Lemon (11 page)

Speaking of the Underground Railroad, Mrs. Freeman is descended from slaves. Her great-great-grandfather had to choose a last name when he showed up in New Brunswick so he called himself Free Man. She goes to church on Sundays and sings. She says all ancient cultures involved singing, which was why people didn't kill each other all the time. She tried to get us to sing ‘Will the Circle Be Unbroken,' which has a nice melody. I enjoyed singing it, especially the part about there's a better home a-waiting in the sky, Lord, in the sky. Which is pretty outrageous considering I don't believe in heaven and all that. I was just about the only one singing. Me and an Italian guy called Rudi who's auditioned for
Canadian Idol
about five thousand times.

Anyway, Mrs. Freeman actually gives me decent marks so I don't mind helping her out once in a while by singing or answering questions. Today she's talking about the Holocaust, a subject on which I'm an expert. ‘Did you know,' I ask, ‘that the Nazis ordered all the Jewish boys in Berlin to change their name to Israel and all the Jewish girls to change their name to Sara?' Mrs. Freeman looks
as though she doesn't know, which surprises me since she's the teacher. ‘Also,' I elaborate, ‘after they banned Jewish kids from school, they killed their pets. Nazis showed up and took the kids' pets from them and killed them.'

This gets a reaction from the simpletons, which is unusual. Normally it takes the sound of gunshot to get their attention. Even Kirsten stops painting her nails. ‘No way,' she says.

‘You mean like,' Nicole clarifies, ‘Nazis just showed up and like, took their pets?'

‘Before they took their parents,' I say. ‘And before they took them. Just about every Jew in Berlin ended up in death camps. There were about fifty thousand of them.'

The bedlamites' eyes glaze over again at the mention of death camps. They're not too interested in dead Jews, just their pets.

‘What have we learned from the Holocaust?' Mrs. Freeman sings out.

Nobody's got an answer for that one. Most of them go back to gaming on their cells. Somebody's blares Beyoncé.

‘Turn that thing off!' Mrs. Freeman bellows.

‘We learned that hatred is taught,' I say. ‘Little Aryan boys and girls didn't hate Jews. They were taught to hate them in school. They had these picture books about poisonous mushrooms, how you could tell the poisonous ones from the edible ones. The poisonous ones were supposed to be Jews. They showed creepy illustrations of Jews with stringy hair and big noses.'

Mrs. Freeman has a worried look about her. I don't know if she's fretting about the Jews or me. I keep talking because I think it's important that people know this. ‘Somebody
drew
those pictures for those schoolbooks,' I explain. ‘Some rat-brained artist was
paid
to pollute those little kids' minds about Jews. I mean, how could you live with yourself after that? And why wasn't that artist put on trial? When you think “evil Nazi” you think of Goebbels or Mengele or Goering but what about the guy who drew the poisonous Jewish mushrooms?'

No response from the scratch and moaners. Bonehead belches. The bell goes. I jet out of there.

12

A
fter Zippy stiffed me on a second hamster she bought me two guppies. I stared into the tank for hours trying to bond with the fish. I didn't know their genders but decided to call them Caesar and Cleopatra. I went to bed determined to be happy about the guppies. They weren't furry and you couldn't hold them but at least you didn't have to clean the cage. First thing in the morning I got up to feed the guppies and do more bonding. One of them had jumped out of the tank and was dead on the floor. I dropped to my knees and howled because already I'd been imagining the good times my guppies and I would have, how they would be
special
guppies, how I'd train them to chase a floatie or something. Zippy bustled out in her fluffy bathrobe. ‘What in God's name … ?'

‘Cleopatra killed herself!' I wailed. ‘She didn't want to be stuck in the tank with Caesar. She'd rather be
dead
than be with Caesar!'

Zippy sat on her pouffe feeling, I'm sure, that she'd failed me again. ‘We'll get another one,' she said.

‘I don't want another one! I don't want this one. This one's a
murderer!
' The killer fish was glob-globbing at me.

Zippy gave the guppy to a neighbour. Their cat ate it.

So I'm planning to put the guppy suicide in the play. Because Lillian's under the illusion that she's getting her life together by going into debt buying all this stuff to fix up her place. She wants it to look like a beach house she saw on the Decorating Channel. She's hanging up Mexican blankets. The guppy suicide would definitely add conflict. Lillian would feel responsible. Your guppies don't just suddenly jump out of the tank for no reason.

‘Limone,' Mr. Biggs says, ‘h'what can you tell us about the human genome?' He's one of those types who puts an
h
before
wh
so
what
sounds like
h'what
. He's not even Spanish.

‘Well,' I begin, digging through the messy files in my brain, ‘isn't a genome part gene and part chromosome?'

‘Anything else?'

‘What else is there?'

Mr. Biggs has a butt that sticks out and little ballet-dancer feet. ‘I see you're making notes,' he says. ‘Would they, by any chance, pertain to our class today?'

‘They're for Mr. Lund, actually. Sorry.'

‘H'why would you be making notes for Mr. Lund in my class?'

‘Sorry.' Usually if you say
sorry
enough times and avoid eye contact they lose interest. But Biggs is a closet case and hates girls, particularly girls who don't act girly. He's always making comments about my boots and ‘bag-lady attire.'

‘Sorry isn't good enough,' he says. ‘Do you have
any
intention of passing this course?'

‘Not really.' I try to look meek. ‘I don't think I'm cut out for biology.'

‘Then h'why did you take the course? Can you tell me
h'why?'

‘I thought it might be interesting,' I say, ‘dissecting and all that. I thought we'd be doing more dissecting. Aren't we supposed to be dissecting cats?'

His reptile lips pucker, he who probably dreams about shoving his noodle into choir boys. ‘H'why don't you to go down to the office and tell Ms. Brimmers that you have no intention of passing this class?'

I remain inert, hoping he'll get distracted by a sudden storm or something.

‘Leave now, please,' he says, pointing at the door. All the goons, who have no intention of passing the class either, cackle.

Ms. Brimmers wears carefully tailored suits in corporate beige or grey that show off her slim figure. The statement is
I dress like a professional but really I'm a sex goddess.
I want to ask her if she's banged boots with Inspector Power yet. She had him cornered after his speech, kept sliding her jacket back so he could admire her sex-goddess hips.

‘We need to talk,' she says, resting her tailored glutes against her desk. I spread mine on a chair that feels about to swallow me. ‘We all believe in you, Limone.' This is a lie. They pay attention because I'm the former principal's daughter – the principal who is supposedly on temporary leave.

‘You have some issues with authority,' she tells me. ‘Why is that?'

‘I don't have issues with anyone.'

‘You're a bright girl. Why are you jeopardizing your future?' What future? Like yours? In little suits and pantyhose shuffling paper and beating up on teenagers? Kissing ass at the school board? What future, when a species is becoming extinct EVERY FIFTEEN MINUTES? I stare at the fuzzy-leafed plant on her desk. Maybe Lillian should get a fuzzy-leafed plant. They must talk about foliage on the Decorating Channel.

‘You need to demonstrate a commitment to learning,' Brimmers says, and I wonder if she fakes orgasms,
ooh
ing and
aah
ing to make the schlemiel feel good.

‘Are you even listening to me?' Brimmers asks.

‘Of course.'

‘You have a very poor and disrespectful attitude.'

‘I'm really sorry.'

‘Saying you're sorry isn't good enough. How do you explain this behaviour?'

‘I think I'm a little depressed right now.' Teen depression gives the stiffs pause because they figure you're suicidal and nobody wants to be responsible.

‘Are you taking
drugs?'

‘Negative.'

‘How's the play coming? Mr. Huff and Mr. Lund are very excited about it.'

The bell goes and I'm hoping she's got places to go, people to see.

‘It's going great,' I say. ‘I think I've found my life purpose.'

‘I'm very glad to hear it.' She glances at the clock. One of the secretaries tells her Mr. Somebody's on the phone. ‘I have to take this call,' she tells me. ‘I don't want to see you down here again. We all understand that you're experiencing stress at home but there are limits to our patience.' She picks up the phone. ‘I look forward to seeing the play. What's it called?'

‘Truly Loved.'

‘A love story, how nice.'

A toilet cubicle provides sanctuary. I lock it and stand on the seat, becoming invisible.

Kirsten storms in and starts touching up her face. Nicole trails her. I watch them through the crack in the door.

‘Feel my ass,' Kirsten says. She often commands people to feel her ass and tell her how toned she is.

‘There's like, no fat,' Nicole says.

‘She's pissing me off. I'm a slow burner but when I get mad I go straight to rage.'

‘Doyle invited her,' Nicole says. ‘It's not like she's crashing.'

‘She's a whore. I want to hurt her so bad, shove her tits down her throat.'

‘There's somebody in here,' Nicole observes.

‘Who?'

I jump down and flush the toilet.

‘It's Limone,' Nicole says. She recognizes my boots. I open the cubicle and try to look busy washing my hands.

‘You tell your friend to stay away from Nicole's party,' Kirsten orders. I've never been able to compute how somebody so bossy can be popular. Do people
like
being bossed around? Is that what made old Adolf prom king? Or Winston? Mrs. Freeman was telling us about the bombing of Dresden. Even though the war was won, the Brits wanted to test their bombs so they dropped them on civilians in Dresden. All the pows who weren't killed were freed to dig ditches for dead Germans. Everybody makes old Winston out to be a hero but what about Dresden?

‘She's not my friend,' I say.

‘Since when?'

‘She thinks I'm a freak.'

Neither of them say
damn right
because I'm supposed to be writing a play and there might be a part in it for them.

‘Do
you
want to come?' Nicole asks. She has this imbecilic habit of sticking the tip of her thumb in her mouth and resting it on her lower teeth. ‘You're welcome to come if you want.'

‘I'll take it under advisement,' I say and scoot.

Rossi's watching a show where people undergo plastic surgery to look like somebody famous. They're operating on a woman who wants to look like Cher, which is pretty wild when you consider how much reconstruction Cher has had.

‘That's heinous,' Tora says. She's doing homework, which drives me nuts. She's always going on about how she hates life and school, meanwhile she's averaging 98 percent. You just know, after she figures out that Creative Writing is a waste of time, she'll become a shrink or something.

‘Did you girls find something to eat?'Mrs. Barnfield shouts. She's on the floor with her legs on the bed again. The bank warned of more layoffs. Mrs. Barnfield says she's not worried because she has seniority, but you can tell she's worried out of her mind because she's verging on comatose. Rossi says she's not even swallowing her cans of gruel.

‘Rossi, sweetheart, are there any more Triscuits?'

Rossi doesn't answer her mother – she rarely does – so I shout, ‘We found Bits & Bites, Mrs. Barnfield.'

I haven't told Rossi about Kirsten wanting to shove her tits down her throat. But it seems pretty obvious it would be better for all concerned if Rossi doesn't go to the party.

‘I want to be reconstructed to look like Tatiana,' she says.

‘Who's Tatiana?' Tora asks, solving equations at record speed.

‘Are you serious? She's like, only the most gorgeous supermodel in the entire world.'

The plastic surgeon starts marking up some other woman's face with felt marker. I read more of
The Great Gatsby,
which is another novel about some guy mooning over a girl he can't have.

‘I don't know how you can stand to read all the time,' Rossi says.

‘So, are you seriously going to the party with Doyle?'

‘You have a problem with that?'

‘No problem. He's pretty revolting, though, seriously.'

‘What would
you
know about revolting?'

‘He shoved his tongue down my throat and his fingers up my snatch.'

‘Ouch,' Tora says.

‘That's called sex.'

‘Remember that boy in
JK
,' I ask, ‘who got you to take off your underpants and put on his?'

‘No.'

‘Sure you do, he was this four-year-old pervert. Doyle reminds me of him.'

‘What was his name?' Tora asks. ‘Maybe it
was
Doyle and he changed his name in shame.'

‘You guys are so totally uptight. Like, why don't you just
grow up?'

‘Are you going to let Doyle ding you?' I ask. I almost call her
old sport
. Gatsby's always calling everybody
old sport
. Which gives you an indication of just how deluded he is.