“I come bearing gifts!” Harriet announced as she walked through her front door a half hour later. “A dozen vegetable samosas! And new logo sketches for the T-shirts!”
The boys crowded around the table and commenced a feeding frenzy. They fought over who got more samosas. Then they fought over the logos.
Didi had redrawn the animal in the first logo; now it looked less like a dinosaur and more like a lizard, which was as close as you could get to a recognizable skink. In the second logo option, she’d replaced the flowery script with jagged, angular letters. Way more rock and roll.
Didi had scrapped the Superman-style third option altogether, replacing it with a line drawing of a guitar with the band name written graffiti-style underneath. She’d added bright colors to each drawing, so they all popped. The girls had liked all three choices, and Resa had thought it a good idea to let the band choose. Easier said than done.
Joe voted for the guitar. Sam voted for the encircled band name, and Larry loved the skink.
“We gotta keep it real,” Larry said, devouring a samosa. “Remember why we’re doing this in the first place.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Joe said, pushing his curtain of hair to the side. “And that was your fourth samosa. I had only three.”
“Well, I can’t give it back to you now,” Larry replied. Turning to Harriet, he said, “Tell Didi thanks for the logos. They’re really good. I’m calling it—she’s the next Nico Fangelo.”
“Who?” asked Joe.
“You know, the guy who painted that famous ceiling? In the church?” Larry looked annoyed at their lack of comprehension. “Seriously? Nobody knows who I’m … he’s super famous!”
Larry wiped his hands on a napkin and walked out of the room, shaking his head. “Some people have no culture.”
Harriet watched him go, then helped herself to the last samosa.
“Nicofan—oh!” she exclaimed, a stroke of insight hitting her. “I got it! Michelangelo!”
The next day at lunch, Harriet relayed Larry’s message to Didi.
“Yeah, I think I’ve heard of Nico Fangelo,” Didi said, laughing. “He was on the short list for the Sistine Chapel, I’m pretty sure.” She sprinkled salt onto a hard-boiled egg.
“Your brothers are hilarious,” said Resa, who’d finished eating. “My brother is just a pest.”
Amelia took a long sip from her milk carton. “Ricky’s a sweetheart.”
“You say that because he hasn’t tried to turn you into a persimmon yet,” Resa replied. “Just you wait.”
“But my brothers can’t agree on a logo,” said Harriet. “And I need to get Lucy the design today or there won’t be enough time to make the T-shirts.” She begrudgingly took a bite of her peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. She preferred peach jam to grape jelly, but when she’d told Joan that earlier, Joan had said, “I prefer a beach vacation to serving sandwiches.”
“The problem with the band is there’s too many cooks in that kitchen,” said Resa. “Every group needs a leader for exactly this reason, to make executive decisions. Don’t the Skinks have a leader?”
Harriet considered. “Joe’s the front man and the lead singer.”
Resa reached over to grab the pencil perpetually tucked behind Amelia’s ear, then passed it and a napkin over to Harriet.
“Write Joe’s number down, and I’ll go text him in the lobby,” said Resa. “I’ll tell him to make a final decision.”
Cell phone use was prohibited during the school day except for emergencies, and even then it was allowed only in the school lobby during lunch. Most students had a very liberal definition of what was an emergency, and so the lobby was often filled with kids dashing off quick messages during lunch. As long as you did it fast, before an old-school teacher like Ms. Davis passed by, it was usually fine.
“C’mon, Didi,” said Resa, grabbing the napkin and standing. “You can be the lookout for Ms. Davis.”
“Oh, goody,” grumbled Didi, but she followed Resa out the double doors of the cafeteria.
Amelia took a bite of her turkey-and-cheese sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “Hey, did you get the park permits for Friday? I don’t want to get kicked out.”
“Done!” Harriet sang. “Sam’s best friend’s dad’s sister works for the parks department, and she’s taking care of the permit.”
“Well, if Sam’s best friend’s dad’s sister’s on it,” said Amelia with a smile, “what could go wrong?”
“That’s what I always say,” replied Harriet.
“Don’t forget I’m meeting you at dismissal to go to the high school,” Amelia reminded Harriet while she crunched on a carrot stick. “We’ll figure out the orders and sizes.”
“I just hope we can untangle the mess I made,” Harriet said, forcing herself to finish her sandwich, gross grape jelly and all.
“Oh, we will,” said Amelia with confidence. “I am a master untangler. I should be bottled and used after shampooing.”
Harriet laughed. “Good to know. But still, I’m sorry you have to spend all afternoon doing this.”
“Please. You’re doing me a favor, getting me out of tennis,” said Amelia. “I can use a break from Resa kicking my butt.”
“Yeah, I was surprised that you two are playing tennis together,” said Harriet. “When we started working on the lemonade stand, you couldn’t stand each other’s guts.”
Amelia shrugged. “Resa’s bark is worse than her bite. She’s really funny—and she’s teaching me a lot about tennis. Though she can be a tad competitive.”
Harriet laughed. “Just a tad.”
As if on cue, Resa ran back into the cafeteria, earning a rebuke from Joan, who called after her, “You’re gonna break your neck!” Didi trailed behind at a safe distance and normal speed.
“Well?” asked Harriet. “What’s the verdict?”
“Option number two,” said Resa, panting. “The circle. He thinks it’s classic.”
“Hey, Miss Lightspeed,” called Joan from the food counter. “Can you pick up that tray you knocked over in your big rush?”
“I guess I’m not the only one living life in the fast lane,” said Harriet.
Resa groaned as she headed back to deal with the tray mess. “You’re also not the only one on Joan’s bad side.”