Lola Zola and the Lemonade Crush (12 page)

Buck slammed his fist on the buffet table, causing the lemons to jump in their bowl. “I said, ahem, no sipping on the job!”

“Not even for Hot Dog or Magic Max?” asked Melanie.

“Not even,” said Buck, sneering.

“Not even for The Rising Sun?”

“Well, um, he's different,” argued Buck.

“Yeah, he's a person and we're zeroes,” said Melanie. She thought in numbers a lot, ever since she had started freckle-counting.

“You were gonna tell me Lola's secret recipe,” said Buck, hoping to change the subject.

“I'll tell you a secret,” Melanie said, leaning over and whispering in his ear. “We're going to strike!”

Before Buck could respond, Melanie turned to Max and Hot Dog and said, “Are you going to let him turn your dry mouth into a desert?”

The two boys shrugged their shoulders. Melanie forged ahead.

“Are you going to stand out here and die of rehydration?” Of course she meant dehydration, but she always jumbled her prefixes when her adrenalin was pumping.

Hot Dog and Max shrugged their shoulders a second time.

“This lowdown sliver of Slime won't let us have a drink or go to the bathroom! I don't know about you guys, but I can't wait forever.”

“Me neither,” mumbled Max.

“Ditto,” said Hot Dog, jumping up and down. “This waiting is killing me.”

“We're not going to tolerate these pathetic working conditions anymore, are we?” said Melanie, repeating the line Lola had told her to say.

The boys wimped out. They shrugged their shoulders for the third time. Union organizers, they weren't.

“There's only one thing left to do,” said Melanie, “and I'll tell you what it is in just a minute.”

Ducking behind a crowd of Rising Sun groupies, Melanie pulled out her walkie-talkie, pressed the On switch, and whispered, “Agent 002, help! What do I do now?”

From inside her kitchen, where she was consolidating near-empty peanut butter jars, Lola dropped her spoon and seized her walkie-talkie.

“Agent 315, the operative word is
scribble
.”

“Gotcha,” said Melanie. “I mean, copy.”

The two girls signed off in unison. “Operation Instigate. Walkie-talkies hibernate.”

Melanie would need her help, so Lola shelved the peanut butter consolidation project, picked up the parrot phone, and dialed Aunt Liza at the junkyard. The phone on the other end rang ten times before Aunt Liza picked up.

“I'm doing surgery on a fender bender and engines don't like to be kept waiting. What is it?” asked Aunt Liza.

*** *** ***

Melanie put her walkie-talkie back in the pocket of her safari shorts, returned to the Cadillac limo stand, and scribbled the words, “On Strike, Boss
Sucks!” on the back of three of Buck's advertising posters. Then she handed the posters to Hot Dog and Max.

“These are your picket signs. Follow the leader.”

“I don't know,” said Max, hesitating to hold up the poster. “Do you think this is right?” The little guy doubted himself in a big way. “I mean, Buck's always been our friend.”

“Except when he ditched us at Laser Lizards,” said Hot Dog.

“Except when I loaned him my last quarter,” said Max.

“Except when he refused to let us ride his new mountain bike,” grumbled Hot Dog.

“Yeah and we never even got to touch the handlebars,” said Max, fumbling nervously with one of his magic coins.

“Don't act like wimps,” said Melanie, growing impatient. “Follow me.”

Melanie led the crew in a circular picket line that grew larger as more customers heard about the “No lemonade sips for workers during work hours” edict. The first customer to support the strikers was Lola's benefactor, Ruby Rhubarb, who stopped by with her friends, all of them on their way to a save-the-succulents fund-raiser. People shouting “Boycott Buck!” made them forget all about the succulents.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, young man,” Mrs. Rhubarb told Buck as he leaned against his father's limo, twirling a cocktail umbrella in his hand. “Treating your workers like second-class citizens. This is the twenty-first century!”

“I pay them,” said Buck.

Not enough, thought Melanie. The only reason she had agreed to measly wages was because she was involved in an undercover operation and loved using walk-talkies. It was fun.

“A quarter an hour makes workers sour,” Melanie shouted from the picket line.

“One quarter? Oh, my, my,” said Ruby Rhubarb, “that's a crime. Don't you agree, Rising Sun?”

The town's number one basketball star put down his pen. “Is that true, Buck?” asked The Rising Sun. “You only pay your squeezers and sellers twenty-five cents an hour?”

Buck hemmed and hawed, but no words emerged from his mouth.

The Rising Sun abandoned the cup he was about to autograph. Instead, he stood in solidarity with Ruby, her young disciples, and their fair labor cause.

“It would be a darn shame to patronize such a thirst-oppressive employer, don't you agree, Rising Sun?” asked Ruby.

“You're right, Ms. Rhubarb. I had no idea Buck was taking advantage of his pipsqueak friends.” The Rising Sun stared Buck in the eye, “I just autographed my last cup for the little tyrant.” With that he jumped into his silver hybrid sports car and drove off into the hills, ignoring Buck's pleas to, “Come back, please…”

Just then, Melanie's Aunt Liza roared up on her motorcycle. She pointed her finger at Slime.

“I heard what's going on and I don't like it when people take advantage of my niece,” said Aunt Liza, glaring at Buck.

“But, but,” Buck quivered, at a loss for words. Again.

“She said she doesn't like it,” said Melanie, “and neither does anyone else.” Melanie honked her aunt's motorcycle horn at a caravan of cruisers converging on Lemonade Gulch.

While the protest went on with chants of “Give it up, Buck,” Lola and her father (who could always be counted on in an emergency) carried an armload of equipment—the bridge table, the improvised shade umbrella, pitchers of lemonade, and paper cups—back to the driveway, next to the Mustang.

“Beat the heat. Cross the street,” shouted Lola. “I'm back in business.”

Aunt Liza and some friends quickly lined up for Lola's secret recipe. Within minutes, neighbors, meditators, vision-questers, and fountain-of-youth
seekers argued over their place in line. Lola thought this would be her moment of glory, but instead it was her moment of doubt, for across the street, in the midst of the crowds and the picketers, stood Charles Wembly II giving Charles Wembly III the third degree. Lola hid behind her patrons as she made her way to the other side of the street to eavesdrop on the father-son conversation.

“Buck, what is going on here?” said Mr. Wembly. “I spent a fortune launching your lousy lemonade business, even going so far as to hire a star basketball player to autograph your cups.”

Oh, so that's why The Rising Sun had appeared on the scene. Lola should have figured that one out.

Buck's father continued, “Now the star is gone—and so is your business.”

“I'm sorry, Dad,” mumbled Buck. “Please don't be mad at me. I hate it when you're mad at me.”

Lola felt sorry for Buck, but she didn't want him to know, so she walked back to her lemonade stand and pretended she hadn't heard a thing.

*** *** ***

Chapter 11

Mr. Wembly pointed at his son, curled his index finger in a “Come here, soldier boy” command, and opened the door of the limo. “Get in the car,” he ordered. Sheepishly, Buck removed his derby hat, slid into the limo, and sat down in the front passenger seat. He knew his dad was about to bawl him out big-time for making his lemon squirters and servers madder than a cat that just lost his tail to a gopher.

“We're going to have a little chat,” said Mr. Wembly, opening the door to the driver's side, hunkering down next to his son, and rolling up the windows so the two could have a private, none of your beeswax, conversation.

What Mr. Wembly did not know was that the limo's PA system—which had allowed Buck to advertise his lemonade at full volume—had been activated by Magic Max in one of his, “I'm bored and want to make some mischief” moods. The crowd was privy to every word, peep, and sniffle shared between father and son.

“I'm disappointed, Buck,” said Mr. Wembly. “I had such high expectations for you.”

The crowd hushed as they listened intently. Even Bowzer perked up his ears.

“I, uh, uh, am sorry, Dad,” said Buck. “I can't help it if…”

“If you're the laughingstock of this town. Picket signs. Labor slogans and chants. This is mighty embarrassing, son.”

Lola winced. Embarrassing? I'll tell you what's embarrassing, thought Lola, what's embarrassing is having a creepy dad like you.

“Dad,” said Buck, his voice cracking, “I guess I'm just a…a…a…lemon.” Buck pulled his hat over his eyes, so his father couldn't see them welling up with tears.

“Is that your excuse?” said Mr. Wembly. “How's a lemon like you ever going to run Boingo Bits?”

“I don't know,” said Buck, lowering his hat to his nose and his voice to half a peep.

“I don't know. I don't know. Is that all you can say to me?” Buck's father pounded the dashboard.

Ruby Rhubarb shook her fist at the limo; Bowzer hissed. Some people covered their mouths, aghast.

“I don't know,” said Buck tearfully. Oh baked potatoes, he said it again. Buck couldn't help himself. His father turned him to mush.

“I'll tell you what I know,” seethed Buck's father. “You're a sissy.”

“No, I'm not,” whimpered Buck.

“Of course you are. Whoever heard of a girl beating a boy? Look at you, sniveling like a little crybaby.”

“I'm not crying,” said Buck, trying to pull himself together, but unable to hold back more tears.

That was it. Lola couldn't take it anymore. Someone had to stop Mr. Wembly from spewing oodles of venom at his son. Abandoning her lemonade post, Lola wound her way through the crowd, marched over to the Cadillac, and pounded on the window.

“Stop it! Leave him alone,” she shouted.

Rolling down the window, Mr. Wembly said innocently. “We're just having a father-son chat. No need to worry.”

“I am worried,” said Lola. Peeking her head through the half-open window, she said to Buck, “Don't let him talk to you like that.”

Furious at Lola for interfering in a family affair, Mr. Wembly jerked open the car door, jumped to his feet, and faced Lola.

“Young lady, this is between my son and me.”

Yuk! Mr. Wembly's breath was gross. What was that odor? Whiskey? It sure wasn't lemonade. No wonder the guy wore so much cologne.

“No, it's not just between you and your son,” said Lola. “It's between you and everyone else in Lemonade Gulch.” Lola looked over at the strikers who had
stopped picketing; at the lemonade drinkers who had stopped sipping; at Aunt Liza leaning against her motorcycle; at Ruby Rhubarb, who was rooting for Lola, making a “right on” sign with her raised fist; at her parents looking out their kitchen window, no doubt arguing about whether they should have joined Melanie on the picket line. “We heard every word,” said Lola.

Stunned, Mr. Wembly glanced at the screen on the dashboard. The light for the PA system was on. Trying to compose himself, he cleared his throat, turned off the PA, and said quietly, “It's off. Now run along, little girl.”

“I am not a little girl,” said Lola with an air of authority. She looked at Mr. Wembly, who stood with his arms crossed. His breath was worse than Bowzer's breath after a rat snack. Lola stepped forward, sandwiching herself between Mr. Wembly and the car door.

“Buck, are you okay in there?” she asked, trying to see through the window.

“Move out of my way, little girl,” said Buck's father, eager to climb back into the limo and take off. “We're going home to finish our ‘private' conversation.”

“No we're not,” said Buck, bolting out of the limo. “I never want to go home. I hate you, Dad,” he shouted as he tore off, purposely bumping into the buffet table and knocking over a couple of the Wemblys' expensive crystal
pitchers. He ran down the street in his white suit and derby hat, not looking back once at the shattered glass, his father, Lola, or those who ached for him. “You'll be sorry,” he yelled, holding onto his hat with a trembling hand.

“See what you did,” said Buck's father, shaking his head in disgust at the broken pitchers in the street. “He's run away before, huffs and puffs a few blocks, then comes back and apologizes. My son is a little mixed up. He needs to grow up. One day he'll take over Boingo Bits. This is just a glitch in the wheel.”

“I think he means a nail in the oven,” Melanie whispered to Lola.

“That would be nail in the coffin,” said Lola, “but that's not what's happening here.” She turned to Mr. Wembly, changing her tone to grown-up firm. “You're a mixed-up bully,” said Lola, “and by the way, your breath needs a major bath.”

With Buck still in sight and about to turn the corner at the end of Salt Flat Road, Lola beat her feet against the black asphalt, giving chase in her red tennis shoes, and praying to the Spaghetti God not to turn her lanky legs into feeble noodles. Lola was usually marathon material, but the sun was so chili-pepper hot, she thought she might faint from heat exhaustion.

She saw Buck make a right turn at the corner, then a left at the traffic light, then what? Where did he go? Oh, there he was, sprinting through the sleepy business district, past the Mirage Twin Cinemas, past Mrs. Garcia's dress shop,
past stop signs, nearly getting hit by a car. Same for Lola, who was only thirty yards, twenty yards, ten yards behind him, calling out to him.