Lola Zola and the Lemonade Crush by Jackie Hirtz

here,” said Lola, handing the woman a cup of lemonade.
    â€œWhere’s the disc jockey?” asked a teen with purple hair.
    â€œRight here,” said Buck, pointing to himself.
    â€œWhere’s the energy-enhancing soul-purifier?” asked a meditator, carrying a book of affirmations.
    â€œRight here,” said Buck and Lola simultaneously.
    Confusion reigned. People didn’t know which side of the street to choose. Which lemonade was the authentic one, the best one, the one with healing properties and fountain of youth promises? Some chose sides, but otherswaffled back and forth, from Buck to Lola and back again, sampling lemonade amid the patter.
    â€œDid Lawrence of Arabia drink this on the set?”
    â€œWhat’s in the fountain of youth dew?”
    â€œIs there a difference between your wrinkle remover and his energy enhancer?”
    â€œWill this lemonade help me stop smoking?”
    â€œWhich one of these lemonades purifies the soul?”
    *** *** ***
    After the first hour, Buck boasted he sold seventy-five cups of lemonade—whoop, whoop—but Lola had Melanie keep track of who made the purchases, and sure enough, his father had bought thirty of those cups. Melanie even observed Mr. Wembly instructing his chauffeur to pour the sweet stuff into a jug in the limo’s trunk.
    Melanie, meticulous at recording her freckle tab, kept a detailed log of “Cups Sold to Date” on a poster board that she periodically held up for the crowd to applaud. Lola sold one hundred and fifty cups of her magic pucker potion.
    Agitated by Lola’s lead, Buck’s father demanded a conference with his son, pulling him over by the shirt collar and spit-whispering in his ear.
    â€œDo something! On the double, son!”
    Buck saluted his father. “Yes, sir, Dad, Colonel.”
    Trying to hide his anxiety, Buck sauntered over to Lola’s lemonade stand.
    â€œLola Zola, may I please try a cup of your lemonade,” he said in a voice dripping with honey—a very non-Buck-like voice.
    â€œBeat it, Slime,” Lola said under her breath.
    â€œPlease,” said Buck, not budging. “All I’m asking for is one little sip.”
    With the crowd’s eyes upon them, Lola had no choice but to pour Buck a cup of her secret-power pucker potion.
    â€œYou can have a whole cup,” said Lola, trying to out-sucrose Mr. Faux-Honey.
    Buck took a sip, swooshed the lemonade around in his mouth, gulped hard for dramatic effect, and then went bananas—swaying from side to side, doubling over onto the street, clenching his belly, and moaning something about liquid poison.
    â€œI’m sick,” Buck groaned. “My guts are exploding. I feel like I’m going to barf.”
    The crowd backed off, out of vomit range.
    â€œOh, my stomach, it hurts,” gasped Buck, looking around to see how many people were watching him.
    â€œKnock it off,” said Lola. “You’re acting like a dweeb.”
    â€œA total nut,” shouted Melanie.
    â€œI’m not a nut and I’m not acting,” whined Buck, keeling over in the middle of the street, lying there, writhing in pucker pain.
    â€œMy intestines are unraveling. I could be dying,” he groaned.
    Bowzer trotted over to sniff Slime’s nose and make sure he was still breathing.
    â€œHelp me,” moaned Buck. “Lola’s lemonade is killing me.”
    The crowd stirred, though Mr. Wembly, still in his limo, forever on his cell phone, barely paid attention. Meanwhile, a young woman pressed her hand to Buck’s forehead. “He feels hot,” she said to no one in particular, to everyone. “Maybe we should call an ambulance.”
    Lola imagined Buck rushed to the emergency room, where he would convince the doctors Lola had poisoned him and should be reported to the beverage police.
    Lola eyed Bowzer sniffing Buck’s armpit, looking for a cozy place to nap. The cat,