Lemon (27 page)

I push open my door and dissolve into the mob where I hear the predictable chorus of sick words:
cunt, slit, gash, twat, yo bitch, where's your lesbo friend?
I keep my head down, think of animals – they don't bother you if you avoid eye contact.

On the steps I look back and Drew's still there, immobilized by Blecher, and for a second I feel sorry for her but then I remember that she doesn't need me anymore, that I'm spoiled rotten, snide, self-important. She has Treeboy now.

Megan, the former mute who is now empowered by Prozac, says it's disgraceful that Toby Belch and his buddies lock up Malvolio. ‘Why are they so hostile?' she demands.

‘That's an interesting question,' Huff says. ‘Why are Sir Toby and his cohorts so hostile toward Malvolio?'

‘Because he's a dick,' Taylor in the dog collar offers.

‘Define
dick
,' Megan says.

Some dick left a note on my locker saying I'll get worse treatment than Rossi if I testify. Slade the blow-job freak has been wearing my ripped underpants on his head. Some psychologist on the radio said humans are angry primates out of control.

‘He's a fag,' Bonehead says.

‘Totally,' Taylor adds, ‘he's like, wearing fucking stockings.'

‘Since when does how someone dresses make them homosexual?' Megan demands.

‘That's a good question,' Huff says, leaning on the back of his chair. ‘Since when does attire define the man, or woman for that matter? Limone, what are your thoughts?'

‘You
is what you wears,' I say.

‘What does that make Malvolio then, cross-gartered in yellow stockings?'

‘A faggot,' an angry primate concludes.

‘Nobody has the right to lock someone in hideous darkness,' Megan declares. She's had her hair cut short. It used to hang over her face and she chewed on it. ‘Think Guantánamo,' she persists, ‘children were being held at Guantá-namo.'

‘Gwan-what?' the primate says.

‘That's what's wrong with the world,' Megan concludes. ‘Men thinking they can just go ahead and lock people up.'

‘Or kill them,' I offer.

I tell Mrs. Wartowski I think Vronsky's a jerk and I don't see how Anna could leave her little boy to shack up with him.

‘Only because her husband won't let her take the boy with her,' she argues.

‘That's no excuse. You don't desert your kid. It's
your
responsibility.' Then I remember that Mrs. Wartowski's biological parents were wired together and thrown in the Danube by her adoptive parents.

‘One day you'll fall in love,' Mrs. Wartowski says, ‘and then you'll understand.' She gazes at me, all dreamy and delusional.

I grab a science rag and sit with my back to the wall. There's nobody around but Chester Gropp, the pimple farm, popping bubble wrap. I read about all the plastic in the oceans. Some ship lost a container over the side and dropped ten thousand plastic ducks into the Pacific. The albatross thought they were food and started eating and regurgitating them to feed their babies. The albatross couldn't figure out why their babies were dying. All kinds of sea creatures eat the plastic bobbing on the ocean and don't know that it's killing them.

I read about cancer and stem-cell research. You can slash, poison and burn but if one cancerous stem cell remains, the cancer's coming back. I figure in twenty years current cancer treatment will look barbaric, like leeches and bleeding.

Chester stops popping bubble wrap to pick his nose and wipe his fingers on his jeans.

It turns out a cheap, simple drug that has been used for years to treat metabolic disorders also happens to kill almost all cancers. But it's not patented, which means drug companies aren't interested in carrying out clinical trials using the drug because there's no money in it. I read that scientists are messing around with human/cow and human/rabbit hybrids. I read that they've created genetically modified chickens to lay anticancer eggs.

Mrs. Wartowski scrambles toward me. ‘The principal wants to see you.'

‘Frankly, we are all shocked and disappointed with your behaviour,' Brimmers says. She's wearing purple eyeshadow, looks like she's been in a fight.

‘Mr. Lund in particular feels that you betrayed his trust. He believed in your talent.'

‘What exactly are we talking about here?' I say.

‘I think you know very well. You are a disgrace to your mother.'

‘Which one?'

All this pretense that they give a rat's fart makes me want to throw things.

‘I think it's time to seek professional help. Mrs. Blecher has done everything she can for you.'

‘Did she say that?'

‘Not in those exact words.' She rests her hands on her sex-goddess hips.

‘What
were
her exact words?' For some reason I don't want Blecher quitting on me. All of a sudden I want to be in her cubbyhole watching her eat cheese triangles.

‘I can't remember exactly what she said.'

‘Then don't quote her.'

‘There is a psychologist associated with the school. I think it's time you saw him.'

Him? I don't want to see any hims.

‘Have you bumped uglies with Inspector Power yet?' I demand because I just want one true thing said.

‘Excuse me?'

‘Or is he married? Don't cops marry when they're twelve or something, then get hoochie on the side? Child prostitutes? School principals?'

‘If you were not Drew's daughter … '

‘You'd suspend me. Now that's a scary thought. You don't even know what's going on in this school. You've got your head so far up your ass, you can't even
see
the suffering. Kids are
dying
in this school.' I shove the African violet off her desk, can't even get it together to throw it. She stares down at it, her glossed lips glob-globbing. I jet out of there.

Doyle's still not talking to me except to give orders. He wants the joint cleaned because Mr. Buzny told him the health inspector is planning a visit. ‘That's a line,' I replied. ‘No way does the health inspector give a heads-up.' Doyle just shrugged and went on giving orders. YangYang's busy trying to decide which university to grace with her presence so I get down on my hands and knees to clean the fridges. I don't mind it because I can see I'm having an effect. The water in the pail gets dirty, I change it, it gets dirty again. Maybe I should become a cleaning woman. They make twenty bucks an hour, cash, and you get to snoop in people's medicine cabinets, steal their drugs. The hitch is you have to clean their toilets.

Yang Yang's uncustomarily chatty. Usually she doesn't have much to say to poor minority white trash like myself but she's giddy about her future prospects, Masters and PhDs and all that. ‘I worry I'm an Internet addict,' she admits. ‘In Shanghai, a man played online games for six years. He's stuck in a sitting position. His back is fused at a ninety-degree angle. Doctors say there's nothing they can do.'

I ask her to move so I can clean where she's standing.

‘And a boy played World of Warcraft for thirty-six hours in a row, then jumped off his high-rise. His suicide note said he was off to meet the game's characters.'

‘I don't think Internet addiction is unique to China,' I say.

‘It's a serious problem. They're shutting down Net cafés and have national addiction helplines.'

Nobody sees it as a disease over here. You're expected to live in a virtual world, to lose yourself in technology and shut the fuck up.

Yang Yang clasps her hands under her chin. ‘I have to cut back.'

I'm thinking about those female elephants in the South African reserve. Humans are drugging them with elephant-size contraceptive pills because there are too many elephants in the park. They consume three hundred kilograms of grass, leaves and twigs a day and they're messy eaters: 60 percent gets wasted. It's pissing off other species, especially the black rhinos. The female elephant usually breeds every four years and doesn't mate while nursing. On the pill she comes into heat every four months but doesn't get pregnant, so the bulls keep banging her. The bulls can be four times her weight and the stress of the frequent copulation equals abuse. Female elephants are being raped to death. The conservation ‘experts' say the only alternative is to start culling elephants again. Cull humans, would be my recommendation. If civil war can't do it, get some suicide bombers in there.

Waldo the security guard shows up for his swirl softee. ‘This guy,' he tells me, ‘got in
The Guinness Book of Records
by making the biggest rubber band ball ever. It took him a year. He had to wear safety goggles at the end.'

‘There's a life purpose for you,' I say.

‘What I want to know is, what was he doing for cash all that time? I mean, he must have been living in his mother's basement or something. Working people don't get to be in The
Guinness Book of Records
, they're too busy working.' I can see he thinks he's being witty. He leans over the counter. ‘Have you seen that homeless guy around?'

‘Which one?' I wouldn't tell him even if I had because all Waldo does is chase the poor buggers out.

‘The one with the plastic bags.'

‘They all have plastic bags.'

‘The one with the toque. He's always wearing it.'

‘The Hugh Hefner look-alike was digging around in the trash.' I think it's swell Hugh got married to another twenty-year-old. He's only ninety or something.

‘You let me know if he bothers you,' Waldo says, puffing his pecs.

‘Roger that.'

Waldo licks his softee. ‘Some guy tried to shove a cell down his girlfriend's throat. His excuse was she got drunk and was trying to swallow the cell before he could grab it and find out who she'd been calling.' Waldo stiffens like a hound spotting a squirrel. The homeless guy in the toque is exiting the can. ‘Hey, buddy,'Waldo says, bounding after him. ‘I'm going to have to ask you to leave.'

‘What for?' the homeless man asks. ‘I'm not doing nothin'.'

‘Well, I heard different. A lady tells me you spit on her.'

‘I didn't spit on anybody.'

‘Well, I've got a lady here says you spit on her.'

‘What lady?' He looks around.

‘She's not here at this present moment but her description fits you, buddy, and we can't have people spitting on customers. So you know what we have to do now, we have to get you out.' The homeless man doesn't resist, just clutches his plastic bags.

The nervous woman in the hat shuffles over to order her smoothie. I have to make it because YangYang's on break even though she hasn't lifted a finger since she got here. ‘How are you?' the nervous woman asks.

‘Tootin'. Would that be strawberry or blueberry?'

‘Strawberry, please.' She watches me like she always does, making sure I don't shortchange her on berries.

‘What happened to your face?' she asks.

‘I fell down. Are you the one who said the homeless guy spit on you?'

‘What? No, of course not.'

‘If he spat on somebody, they were probably asking for it. It's not like he can plug 'em or anything. I might start spitting on people. You'd have to work up a good glob, though, if it's going to travel. You can't be too spontaneous.'

‘Limone,' she says, which startles me because I didn't think she knew my name. ‘I'm Constance. I'm your mother.'

I stare at her parched face for what feels like a couple of hours.

‘I'm sorry to have to tell you this way,' she says, ‘but it's been difficult contacting you.'

I recognize her voice now.

‘I'm hoping we can be friends,' she says. ‘I know this is all very strange and sudden. But I thought we might start a dialogue.'

‘You've been watching me for months.'

‘Yes.'

‘Checking me out, making sure I'm not some kind of freak.'

‘Not exactly. More just trying to find the right moment.'

‘And this is the right moment?'

‘To be honest, I'm not sure there is one. All these years I've wondered if you would try to find me.'

‘Why would I try to find you? Who the fuck are you?'

Doyle appears in time for the bad word, gives me one of his über-boss glares. ‘Is there a problem here?'

‘Not at all,' the woman in the hat says. ‘Limone is making me a smoothie.'

‘Is that what she's doing?'

I resume mashing berries, thinking about my useless life and that the only thing that gets me through is Kadylak, holding her, reading to her, building houses with doors. I don't want anything from this nervous woman in the hat. I want her to go away. I want my dreams of Mutti back. The blender wails. I work the register, take her cash. Her fingers are bony, witchy, but the nails are ridged and flat like mine. I've always hated my nails, always wanted the smooth round nails of hand models. This woman left me with her nails. I slap her change on the counter. ‘Have a nice day.'

26

M
rs. Barnfield spears a chicken croquette and waves it in front of Rossi who's on the couch watching a hospital show. The model types in scrubs huddle around a body, trying to jolt its heart into action.

‘Please eat something, angel,' Mrs. Barnfield says. ‘I made them specially for you, they're your favourite.'

Rossi pays no attention to her. I can't understand why she's tormenting the only person who loves her. Mrs. Barnfield's even laid the table with placemats and napkins and little swirls of butter. I jab at the croquettes in front of me.

‘How 'bout a little salad, sweetheart? I bought low-fat Ranch dressing.'

‘I'm not hungry.'

It's over for the corpse. The model types in scrubs sigh and shake their heads.