Free Lemonade Mouth by Mark Peter Hughes

Sydney walked in again from the kitchen. By then George had finally turned off the computer and gone to his room. “You have a lot of homework tonight, hun?”
    Hun?
    “No,” I lied. “I’m almost done.”
    “Great. I need a break. Mind if I watch a little TV?”
    I gave up on my essay for now. “Fine. Whatever.”
    She plopped herself down on the other end of the sofa and folded her legs. Not only could I smell her perfume, but the light from the window made her eye shadow sparkle. My mother, a high-flying executive who lived in Manhattan since the divorce seven years ago, hardly wore any makeup at all. What was my dad doing with a woman who painted her eyelids glittery blue?
    Sydney picked up the clicker and turned on some afternoon talk show. A few seconds later she said, “Oh, I discovered a bag of Fig Newtons. Want one?”
    “No, thanks.”
    “Sure?” She leaned toward me, raised an eyebrow and held out a cookie. “They’re
reeaaally
good. . . .”
    The way she was bending forward suddenly gave me a perfect view of her cleavage, like two oversized honeydew melons loosely wrapped in a cloth napkin. It was all I could do to maintain eye contact.
    “Uh, no,” I said. “Honestly, I’m not hungry.”
    “Okay.” She pulled back the cookie and put it in her own mouth. “Suit yourself.”
    I decided to try and focus again on my essay but my eyes kept sneaking glances at her. After a few minutes, I got up and locked myself in the bathroom. When I went back out there, I decided, I’d be stronger. I wouldn’t even look at her.
    OLIVIA:
Wish You Were Here

    Dear Ted,
    I know it’s only been a few days since my last letter, but I was in a used bookstore this morning and I saw this collection, Tomorrow’s Castaways: The Complete Essays of Phineas Fletcher. Do you remember reading me his Little Castaways stories when I was five? Remember “The Red Canoe”? I used to spend whole evenings imagining you and me in that canoe drifting merrily to wherever the river happened to carry us. I haven’t thought about that in years, and suddenly here was this collection. It felt like a good omen (I know, I know—you don’t believe in omens, but I do ) so I grabbed it. Anyway, I thought it might brighten up your cell.
    I’m concerned about Nancy. As I write she’s purring like a lawnmower but lately she hasn’t been mixing as much with Barbara, Hillary or Laura, who she used to adore. But then again she’s about two decades older than them in cat years. I think she’s feeling her age. Plus, I think the poor thing lost some weight. She’s like a feather on my legs.
    Brenda, on the other hand, is in a frantic mood. Not only did she agree to put up a table at the church fair this weekend (I went down to the beach and collected a bagful of quahog shells to paint and sell as ashtrays) but she’s also working on four rush orders, including personalized announcements for a triple bar mitzvah in Michigan. It’s a big job with all new artwork so I’ve hardly seen her in days. Last night she even worked through “I Love Lucy.” But we’re glad business is finally picking up.
    You asked how many friends I have at my new school. Well, if you count the lunch ladies and the librarian I guess I’m up to three. Yup, I’m practically in the running for homecoming queen (ha ha). The truth is, it’s pretty tough here. Seems like most of these kids have known each other since birth and, as you know, it’s always been hard for me to open up. I want to make friends, of course—you have no idea how much. It’s just that I feel like the only return item in a store full of happy customers. I’m trying to fit in but I keep freezing up. But I’m still on the lookout for a kindred spirit. Well, I guess there is this one boy. His name is Wen. Very serious, a Scorpio I think. For some reason I’m okay around him. Maybe because he kind of reminds me of you.
    Oh, here’s a good one—ready for a laugh? Mrs. Reznik, the music