Lola Zola and the Lemonade Crush by Jackie Hirtz

Mercedes Benz symbol, not a peace sign after all.
    â€œGo 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.
    â€œI feel purified,” said the skeptic, wiping the red hot pepper tears from his eyes.
    â€œMaybe you have something here,” said Mr. Harvard. “Visionaries always stray from the path of conventional thinking.”
    â€œTrue,” 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?
    â€œSure, 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.
    â€œOuch,” 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.
    â€œHelp 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.
    â€œFifteen,” 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,