Lola Zola and the Lemonade Crush (8 page)

When the moviegoer hesitated to drink something that, as far as she knew, could be poison, Lola poured a cup for herself and downed it in a flash.

“Mmmm deelish, and look, I'm still alive!”

“Quiet,” yelled an elderly gentleman near the front.

“Yeah, shut your traps,” hollered a woman with a raspy voice. “I can't hear!”

Lola, her palms sweating, anxiously awaited the popcorn smuggler's first taste of lemonade.

Taking a sip, then a slurp, then a gulp, the woman smacked her lips with delight. “This wild and wonderful lemonade makes the screen jump out and grab me. I'm there with Lawrence now.”

Lola poured some more virtual reality lemonade and handed her a business card in the shape of a lemon. The card read, “Pucker-Power. Lola's Magical Lemonade. Weekends and after school. Salt Flat Road. Be there.”

A high school student in an usher's uniform shined a flashlight on them and said, “A kid complained you're making a racket. Quiet down, okay?”

Smiling at the usher, who also happened to be the ticket-seller, Lola said, “Sorry, we were just looking for seats.”

The usher shined his flashlight on a myriad of empty seats. “Find one and glue your butt to it.”

The Twister Sisters plopped down in the nearest empty seats, waited for the usher to return to his ticket booth, and then bopped back up on their roller skates. Lola thought it was odd that a kid, not an adult, would report them to the usher. She scanned the dark theater but didn't see any other kids. Go figure.

Lola and Melanie moved on down the aisle, squeezing through rows and occasionally rolling over people's toes. Ouch!

“Do you feel like you have a cactus in your throat?” asked Lola.

“Is your mouth one big dried-out tumbleweed?” echoed Melanie.

Parched movie viewers couldn't quench their lemonade thirst fast enough. Business was good, thanks to Lawrence, who was now crawling in the sand like a dehydrated prune. A short while later, after they had poured countless cups of lemonade and distributed over fifty business cards, they were confronted by the irate usher.

“The kid's still complaining about your hustle and bustle, so pack up those pitchers and boogie on out,” said the usher. “I don't want to lose my job.”

“Totally understandable,” said Lola. “We're history.”

Agents 002 and 315 scurried out of the theater and across the street. They swarmed into the Mirage Beauty Salon to share the lemonade news among the blue-haired ladies and their gossip-spreading root-dyers.

Cruising through the salon on roller skates, Lola and Melanie tried not to crash into anyone or roll over any toes as they passed out free cups of promotional pucker punch. Oona Lee Lewis, the spunky octogenarian of Cactus Springs, held her cup in the air and marveled at the refreshing zing in the lemonade.

“This will keep me energized and hydrated under the blasting heat of the hair dryer,” said Oona Lee.

“It will also keep you young, so you can go hiking with your grandchildren,” said Lola. She didn't know if Oona Lee had grandchildren, but the handmade lanyard with the penguin charm hanging from her neck seemed like a clue.

“Hiking?” said Oona Lee, mortified. ‘I don't think I have that much oomph.” She took another sip.

“You will,” said Lola. “Keep drinking.”

“Hmmm, I see what you mean, dear. Maybe you should bottle this elixir.”

Melanie shot Lola a look. She knew making false health claims was illegal. Melanie could be a stickler for rules.

Lola ignored Melanie's warning look and blanketed the counter and the table with her handmade lemon-shaped business cards. She handed a pile to a beautician busy teasing a client's hair.

“We don't allow soliciting here,” said the hairdresser, handing back Lola her cards. She pointed the end of a styling comb in Lola's direction, then made a sweeping motion toward the door. “Better leave now—like pronto,” she said.

“Can I ask you favor first?” said Lola, as the beautician whipped out a grande size can of hairspray.

“What?” she said, power spraying her client's bangs. “Want me to straighten your frizz?” she shouted, much to Lola's embarrassment.

Lola referred to her hair as a frizz mop, but no one else dare label it as such. Her face grew red as she flashed back to the time she stood in front of her science class, giving her oral report on electricity. Buck had raised his arm (revealing his BO pit, phew) and blurted out, “How much electricity is located on your frizzy head, Lola Zola?”

The entire class had cracked up, leaving Lola weak in the knees and shaking inside.

“No, I don't want my hair straightened,” said Lola. What an insult! “But I'd like you to tell your clients about my lemonade business. And, if you don't mind, could you pass out my cards?”

The beautician was engulfed in a hairspray-induced coughing fit. When she was done, she turned to Lola, “
Pardonez-moi
?”

Having learned a few tips from Buck and Melanie, Lola decided to go heavy on the compliments. “Your hair looks like a fiesta,” she told the formerly gray-haired client who was now a midnight-black-haired
señora
. “Your beautician knows her stuff.”

“¿De versas, muchacha
?” said the customer. “You mean it?”

“
Si
,” said Lola exhausting her knowledge of Spanish.

Smiling, the señora slipped her beautician a generous tip. Pleased to the max, the hairdresser took one of Lola's business cards.

“I'll do what I can, hon,” she said, sorting the dollars in her hand.

Roller skating over to the door, Lola almost went flying when one of her wheels slid through purple goopy hair gel. The glop on the floor reminded Lola of the fake cow eyeball that Slime left on her seat, except it was a different color. But Lola kept her balance, for she was as agile on her feet as she was with her words.

“It's not right to lie and say the lemonade keeps you young,” said Melanie, when they stopped for a peanut butter ice cream cone en route to the Unity Center's late-afternoon service. “I've told your lies before, but these fibs
are getting bigger, and now they're starting to bug me and I don't know if I can fib as good or if I even want to.”

“I didn't lie,” said Lola, defensively. “I just limo-stretched the truth.”

“What's the difference?”

Lola had been afraid Melanie was going to ask that question and take her back to the old pancake-flapjack debate. There wasn't much of a difference between a lie and a truth-stretcher, but Lola wanted to believe that there was. Otherwise, how was she going to sell her pucker potion, rescue her parents, and win the lemonade challenge?

“Truth-stretchers don't hurt anyone,” Lola rationalized. “They're innocent fib-olas.”

“Guilty.”

“Innocent.”

Lola tried another approach, one that might appeal to Melanie's integrity.

“It cleared up Ruby Rhubarb's nose boulders, didn't it?” asked Lola.

“Yeah,” said Melanie, “it was a booger-boulder-buster.”

“So, maybe this lemonade does have some power.”

“I don't think so.”

“That woman in the movie theater said it did.”

“Yeah.”

“And it gave Oona Lee Lewis a mega-energy boost.”

“Yeah.”

“So maybe it can cure allergies and rehydrate wrinkles.

“I don't know,” said Melanie, softening.

“People want to believe in something. And maybe if they believe hard enough, it'll come true.”

“Do you think it could fade my freckles?” asked Melanie.

Now Melanie had Lola, who couldn't in good conscience limo-stretch the truth about her friend's freckles. “I don't know about that, Mel.”

“If it can blast the boulders out of Ruby Rhubarb's nose and pep up a super-senior, why can't it solve my freckle crisis?” asked Melanie.

“Ummm…” Lola was speechless and not just because her waffle cone had a hole in the bottom, forcing Lola to quickly suck out the ice cream before it dripped all over her board shorts. Melanie wanted to believe the lemonade had secret powers, and there was no reasoning with the freckle-wisher-awayer, so why even try? Did Lola know for sure that lemonade with chili peppers couldn't remove freckles? No. So then maybe it could.

“Whatever,” said Lola, finishing the last peanut butter lick of her ice cream cone. “Let's boogie.”

“I want some lemonade first,” insisted Melanie, pouring herself a cup of freckle-fader punch before speeding off in a roller-skating whirlwind.

*** *** ***

When the Twister Sisters rolled into the Unity Center, the congregants were milling around outside with the ducks, discussing the alignment of the stars, the best yoga positions for a bad back, and the healing power of aromatherapy. Lola had always been curious about the powers of aromas and once tried to make a peanut butter candle in her kitchen. All she made was a mess, though.

Deep in the middle of a conversation about visualizing world peace, two men in their twenties, both of them sporting what looked like peace sign earrings, abruptly stopped talking when Lola roller skated into their cosmic space and held up some lemons.

“Visualize this,” she said, “lemons for peace, a world full of uplifting citrus vibes.” It was a good thing Melanie was off entertaining a kid she used to babysit. She would have thought Lola had flipped her frizzy lid.

One of the men, a spectacled Harvard grad, no doubt, took a lemon from Lola and rolled it around in his hand. “I'm not sure I understand what you're saying. Can you elaborate?”

“Sure,” said Lola. “It's simple. When you see lemons, you think of sunshine—calm, soothing sunshine. You feel peaceful,” elaborated Lola. “It's all kind of magical, like my lemonade.”

“I don't know about that,” said the other man, a true skeptic who probably hadn't believed in the tooth fairy when he was a semi-toothless six-year-old with silver dollars under his pillow. He fiddled with an earring, which on closer inspection was a Mercedes Benz symbol, not a peace sign after all.

“Go on,” said Mr. Harvard Grad, curious to see where Lola was heading with her fruity symbolism. “Tell us about the magical part.”

Lola explained the allergy-busting-virtual-reality-fountain-of-youth powers of her potion and offered free samples. Gulps later, the men had to admit, the drink and its intoxicating (not in the alcohol sense) aroma was an eye opener. Literally.

“I feel purified,” said the skeptic, wiping the red hot pepper tears from his eyes.

“Maybe you have something here,” said Mr. Harvard. “Visionaries always stray from the path of conventional thinking.”

“True,” said his friend. “Perhaps you should offer your purification drink during the enlightenment session.”

Purification? What a concept! Now her chili pepper punch had another power, to purge your poisons and dissolve your sins.

Lola, the wheels turning in her brain bucket, started writing her enlightenment speech in Pig Latin in her head. Other inspired souls shared corny stories and slogans like “Don't worry, be happy,” during the minister's sermons. Why shouldn't Lola join the bandwagon and profit from her inspirational citrus-soother?

“Sure, put me on the agenda,” said Lola, “under Squirt or Quirtsay.”

An hour later, following the non-denominational prayer session, the minister, reading from a piece of paper, announced, “It's time for…for…I think this says…Squirt or…Quirtsay? Is there a Squirt in the sanctuary?”

Lola, long and lanky—not a squirt—stepped up to the podium, winked at Melanie, who was seated in a crossed-legged yoga position in between a statue of Buddha and a bronze replica of Moses, and was about to speak when something flew through the air, whacking her on her dome.

“Ouch,” said Lola in a super-secret whisper, audible only to the sanctuary feline. She wondered where the heck that came from. When Lola looked around, she saw the kid she and Melanie used to babysit when Melanie was on a mission to earn enough money for a freckle-removing procedure. Was the kid to blame for the dome-bonker, or was Slime-Bucket hiding in the hipster temple?

Thrown off guard by the lemon seed missile, Lola hemmed and hawed at the podium and clenched her sweaty palms. She felt awful, like the time Hot Dog launched a spitball at her during the class presidential campaign.

“Help me, Mel,” she mouthed to her best friend. “I can't talk.”

Melanie, unsure of the best talk-triggering strategy, did what she did best and took out a little mirror. Pointing her right index finder at the spots on her face, she began to silently count her freckles. When Melanie counted her fourteenth freckle, Lola forgot all about the cat who got her tongue, and the shock of the spitball ambush vanished.

“Fifteen,” she screamed.

The congregation didn't know what to make of Lola's outburst, but Melanie did. She gave Lola a thumbs-up and all was right with the world.

Lola regrouped. “I'll explain why I shouted ‘fifteen' in a minute (Lola needed at least a minute to figure out how she would explain the “fifteen” outburst), but first let me ask you this. Aren't you sick of your old mantras?” Lola asked the practiced meditators who often repeated syllables like “ohmmmm” during their meditation sessions. “I think it's time to bag the
ohmmm
and update the mantra.”

Holding up the biggest lemon she had in her backpack, a freakish grapefruit-sized ball of pucker power concentrate, Lola whispered, “Lemon,
lemon, lemon,” and then exhorted the crowd to, “Say the word
lemon
fifteen times to make it a mantra habit.” Then she paused for dramatic effect, took out the pocketknife her father had given her for Wilderness Day, cut the lemon in half, and squirted juice over her head.

“Ladies and gentlemen, dreamers and doers, I am here today to talk about the power of lemons to help us center on our navels, unite with the world, and…”