What does not destroy me, makes me stronger.
—Friedrich Nietzsche
Lemonade Mouth’s “Ninja Earthquake”—an up-tempo dance rocker—plays over a montage of short, grainy black-and-white film clips of some of the stuff from Olivia’s book New Perspectives: People and Ideas That Changed the World:
A. 1955: ROSA PARKS, the future icon of civil rights, stands alone at a bus stop on a drizzly day in Montgomery, Alabama. A white couple walks past, ignoring her, as a bus approaches.
B. 1936: The astronaut NEIL ARMSTRONG, still a little kid, gazes at the sky as his arguing parents change a flat tire behind him.
CHARLIE (V.O. while the clips continue)
Things happen for a reason. Sometimes a new idea, like a rocket, takes a little time fizzing quietly in the background just before it blasts off and demands our attention.
C. 1902: THE WRIGHT BROTHERS, soon-to-be inventors of the airplane, try unsuccessfully to fly a crazy-looking jalopy, kind of like a giant lobster trap on wheels. It rolls for a distance but doesn’t leave the dusty ground. A solitary newspaperman shakes his head and walks away.
D. 1860: ABRAHAM LINCOLN, future president and world changer, wipes the sweat from his brow as he hammers up a sign announcing that he’s running for president. Behind him we see the sidewalk of a bustling town. People rush past without even looking.
E. ONE MILLION YEARS AGO: A bunch of CAVEMEN in a frozen landscape look bored and cold as another caveman rubs two sticks together to make fire. There’s a sudden spark, but only one or two of the cavemen see it. Most don’t even notice.
The music fades to …
EXTERIOR. A QUIET BEACH—EARLY MORNING, THREE YEARS FROM NOW
Barefoot Charlie strolls along the empty beach talking to the camera.
CHARLIE
The online notes thanking us for our Chet Anders appearance were still coming in, more and more of them each day. It was as if no one was used to hearing a message like ours and people needed time to process it before they were ready to react.
Hands in pockets, he continues walking in thoughtful silence. A seagull calls. Waves crash. Close to the camera, Charlie stops.
But then, to our surprise, Howit Iz, the third-largest independent news and culture magazine in the country, ran an opinion piece about us, calling us “champions for the unappreciated, a long-missing voice for the unpretentious.”
(a pause …)
I had to look up what that even meant.
INTERIOR. BRUNO’S PIZZA PLANET—AFTERNOON
Naomi Fishmeier holds open a copy of Howit Iz and reads aloud as the members of Lemonade Mouth, sitting with her in a semicircular booth, listen in stunned silence.
NAOMI
“Whether you’re tall or short, skinny or full-figured, bespectacled, bedraggled or bald, Lemonade Mouth wants you to know that this is your moment. The until recently unknown high school band from Rhode Island …”
NTERIOR. SMALL, MESSY LIVING ROOM, OPEQUONSETT, RI—AFTERNOON
Lemonade Mouth’s old nemesis, RAY BEECH, oversized and sad-looking in a faded Mudslide Crush T-shirt, sits at one end of a worn-out sofa. In his hand he holds the same article, and he reads it with an expression of both shock and defeat. Perched beside him on the sofa, oddly enough, is a large pink pig. The pig gazes over Ray’s shoulder at the article and seems just as forlorn as Ray.
RAY (V.O.)
“… has just opened the door for all of us, challenging people everywhere to redefine who and what we accept as cool, to take on the narrow notions of style and beauty that have been handed down to us from the bigwigs at …”
INTERIOR. THE OFFICES OF DECKER AND SMYTHE, BOSTON, MA—AFTERNOON
JENNIFER SWEET, assistant to Earl Decker, swivels her computer monitor slightly so Earl won’t see what she’s looking at—an online version of the same article. Earl is nearby, visible in his office, talking angrily on the phone. Jennifer continues to read silently, leaning into the screen.
JENNIFER (V.O.)
“… self-interested corporations. These kids seem to be saying that women don’t have to …”
INTERIOR. MUSIC ROOM, BLOCKSTON BAPTIST CHURCH, BLOCKSTON, DE—EVENING
In the out-of-focus background, church musicians are setting up for practice. In the foreground, GLENDA MAY and GLENDA LEE PUTRIDGE, the solidly built banjo-playing twins from American Pop Sensation, are seated cross-legged on the floor with their banjos at their sides. They’re staring at the Howit Iz article.
GLENDA MAY AND GLENDA LEE (V.O.)
“… have hourglass figures to be attractive, and men don’t have to be body builders.”
INTERIOR. BIOCHEMICAL LABORATORY, OPEQUONSETT, RI—MORNING
While BEVERLY DeVITO, lab tech at Stella’s mom’s lab (twentysomething, glasses, heavyset, friendly face), waits for a plant cell test to run, her rapt attention is on the article.
BEVERLY (V.O.)
“So you don’t own all the latest fashions? So your cheekbones aren’t prominent? Stand proud!”
EXTERIOR. A SMALL BOAT ON WHITEFISH LAKE, WHITEFISH, MT—MORNING
Fishing alone in the middle of a peaceful lake surrounded by mountains, Opequonsett High School’s vice principal, MR. BRENIGAN, appears stunned at the article he’s stumbled onto. Even vacationing in an isolated part of the country, he hasn’t escaped Lemonade Mouth. He gapes at the page.
MR. BRENIGAN (V.O.)
“So your hair isn’t perfect? So you’re not as young as you used to be? Hold your head high!”
INTERIOR. HIGH-RISE OFFICE, NEW YORK, NY—MIDDAY
With his feet up on his messy desk and a view of New York City skyscrapers, Chet Anders chuckles to himself. He’s reading the article too.
CHET (V.O.)
“The New Cool has arrived. Lemonade Mouth has ushered in a new era, and we are all invited to join them in being fabulous—just the way we are.”
INTERIOR. BRUNO’S PIZZA PLANET—AFTERNOON
Still in the booth listening to Naomi read, the members of Lemonade Mouth appear to be at a loss for words—except maybe Stella, who fidgets as if getting ready to say something. Naomi holds up her hand to stop her.
NAOMI
Hold on, Stella, there’s more.
(pause)
“And if that kind of revolution still isn’t enough for you, just wait until you check out the sound track. Lemonade Mouth’s mix of oddball instruments, together with their honest, emotional approach, creates a musical vibe that transcends description. It’s a sonic boom, a wild riot and a bright summer day all rolled into one. It’s quirky, raw and utterly unlike anything you’ve ever heard before—not to mention danceable as all get-out. So hold it high! Raise it up, America! Prepare yourselves for the revolution!”
Naomi lowers the article and sweeps her eyes across the five faces of Lemonade Mouth, who are all too dumbstruck to speak.
DISSOLVE INTO: A television set. Three beautiful women stand at a podium in the front of a crowded room. The women are surrounded by microphones, reporters and flashing cameras.
CHARLIE (V.O.)
(over the television sound, which is inaudible)
It was just the beginning. A few days later, three of the most famous supermodels in the world—Jara Shé, Rubia and Karen Sasky—got together for the first time ever to make a big announcement. The media was all over it.
SUPERMODEL #1: JARA SHÉ
After years of abusing our bodies through chronic starve-dieting, unnecessary surgeries and other unhealthy behavior, all just so we could achieve an unnatural look we were told was required by the industry, we are now announcing the launch of a new movement … a movement that demands change!
The crowd cheers. Fist-pumping.
SUPERMODEL #2: RUBIA
(thick Brazilian accent)
We here to protest the kind of corporate manipulation that idealizes a warped reality! We not gonna go along with it no more! We here to promote consumer demand for healthier body images in the media!
More shouts of approval. More camera flashes. The audience is eating this up.
SUPERMODEL #3: KAREN SASKY
Join us! Celebrate your individuality—the real, natural, beautiful you! Because nobody needs to be what they’re not! And none of us need to be …
… Freaky Fakey Phony!
The crowd goes nuts. Behind the models a curtain rises, revealing a lineup of ordinary-looking people—women and men, boys and girls—all smiling and looking confident in their ordinariness. Above them a giant sign reads: SNAP! REAL IS THE NEW BEAUTIFUL! Cameras flash like crazy.
CHARLIE (V.O.)
They didn’t mention us by name, but it was obvious where the idea came from. They called themselves “Supermodels for the New Pretty,” or “SNaP,” and they urged everyone, no matter their age, size or shape, to tap into their “inner supermodel.”
As the cheering and applause continues, we see a montage of shots of people watching the scene on TV:
A. Somewhere in middle America, four or five scruffy-looking truckers in a donut shop diner, all of them staring in disbelief at a screen above the counter.
B. Somewhere else, a group of preteen girls at a sleepover party, all arranged on a carpet lined with pillows. Their eyes are wide as they watch.
C. Seated on a leopard-spotted sofa, SISTA SLASH, Stella’s activist/anarchist, guitar-slinging hero (late thirties, spiky black hair with orange stripes, biker-tough), takes a bite from an apple and studies the television with interest. At her knee is an open copy of Howit Iz. Behind her we can see her huge, fancy-glitzy living room, which is decorated with dozens of wild-looking guitars and mementos from her impressive career. Far away, near the opposite wall, a young worker-guy vacuums a rug.
Back to …
The TV screen with the grinning supermodels. They’ve joined the line of ordinary people, and all of them are now waving at the ecstatic crowd.
Watching all this play out … well, it was incredible. And surprising, even for us. It wasn’t like any of us ever expected our song would set off that kind of a reaction.
EXTERIOR. QUIET BEACH—EARLY MORNING, THREE YEARS FROM NOW
Barefoot Charlie, deep in thought, is strolling along the waterline again, except this time the camera is at his side and moving along with him, with the ocean as the backdrop.
CHARLIE (CONT’D)
(to the camera, like a conversation with a friend)
It was like we’d tapped into a well of pent-up emotion across the country. And with all this publicity, our songs were getting an increasing number of downloads—not chart-busting numbers, but still. For a bunch of kids with no corporate backing it was more than we’d dared to hope for.
He looks out across the water. The wind ruffles his hair.
CHARLIE (CONT’D)
But as amazing as all of this was, our excitement was tinged with sadness. The time had come to say farewell to a friend. 
Rajeev’s stay in Rhode Island is over. All of us are accompanying him to the airport, where he’s flying off to his new life in faraway Lubbock, Texas. Nine of us are here: Lemonade Mouth plus my family plus Rajeev. There are too many of us to fit in our Volvo, so the Hirshes have lent my parents their Caravan, which was nice of them.
But this is no small goodbye. We all feel it’s important to be here.
The closer we move to the gate, the slower all of us walk and the quieter our conversation becomes. We’re like a band of heavy-hearted mourners, shuffling along the industrial carpeting while an overhead electronic voice announces arrivals and departures. Too soon, we reach the security gate. This is as far as the friends and family of passengers are allowed to come. But we’ve run out of ways to delay the inevitable. Rajeev already has his seat assignment. His bags are already checked. We linger a little while longer, but there’s no denying the truth.
There’s nothing left to do but say goodbye.
Rajeev starts by thanking my parents for maybe the hundredth time. He hugs Maa and then Baba and then Madhu (she’s biting her bottom lip and looking like a cloudy day) and then me.
“Stay in touch, Monu,” he whispers in my ear, giving me a squeeze.
“Of course” is all I can manage because of the heat in my eyes and the rock that seems to be weighing down my stomach. Saying goodbye to Rajeev feels worse than I ever would have imagined less than two months ago, back when I actually hid in my room just to avoid meeting him. In the weeks since then, I’ve grown accustomed to having him around. I already know I’ll miss his weird sense of humor and his water fights and the way he can make Madhu smile just by making a face at her. I’ll miss our easy conversations, the way I never have to explain certain things to him because we both grew up with the same kind of parents.
I feel like I’m saying goodbye to the brother I never had.
It’s Charlie’s turn next. He and Rajeev do one of those guy-handshake things that involve a long series of complicated steps and end in bear hugs. It’s sweet to watch, especially after the uncomfortable start I know Charlie had when Rajeev first arrived. That’s one of the things I love most about Charlie, how even when he feels strongly about something he’s still open enough to realize that his opinions might need adjusting. He takes himself seriously, but in a way, he kind of doesn’t. Charlie knows how to laugh things off and move on.
Rajeev is finished spending his final moments with Wen and then Olivia. Next comes the part I’m sure will be the hardest.
All week I think everybody has been feeling bad for Stella. Not that she’s been walking around in a depressed fog or anything. Olivia and Stella and I got together at Olivia’s two nights ago to listen to music and talk, and Stella seemed cheerful enough. But it doesn’t take a relationship expert to see that this is going to be hard for the girl. She and Rajeev have not only fallen headlong for each other, but even though I never would have guessed it, they turned out to be an incredible couple. Like curried chickpeas and hot sauce, they just go together.
Watching the two of them at this moment brings another lump to my throat. They both look haunted, like they can’t believe they’re saying goodbye. They’re gazing into each other’s eyes and holding hands. Not a word passes between them, and yet I can tell there’s real communication happening. It’s amazing to watch.
At last he kisses her forehead.
She puts her hand on his cheek.
He takes a step back.
After a heartbeat he turns and walks away, his expression resolute as he moves through the gate.
There. It’s over now. All of us step closer to Stella. Her eyes are red rimmed. Wen rests his hand on her shoulder. I hear Olivia whisper in her ear, “He’ll be back. Don’t worry, Stella. We’ll see him again soon.”
I want to believe it, but I don’t. I’ve never met Rajeev’s family—well, not recently, anyway—but I know how things are. Rajeev’s parents are superconservative, and they just arrived in this country. Stella is wonderful, but they don’t know that. Plus, Stella and Rajeev are going to be two thousand miles apart.
If you ask me, Lubbock might as well be the moon.
Everybody’s quiet as we watch Rajeev work his way through the short line, wheeling his carry-on luggage behind him. He steps through the metal detector. He’s on the other side now but he still hasn’t looked back at us. He’s walking farther away down the long hallway. It hurts. It feels like we’re watching a part of Lemonade Mouth disappear, like he belonged with us and is now being ripped away. Stella’s face is ashen. Charlie squeezes my hand and I can’t help feeling grateful that at least he isn’t going anywhere.
I can’t believe Rajeev still hasn’t looked back at us, but then, just as he’s about to turn the corner and out of sight, he spins around in a cool robot dance move that’s somehow both choppy and graceful at the same time, and he’s facing us again. He lifts an invisible lemonade cup into the air.
“Hold it high!” he calls out with a grin. “Raise it up!”
Even though my throat is tight and I feel my eyes welling, I smile. I think each of us feels the same way. We do what he asks. We all return the salute of our new, dear friend, holding up our invisible cups. Even Madhu, Baba and Maa.
I have no idea what’s going to happen to any of us next. Whatever it is, though, I can’t help thinking things won’t be the same without him. 
EXTERIOR. QUIET BEACH—EARLY MORNING, THREE YEARS FROM NOW
Barefoot Charlie is walking along the shore again, hands in pockets.
CHARLIE
It was a roller-coaster ride. Even as we said our sad farewell to Rajeev, the media firestorm we’d set off was still raging. After the Howit Iz article and the SNaP announcement, the online messages started pouring in. I mean, loads of them—it was nuts. Lyle wouldn’t admit it, but I think he was getting overwhelmed.
Charlie stops. He looks out across the water, which sparkles with sunlight.
CHARLIE (CONT’D)
And that’s when we got the message that changed everything. It was only a day or two after Rajeev left, and in the slew of other emails, we almost didn’t see it for what it was. We didn’t believe it was real.
INTERIOR. SOUND ROOM—EVENING, THREE YEARS FROM NOW
At a huge control board surrounded by stacks of amazing-looking sound equipment, Lyle Dwarkin, disheveled as ever, is being interviewed.
Uncomfortable in the spotlight, his voice is quiet as he talks with an off-screen interviewer.
LYLE
I thought it was a joke at first. Through the website we received a private fan message from somebody who claimed to be Sista Slash. You know, the Sista Slash, the protest rocker. I figured for sure it must be bogus, somebody trying to fake us out by using the name of a celebrity. But … well, a couple more messages came through and I looked into it, and … yeah. Turned out it really was her.
(shakes his head, still wowed by the memory)
She said she was impressed by what Lemonade Mouth was doing. She said she wanted to arrange a meeting.
There’s a pause as Lyle lets the enormity of that statement hover in the air.
INTERVIEWER (OFF-SCREEN)
So what happened when you told everyone?
LYLE
(shrugs)
Well … they could hardly believe it, of course. Especially Stella, who was like the biggest Sista Slash fan ever. After I showed her the message she didn’t speak for, I don’t know, maybe three whole minutes. I thought she was going to pass out.
Dear Ted,
I don’t know whether to feel good or to scream. My life just jumped into scary overdrive, and yet as I’m writing this I’m wondering how much you even know. Have you even received my last letter, the one where I told you that we were going to meet with Sista Slash?
Well, now we have. And boy, what a day it’s been.
We met her in a restaurant in Providence. She’s in New England anyway because the Take Charge Festival is this weekend (even you must have heard about that—the huge multiband benefit concert in Vermont? It’s all over the news), and since she’s putting up the money for the whole thing, she’s spending the week up in Vermont organizing the final preparations. She said she wanted to come down to Rhode Island to meet us, though, and in her message she said she’d be at a place called the Lone Star Veggie, a little vegetarian Texas barbecue restaurant on Federal Hill.
It was a good thing the trip from Opequonsett wasn’t long. For the whole ride into Providence, Stella was working up a major freak-out. “Are we going to be late?” she kept asking. “Oh god oh god oh god, can you believe this is happening?”
When we stepped into the restaurant, there she was, Sista Slash, the Lawless Queen of Anarchy. She was alone at a booth waiting for us. We recognized her right away, not only because a solidly built middle-aged rocker with spiky black hair striped with orange is kind of hard to miss, but also because there weren’t any other customers in the place at the time. When she realized how many of us had come (eight—us five plus Lyle, Naomi and Mrs. Penn, who drove) she started moving tables so we could all sit together.
Now, I’ll be honest. From what little I knew about Sista Slash—her shock-and-blast music; her reputation as a reckless, in-your-face crusader for a zillion different causes; even her whole retro-tough studded-jeans-and-leather look—I was secretly worried she would turn out to be a loudmouthed, full-of-herself, rock-diva type. But she wasn’t. She seemed genuinely thrilled to meet us. In fact, instead of talking about herself, she went on and on about how much she loves our music.
“Guys, I just have to get this out right from the get-go,” she said (she has a Southern accent—I didn’t know that, did you?), “I’m a huge fan of Lemonade Mouth. Your sound is outside of the everyday. It takes risks. It’s got an edge, know what I mean? An attitude. And, girl,” she said, turning to Stella, “I can’t get over that uke of yours! Holy crap! That little thing rocks!”
Stella was speechless. She turned purple.
Believe it or not, Sista Slash was super charming the whole time we were with her. And funny! You should’ve heard her talk about all the trouble she has getting her hair to stay spiky after wearing a motorcycle helmet. (“This darn do takes up more of my time than I care to admit, but I’m not giving up my ride, and appearances must be maintained!”) Or about how worried her accountant is because of the financial risk she’s taking on the Take Charge concert. (“The man is so frightened of taking chances that I think even if he was about to burst he’d be too scared to pee in the dark.”) Within minutes she had us all laughing and relaxed. The woman might have a pile of gold records, a Humanitarian of the Year award and the email address of the Dalai Lama, but Sista Slash is about as unassuming as they come. I began to see why Stella admires her so much. Even Mrs. Penn was impressed at how down-to-earth she was.
Sista introduced us to the restaurant owner, a tall, muscular guy named Pete (apparently Sista and Pete grew up together, another reason why she offered to make the trip down to Rhode Island), and he treated us like family. “Any friend of Sista’s is a friend of mine,” he said with the same Southern accent. After that he brought us plate after plate of the best vegetarian food I ever imagined. Who knew spicy barbecued zucchini with chipotle black beans would be delicious?
Then, about halfway through the meal, she dropped a bomb on us.
“Listen, guys,” she said, wiping her mouth on a napkin, “I have an idea I want to run by you. What would you say if I told you I’d like to squeeze Lemonade Mouth into the lineup of bands performing at Take Charge?”
I’d just bitten into a deep-fried artichoke and I almost coughed it up. By the sudden silence around the table, I think everybody else was just as shocked.
“Think about it,” she continued. “I’m talking maybe a fifteen-minute set, short but sweet. I know five days ain’t a lot of notice, but it’s an important cause and I think Lemonade Mouth would be a terrific addition to the festival. I’ll help you, you help me. What do you guys say?”
I looked around. Stella’s mom set down her fork. She looked too stunned to continue eating, and I guess she was waiting to see what everyone thought. But I knew exactly what my friends were thinking—that this was a colossal opportunity for us, that taking part in this huge event would bring us much further than APS or After Midnight with Chet Anders had. The Take Charge Festival is sure to be the biggest concert event of the whole year. Sharing the stage with famous, respected acts like the Swag Hags and Fade Out 321, not to mention Sista Slash herself, would establish us as real musicians, not just a novelty act of high school protesters. There would be worldwide satellite links and international coverage, and afterward, who knew what else? A retrospective concert album? Maybe even a documentary movie?
If ever there was a big time, this was it.
But needless to say, the idea scared the living crap out of me. My stomach had already tightened to the size of a marble and I had to fold my hands together in case they started to shake. Everyone stayed quiet. Stella, who probably wanted this more than anybody, looked at me and then quickly back down at the table, not pushing one way or the other. Wen squeezed my shoulder. I could tell none of them were even going to try to persuade me. They were just waiting to hear what I would say.
I think Sista Slash is a smart lady. I think she was aware of how we felt about the situation just from watching us.
“I understand about being scared,” she said after a pause, her voice gentle, even motherly. She was looking around at everyone, but I felt sure she was actually talking to me. “I’ll let you in on a secret. When I first started out I used to panic before every show I did. I’d break out in a cold sweat like you wouldn’t believe, and it got worse as the venues I played started to get bigger. But then I decided I had something worthwhile to say and that nothing was going to stop me from saying it, especially not myself. You kids have something to say too, something people need to hear. The truth is, up until now I’ve been wondering whether your whole all-for-one-and-one-for-all thing was just a marketing trick, but now that I’ve met you guys I can see that it isn’t. It’s real. And it’s exactly what Take Charge is meant to be all about.”
At last she turned to me and she touched my hand.
“Olivia, hon,” she said even more gently, “you can do this. I may have trouble balancing a checkbook, but trust me, I’m an excellent judge of character, and I firmly believe that you and your friends can do whatever you set your minds to.”
I’d been staring down at the tablecloth but I looked up at her now, and in her eyes I saw that this wasn’t about her trying to convince me to do her show. I could tell that she meant what she was saying. She really did understand the kinds of feelings I go through, and she wanted to help me. Realizing this, I felt my face heat up and I had to look away again. But when she squeezed my hand, I squeezed hers back.
The Universe really is a mystery, Daddy. Earl Decker is gone, but they say sometimes when a door closes a window opens. Maybe that’s what’s happening here. I’m told there are Take Charge posters not only all over the country but all over the world, each showing Sista Slash with her fist in the air and the slogan ACTIVISM MEANS DOING SOMETHING! IT’S YOUR WORLD! TAKE CHARGE! There’ll be over fifty thousand people in the live audience this Saturday. Tens of millions more are going to watch across the country and around the globe, from Burbank to Boston to Brussels to Bombay.
And Lemonade Mouth is going to be a small but real part of it.
We’re scheduled to play four songs.
We start at about 12:20 in the afternoon.
I can hear your voice now. You’re telling me to stay calm. You’re saying I need to take deep breaths and find some small part of this situation to focus on instead of letting the entirety of it overwhelm me. And, Daddy, that’s what I’m doing. I’m thinking about my friends and how much this means to them. I plastered my bedroom walls with life-size printouts of faces, hundreds of strangers who are watching me even as I write this. That was Sista’s suggestion. She told me that instead of trying to pretend the audience wasn’t there, what worked for her was when she went the other way, trying to imagine that she was being watched all the time. I know it sounds crazy, but she said it made her get used to the idea and after a while it didn’t affect her as much. Every now and then I look up at the images and I imagine they’re real. I try to see them without seeing them, without catching my breath, without my hands starting to shake.
I don’t know if it’ll work, but nothing else has, so I’m giving it a shot.
We go on in five days.
P.S.
It’s a couple hours later. You’re not going to believe this, but we just heard from Jess. She called to ask Brenda for two hundred dollars, and when Brenda asked her why, she only said it was for bills. Can you believe the nerve of that woman? And Brenda says she’s actually going to give it to her! I asked her why (it’s not like we’re rolling in spare money) and she told me it’s because Jess is her daughter. I understand that, of course, but it still infuriates me. It’s obvious that Jess uses people. When I said that to Brenda she just got mad.
“Don’t be so judgmental,” she said. “Neither of us can understand all the things she’s gone through, and anyway, her health is more of an issue than you realize.”
I was going to say something else but that last part made me stop. “What do you mean?”
Brenda sighed. She was opening cans to feed the cats at the time and she didn’t look up. “Your mother isn’t doing very well right now. Worse than normal, I mean. Her kidneys are failing and it looks like she’s got a tough fight ahead. This is serious.” She stopped what she was doing. She turned to me. “What I’m saying, Olivia, is I don’t know how long your mother’s going to be around. Understand me? Maybe you ought to keep that in mind before you get too high and mighty about her.”
I shut my mouth. I had nothing to say to that.
I had no idea.
Okay, so I’m keeping it in mind now. I’m imagining my mother’s life as kind of like an iceberg, and I’m trying to picture the entire thing, not just the part I’ve seen, the part sticking out of the water. I’m working on it, but it isn’t easy. Do you have any idea what it’s like to finally get comfortable feeling mad at somebody, only to have something else happen that makes you feel bad for them? That makes you realize your own problems are nothing in comparison with theirs?
Not only is it ironic and scary, it’s infuriating. 
Man, were we ever nervous. There was no denying this was huge for us. It wasn’t a record deal, but it was still a big opportunity.
In the few days of practice leading up to the Take Charge Festival, Stella was in panic mode. “We have to get this right!” she kept saying. “We have to be better than tight! The breaks need to be super clean and we need to absolutely nail the starts and endings!”
We worked hard on our set. We’d decided to begin with “Blastoff Castaways” and then move on to “Let Us Begin,” “Street Corner of Condiment Dreams,” and “Zombietown.” I knew this whole thing was tough for Olivia, but she seemed to be holding up. I was proud of her. We were sounding good too, and I was feeling pretty okay about how we were going to do.
And then an odd thing happened with Ray Beech.
It was the middle of the afternoon during a break from practicing in Lyle’s garage, and I’d volunteered to shoot into town on my bike to grab everyone some snacks—we’d already raided Lyle’s cabinets clean of chips and other munchies, so it was time to replenish the supply. Just as I turned the corner onto the pedestrian bridge over Warren Street, I noticed Ray Beech about a block away. From over the rails of the bridge I could see him standing on the sidewalk gazing through the display window of Goldy Records, probably checking out the new Dustbin Dukes poster.
Just then I heard a voice call out, “Ray! Long time no see, buddy! How’s it going?” I recognized that voice.
Scott Pickett.
I slowed my bike, peering down from the bridge. Sure enough, there was Scott with his girlfriend, Lizzie DeLucia, about half a block closer to me but on the opposite side of the street from Ray.
I’m not going to lie. I was still having a hard time with the Scott Pickett thing. He hadn’t stopped working for my dad, so I had to keep running into him, and it was always uncomfortable. Sure, he’d helped us with the After Midnight show and I knew that was good and everything, but come on, after all he’d done to us in the past, all of a sudden he was supposed to be our friend now? We were supposed to just forget everything? And yet everyone else seemed perfectly fine with it. They told me I was carrying the old grievance too long and that I should let it go. Even Mo.
I was trying not to make a big deal of it, but deep down it wasn’t easy for me to make the shift.
Now, in the street below me, Ray turned to see who had called to him. When he saw Scott I could tell this was some kind of an uncomfortable moment for them, because they both sort of froze for a second. Ray looked a little surprised and Scott just stood there waiting for a response. Nobody noticed me on the bridge overhead. I was close enough to Ray, though, that I could see happiness flash across his face at first, like a part of him was glad to run into his old friend. But that didn’t last. Just when I thought Ray was going to call out hello and maybe go over to talk, instead his expression went all dark and he stormed away in the opposite direction without saying a word. Only then did I notice that Scott and Lizzie were both wearing Lemonade Mouth T-shirts.
The entire incident couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, and like I said, nobody even noticed I’d seen it. It might not have seemed like a big deal either, except Scott definitely looked deflated afterward. I couldn’t hear him and Lizzie, but when they walked away they moved slowly, with Lizzie talking and Scott shaking his head and staring at the pavement. And that was it, it was over.
Still, it got me wondering. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen Ray looking like a sad little kid who’d lost a friend and didn’t know how to get him back. I remembered the morning in the high school field when everyone was helping us get ready for the After Midnight show, how I’d noticed him at the top of the hill watching us from his car. Eventually Scott had seen him too and started walking up to him, but just like today, Ray had left as soon as he realized people knew he was there.
So what was that about? What could it mean?
Could it be that Ray Beech, the biggest loudmouth I knew, wanted to mend fences but couldn’t see a way to make it happen?
Was it even possible that Ray secretly wanted to join Scott with all the other Lemonheads but was too proud? 
At last the enormous day arrived. Astonishing as it seemed to our five bewildered rabble-rousers (especially to your own Sista Stella, who had tried so long and hard to get the elusive Take Charge Festival tickets without any success), Lemonade Mouth was not only going to attend the massive concert event, they were going to be part of it. And all at the personal invitation of the great Sista Slash herself. My friends, emotions rise and bubble at the mere memory. And yet it would be false to suggest that my happiness was complete. Sure, I was excited—of course I was, who wouldn’t be thrilled to have all their musical dreams come true? But I was also a nervous wreck, and my mind kept going back to how much I missed Rajeev. How much more glorious the day would have been, I kept thinking, if only he could’ve come with us.
Now, in case any of you out there are thinking that Rajeev and I shared some unrealistic romantic delusion, that our relationship was just some blinding teenage summer crush gone sadly overboard, let me set the record straight once and for all about Rajeev and me, and how we saw ourselves: From the very beginning, Rajeev and I both recognized that we still had our whole lives ahead of us, and that teenage romances have a long history of fizzling out over time. We recognized this and accepted that the future—our future—was very much unwritten and still in question.
But that didn’t mean our feelings weren’t real.
Even though we couldn’t have foreseen what, if anything, lay ahead, we knew that we’d found something in each other that was rare and special. We both realized that we wanted the same kind of magic in our lives—not the fairy-tale-fake kind of magic where people go nuts for each other like sharks at a feeding frenzy and then move on. No. We wanted the real thing, the kind based on true friendship and respect, and in our own way, that’s what we were already building. Yes, there was a huge spark between us from the moment we first met, but somehow we knew to take things slowly, enjoying that fleeting moment for the true magic it was. I think that’s what made our time together so powerful.
So on the morning of the Take Charge Festival, there I sat, sweaty-palmed and secretly pining for my lost Rajeev, as my family and friends and I were transported from the hotel in two stretch limos on our way to what was sure to be the biggest event of Lemonade Mouth’s existence.
The festival was happening on a three-hundred-acre dairy farm in a tiny rural town called Stamford, Vermont. We were set to be the second act, squeezed in between Li’l Jedediah and the Blast Babies, and we were told to arrive two hours early. Unfortunately, everybody else seemed to have the same idea. The ride from the hotel should have taken thirty minutes (because we were a last-minute addition to the schedule, there were no hotel rooms available for us closer to Stamford), but it took us longer because even three hours before start time, the highway was already jammed with people on their way to the show.
At least we’d lucked out with the weather. It was a beautiful, cloudless day.
Finally we arrived at the festival grounds. The traffic cop waved us through the main gates, and we all went quiet as we took in the scene: a parking lot full of bicycles, buses and cars, and then, behind it, a giant bowl-shaped field swarming with people. The stage was set up in the center, surrounded by a patchwork of blankets and tents. Many of the concertgoers seemed to have camped overnight. It would be another hour and a half before the first act began and already the crowd was bigger than anything I’d pictured.
“Whoa,” Mo said.
I glanced toward Olivia. Squeezed between Charlie and Mrs. Reznik, she had a determined look as her gaze stayed focused on her knees.
Our limo driver followed the directions of the traffic guys, weaving us slowly along a dirt path toward the back of the stage as people drifted all around us. In the line of food vendors to our far left I could see Penelope, the Wieners on Wheels van. The bright yellow wasn’t hard to pick out. Wen’s dad and Scott Pickett were already setting up to sell hot dogs. Wen had arranged this with Sista Slash, sort of a last-ditch attempt to help his father get the struggling business to catch on. There were advantages to having connections with the concert organizer. (“If this doesn’t work, I don’t think anything will,” Wen had confided to me.) Closer to our limo, some of the people were holding up signs with slogans like:
ROCK THE BALLOT BOX!
SUPPORT HURRICANE DISASTER RELIEF!
WANT A BETTER WORLD?
THEN GET OFF YOUR BUTT AND DO SOMETHING!
Faces strained to see us through the limo’s tinted glass. We were being treated like VIPs, and I admit, I loved every second of it. It was an amazing rush.
At last we reached an enclosed area near the stage. Roadies leapt from the chaos to help unload our stuff. Sista Slash was nowhere in sight (I later found out she was with one of the concert sound teams in another part of the giant field), so we were met instead by a guy named Al Pinkerton, who was in charge of all the incoming performers. He came over right away to introduce himself. A tall redhead with a wireless headset strapped to his ear, he was super nice and even had a copy of our first CD, Live at the Bash. He asked us to sign it for him.
“So great to meet you guys!” he said, reaching out to shake everybody’s hands, starting with mine. “I’m a big fan—you have no idea how excited I was when Sista first told us you were going to play today.” He really did know our music too, and to prove it he sang his own quick rendition of “Back Among the Walls,” which was totally flattering.
I guess what I’m saying is that everything was going well. The morning wasn’t even over yet and already the day looked like it was going to be the crowning achievement of our lives. We’d landed the gig of the year, our music was about to be legitimized in front of a gigantic, eager audience and the air practically vibrated with hopeful excitement, a general feeling of Great Things About to Happen. Even Olivia, who we’d all been worried about, seemed to be taking the chaos with surprising calmness.
And that’s why it was such a crushing blow when it all started to crumble so quickly.
Disaster was already heading our way, preparing to slam us like an unstoppable freight train.
It started less than five minutes after the roadies unloaded all our instruments and equipment near the stage. We were just waiting for the tech crew to let us know they were ready for us. Other than the band members, nobody else needed to stick around, so our families and the rest of our entourage had started wandering away to check out everything happening out on the field.
That’s when Olivia’s cell phone rang. She looked surprised to hear it.
“I meant to switch my phone off,” she said, and she seemed to hesitate as if considering whether or not to even answer it. But when she checked the screen she saw it was her grandmother, who’d stayed at home to watch us on TV because she’d been worried about doing a lot of walking on her bad legs. I figured she was calling to wish Olivia good luck.
Wen and I had been killing time leaning together against a giant crate, so we were right there with Olivia as she answered the phone. As soon as the conversation started I could tell from her expression that this wasn’t a good-luck call. Something was wrong. Olivia drifted into a corner, away from the sounds of people talking and the equipment guys working. I couldn’t hear what they said, but I noticed Olivia’s hand rise to her mouth. There was a lot of listening and nodding. At last she put the phone away, and when she came back she looked as pale as a phantom.
“What’s the matter?” Wen asked.
“Brenda just got a call from Sunshine Haven,” she said, “the place where my mother lives.” Olivia had told us earlier that week about her mom and how she’d come back after so long and all the stuff that was going on with her. It was mind-blowing. “It was one of the social workers there. They … um … they had to call an ambulance. My mother’s on her way to the hospital.”
That took a moment to sink in.
“Holy crap, Olivia! That’s terrible!”
She nodded. I knew she was mad at her mom about a lot of things—and who could blame her? But now her arms were crossed and she was biting her lip as she stared at the ground. It looked like there was a battle going on inside her.
At the edge of the stage a few yards away, Al Pinkerton was calling out orders to his crew while somebody from Li’l Jedediah’s backup band was tuning a twelve-string through a gigantic Marshall amp. Charlie and Mo weren’t far. They’d been with a couple of the roadies—and Charlie had been taking a video of all the activity—but the two of them must have realized something was going on, because they came closer now. We filled them in.
“So, what does this mean?” Charlie asked. “Your mom’s going to be okay, right?”
“I don’t honestly know. All they could tell Brenda was that earlier this morning my mother seemed short of breath. She insisted she was fine, but then a few minutes ago they found her collapsed on the floor. The social worker thinks she’s been lying about going to her dialysis treatments.” Olivia glanced around at us. I could see she was scared. “My grandmother’s been hinting that something like this might happen. Now I guess the situation is really serious—maybe even life-threatening.”
Mo’s eyes went wide. “The social worker actually said that?”
Olivia nodded again. “She told Brenda that if the hospital can’t clear her system fast enough, there’s a chance that … well … that this could be really bad.” She was hugging her shoulders tight and her gaze dropped to the ground again. She almost looked like she was getting smaller.
Mo stepped closer and wrapped her arms around Olivia’s shoulders. Wen touched her arm. “Olivia,” he said, “whatever you need, we’re here for you. Just tell us what you want to do.”
But in Olivia’s expression I could pretty much see the answer. Her grandmother was at least three hours away from her daughter, almost certainly too far to arrive at the hospital in time to be with her during the crisis. From here in southern Vermont, though, the drive to Pittsfield would only be about an hour.
I glanced at Charlie, Wen and Mo. They seemed to be realizing the same thing I was—the same obvious truth Olivia was struggling to admit to us and maybe even to herself. In the distance the concert crowd was growing quickly. People were pouring in through the main gate and side entrances along the fence while recorded music started to play through the field speakers. Near the front of the stage a line of cameras and journalists was already beginning to buzz with activity. I took a moment to grieve. We’d come so, so close. Painfully close. But Olivia was more important, and there was no question about what we needed to do. In the span of about three seconds, Mo, Charlie, Wen and I looked around at each other, each of us nodding one at a time.
We made our decision. Nobody even hesitated.
Wen was the one who broke the brief silence. “You need to be with her, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
Olivia bit her lip. “I’m so sorry. I know it’s crazy after … well, everything, but she’s still my mother, and what if something bad happens? What if I don’t ever see her again?”
“Olivia, you don’t have to explain,” I said. “Of course you need to be there with her. We’re going to do everything we can to get you there.”
Her eyes welled up. “Are you sure? We’ll never make it back in time for our performance slot. We’ll lose our one big chance.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Charlie said. “If there’s a way to get you to Pittsfield, you’re going.”
Olivia looked like she was going to cry. There was no time to stick around, though, and Charlie, Mo and I were already sprinting toward Al Pinkerton. We needed to let the concert organizers know what was going on, and to figure out how on earth we were going to do what we’d just promised. Al was finishing up with a couple of lighting equipment guys, and we quickly explained the situation to him. He listened quietly. We hated to disappoint him—and Sista Slash and everyone else—but this was bigger than a concert.
Al was surprised but he was really nice about it. “I’m sorry this is going on for you guys, but no worries at this end. We squeezed the schedule to fit you in, so now we’ll just have to unsqueeze a little and adjust. Hey, this isn’t the first change of the day and it won’t be the last. When I explain it to Sista, I’m sure she’ll understand.”
Unfortunately, things were a little harder when we asked him if we could get Olivia a ride to the hospital.
“Look, guys,” he said, suddenly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, but we’re moving a lot of bands today. I can spare one of the limos long enough to get you back to your own cars at your hotel, but I can’t send it all the way to Pittsfield and back. I feel bad about that, but Sista Slash has a lot on the line here and we need all the transportation we have.”
I realized this meant we had a big problem. Going all the way back to the hotel meant heading in the opposite direction from where Olivia needed to be. Plus, it meant we’d have to face the crawling traffic coming back toward the concert again. We didn’t have that kind of time. Olivia needed to get to the hospital as soon as possible. But without another option, what could we do?
I looked across the field and saw Penelope. All at once I realized we did have another option, one that could get Olivia out of there fast. Long lines of customers were already forming at most of the other food vendors, but at Wieners on Wheels there was barely anyone. It felt like fate. That eyesore of a van might not have been much of a money maker, but this wouldn’t be the first time she would come in handy.
So that’s how it happened.
Minutes later we were strapping ourselves into the seats at the back of the wiener van—Olivia, Mo, Wen, Charlie and me (it wasn’t like we were going to stick around at the festival and perform without her, right?), plus Mrs. Reznik, who happened to be nearby when we rushed over. Wen’s dad was great. As soon as we told him the situation he closed up shop in a flash. Scott insisted on coming with us too. He was in the copilot seat. Out in the field, Al had a bullhorn and was calling for the crowd to clear a path for us. It was like the parting of the Red Sea. People stood on either side of the little grass boulevard they’d created, each of them staring in wonder at the curious VIP van with the giant wiener on top as we each said our silent, sad goodbyes to the Take Charge Festival. It was the last we’d see of the crowd that day. 
That was a long afternoon I’ll never forget.
So, we left the festival behind us and headed to the hospital where Olivia’s mom was being rushed for emergency treatment. We arrived just in time. Olivia’s mother was already there and hooked up to a bunch of tubes and the doctors were about to transfer her into the intensive care ward. I saw her, but not for long. She was behind a curtain, so I got only a quick glimpse of a dark-haired lady on a hospital bed with machines all around her. But that was okay—it wasn’t why we’d come. The point was that Olivia got a couple of minutes with her.
Olivia described to us afterward that her mother was short of breath and maybe a little confused, but she recognized Olivia and told her she was surprised to see her and grateful that she’d come. Olivia said she could tell that her mother meant it too—she truly was glad to see her. Which obviously was a big deal. Seeing the look on Olivia’s face when she came back to the waiting area and told us all this, well, I think that one thing alone would have been enough to make it all worthwhile.
After that, we waited.
Olivia sat hunched beside me. Other than when she texted her grandmother with updates, she mostly stared at her feet. The rest of us did what we could to keep a conversation going, if only to distract Olivia from worrying too much. But really there wasn’t anything anybody could do to help except be there with her. Overhead, the televisions were showing reruns of stupid old sitcoms. Their laugh tracks felt out of place against the harsh reality of sick people and anxious families all around us. The hospital was busy that day. Maybe it’s like that every day. I don’t know.
It seemed to take forever for the doctors to come out with more news and I kept glancing at Olivia. All this waiting seemed agonizing for her. Like I’d done so many times before, I tried to imagine what it must feel like to be her, to have lived her life and to have had the kinds of sad experiences and disappointments that I could barely conceive of.
“Thanks for … you know, doing this,” she said to me quietly, reaching for my hand. “I’m grateful to all of you guys for being okay with this.”
“Of course,” I said. “You’re our friend. I think it’s great that you wanted to come, that you’re here for her.”
She shrugged. “She’s my mom.”
She went quiet again, but for a while I couldn’t help mulling over what she’d just said and what it meant. It was finally hitting me, something I hadn’t fully appreciated until that moment. This whole situation with her mom’s reappearance had been so difficult for Olivia, a real struggle, and yet even though her mother had serious problems, even though Olivia had plenty of reasons to be furious at her, she’d still wanted to come here to the hospital to be with her. Was that acceptance? Forgiveness?
I didn’t know, but whatever it was, it struck me as amazing.
I looked around the room at all the other people who’d come to help support Olivia and my eyes lingered on Scott. He’d been quiet, sitting in a chair along with the rest of us, waiting for news. A few months ago I would never have imagined that Scott Pickett of Mudslide Crush would give a crap about anybody but himself. And yet there he was. It wasn’t the first time either, although I’d been refusing to see it. I’d been simmering in my resentment about the past for so long, but now I had a new idea, an idea about forgiveness. It occurred to me that even though it isn’t always easy, maybe it was better than letting bitterness and anger slowly eat me up from the inside.
It’s funny how everything happens at once. Just as Olivia was finishing her zillionth update to her grandmother, I noticed through the big window that Sydney was walking across the parking lot to the main entrance. There was no mistaking her long stride and that cascade of black hair. Following behind her was a whole crowd of people, our families. They’d all left the Take Charge Festival to pick up the cars from the hotel and had finally made it through the traffic to join us here. I was happy to see them. I knew Olivia would be too. I was just about to point them out to everyone when, from the opposite end of the waiting area, the double doors opened and the doctor in charge of Olivia’s mother appeared. She was looking right at Olivia.
All of us stood up.
It was clear she had news.