigtail in the curling iron. “I work fast. And I know people—” Her dark eyes widened. “Oh! Oh! Oh!”
“Did you burn yourself?” Didi asked with concern.
“Huh? No, it’s just I know the perfect place to get T-shirts made!” Harriet replied. “It’s this little gift shop that just opened a few blocks down on Walnut Street. It’s a terrible location—no foot traffic over there at all.”
Harriet hadn’t known foot traffic from foot fungus until a few weeks ago, when the four of them launched their lemonade stand. But Harriet was a fast learner and never forgot a face … or a name … or a charming expression like foot traffic.
“The owner is this super-sweet old lady named Lucy,” Harriet continued, “and she has the cutest tabby cat she brings to the store—Rambo. He’s orange with—oooh!”
“You burned yourself!” Didi winced.
“No, no, I’m just thinking—I should go ask her right now!” Harriet jumped to her feet, forgetting that the curling iron was still wrapped around her pigtail. Its cord was yanked out of the wall.
Didi covered her eyeglasses with her hands. “I can’t look.”
Harriet erupted into a fit of laughter. “Okay, that time I did burn myself a little. But it’s okay! Ears recover fast!”
She uncoiled her hair, unleashing a tightly curled ringlet, and tossed the curling iron onto the crowded kitchen table. Then she rushed into the hallway and started rifling through a heap of shoes. “How many T-shirts will we need?”
“But we don’t even have a design yet,” Amelia called. “Maybe you should slow down there, sister.”
Harriet shoved her left foot into a red rain boot, even though it wasn’t remotely cloudy outside.
“I live life in the fast lane,” she replied. “There’s no slowing me down.”
High heels, hiking boots, and stinky men’s sneakers all flew through the air as Harriet searched for the rain boot’s match.
“I can design the logo,” offered Didi. “I mean, if you all want.”
“Aha!” Harriet bellowed, finding the other boot and jamming her foot into it. She slid on a denim jacket and skipped back into the kitchen.
She grabbed Didi by the shoulders. “Of course you should design the shirt, you artistic genius, you!” Then she spun to face Amelia. “We can figure out all the details later!”
Before any of the girls could reply, she did a little jazz spin, announced, “Harriet, out!” and bounded through the front door.
“Feel free to use the curling iron!” she shouted over her shoulder as the door closed behind her.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Amelia picked up the curling iron, turned to Resa and Didi, and asked, “Anyone know how to use this thing?”