Lemon (4 page)

‘It's date rape,' I say. ‘Dope 'em and do 'em.' Gasps are heard, then snorts. Huff takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. The bell goes. I jet out of there.

In need of air I head for the track, hang my head off the bleachers and watch the world upside down. Looks better this way. People have to work at holding on to the planet, they can't just loiter. Feet are put down with purpose, bodies move with conviction.

I don't think Zippy actually meant to hurt me when she attempted to kill me. I think she was trying to save me from suffering. That's all it's been for her, one big trial. She often said, ‘This is a trial,' or ‘What a trial.' I don't know what she was on trial for – burning the macaroni? Failing to keep up with the laundry? Failing to provide sucky-fucky for old Damian? I think he was happy with her for about five seconds, before her tits fell and her neediness got on his nerves. She was supposed to be a homemaker, which in those days was pretty radical because everybody was enslaving themselves to corporations and shoving their kids into daycare. Classmates used to tell me I was so
lucky
to have my mom at home, which I was before she started self-mutilating. We made popsicle-stick castles and baked cookies. She taught me how to ride a bike. She and Damian were on some list to adopt another kid but it was impossible to find one who wasn't damaged by drugs or alcohol. I wanted a brother or sister, preferably a sister. I imagined we'd be one happy family like on
TV
. I pretended to talk to my sister at night when I couldn't sleep. She couldn't sleep either and always agreed with me about what jerks people were.

There must be some twisted reason why my biological mother wants to meet me all of a sudden. Maybe she's got cancer and wants to fill me in on my rotten genes. Or maybe her legitimate spawn got killed in a car crash. Or her son got an ak-47 and shot up a cafeteria and she can't cope with the revelation that she raised a monster.

The football-slash-hockey crowd trot onto the track. You'd like to think such cretins are extinct, only to be resurrected in Hollywood movies. Unfortunately, jocks still rule. We girls watch them jog around, warming up for some macho-man activity. According to Doyle, the football-slash-hockey boys can get any girl they want. He said this as though it doesn't get better than being able to shove your noodle up any girl you want. Rossi was given the honour of being nailed by one of the football hulks. She said he ‘fucked me hard,' which doesn't sound too charming. She said it was ‘athletic sex.' I said, ‘Did you like it?'

‘He's got a great body.'

‘Did you
like
it?'

‘It's not that simple.'

‘Why isn't it that simple?'

‘There are parts you like and parts you don't like.'

‘What parts didn't you like?'

‘He kept pushing my head down to his crotch. He's like, a total blow-job freak.'

I watch the blow-job freak do some stride jumps. I want to grab his head and shove it into some jock's stinking crotch. I've never been able to compute why girls are expected to suck boys off and yet the ultimate degradation for a straight male is to suck another male's penis. ‘Suck my cock, you cocksucker!' they yell at each other. So why is it an honour for girls to get on their knees and gag on some dullard's jewels? No equality of the sexes there. Rossi started out providing fellatio as an alternative to sexual intercourse because she knew her mother would freak if she found out Rossi had lost her virginity. But the boys got bored with that pretty quick.

‘What about
you?
' I asked her once. ‘Are
you
bored with it?'

She shrugged.
She
doesn't factor into it. I don't know how that happened. She looks in the mirror and frets about what guys will think of her. What
she
thinks of herself doesn't matter anymore.

The twist with the current supremo jock is that he wants to be a rap star even though he's white and is going to end up selling insurance or something. His car stereo always blares gangsta rap about ‘what that ho needs.' Meanwhile, Queen Bee Kirsten and her ladies are cheerleaders. The revival of cheerleading is a twenty-first-century tragedy in my opinion. It is truly painful watching them twitch their glutes and spread their legs. Rossi auditioned but they wouldn't have her. Somebody taped a bottle of Rid, the poison you smear on your pubic hair when you get crabs, to her locker this morning. I grabbed it before she saw it. Kirsten's crowd has been staring at her, hoping for signs of humiliation. Rossi, of course, thinks they're paying special attention to her eensy-weensy tank-top-and-capris combo.

In Social Studies Mrs. Freeman told us that we have to rid the world of the notion that young people today don't have ideals and morals. ‘Prove them wrong!' she bellowed. Like everybody else, she wants us to get educated so we can score some pod job, licking the assistant vp's loafers. Work sixty-hour weeks so we can earn the benefits we won't get after we burn out and get laid off. I'd rather make soap. I read about some burnt-out human-rights lawyer who transformed himself into an organic farmer and hooked up with an Amish community to learn how to make organic soap. The Amish use ingredients from their gardens, kitchens and barns to brew soap. The human-rights lawyer got spooked about stewing animal fats so he substituted avocado oil, castor oil, cocoa butter and palm kernel oil. He mixes them together in a big cast-iron pot heated over a wood-burning stove. He throws in natural stuff that adds fragrance, like lemongrass, cedarwood, eucalyptus, lavender, then he pours it into a wooden soap pan with a wooden lid. Next he bakes it in a wood-burning stove, lets it cool, slices it up and sells it at markets and online. He says every morning he wakes up excited about some new natural ingredient
he wants to toss in his soap. I can't imagine waking up excited. One thing's for sure, sitting in a lecture hall with 300 Asians and Muslims isn't going to excite me. Why bother when they're way smarter than me and taking over the world and all that. There's this girl called YangYang at Dairy Dream who's a super-brain. She's going to university to study business and you just know where that one's going. In five years she'll own a bunch of Dairy Dreams and poor minority white trash like myself will be soaking her scoops.

I told Mrs. Freeman that the ruination of Spaceship Earth is thanks to the geniuses with post-secondary education.

‘Are you suggesting,' she inquired, ‘that we eliminate post-secondary education?'

‘We need to learn from plants and animals,' I told her. ‘Before they're all dead.'

On principle I'm against the Tim Hortons concept, the whole franchise thing, plus they don't buy fair-trade coffee, meaning little kids are picking the beans. But their soup's alright and affordable. Rossi's in a state because Kirsten's crowd threw clumps of wet toilet paper at her. ‘Why would they do that?' she asks, looking like the
JK
kid I remember. We used to pretend to be pioneers and shoot horse thieves.

‘Maybe they didn't like your tank top,' I say.

‘What's wrong with my tank top?'

‘It's a bit revealing,' Tora says. She's scribbling in her notepad again. I've quit actually reading her poems; instead I look down at the pad and picture snow falling upwards or something.

‘It's no more “revealing” than Kirsten's tank top,' Rossi says.

‘There's more of you to reveal,' I point out.

‘It's total bull,' Rossi says, ‘all that stuff about how if you've got it, flaunt it.'

I'm pretty sure there's msg in the soup because I always get a little hyper from it. ‘Did you read about that girl whose ex is posting sexually explicit videos of her on YouTube? You might want to give him a call, Ross.'

‘Very funny.'

‘He made it look as though she'd put them there herself. He
impersonated
her. Had her inviting any boy on the planet to enjoy her services.'

‘That's heinous,' Tora says.

‘Oh, the wonders of technology.' I smear butter on my roll. I always ask for extra butter because I'm a butter addict. For some reason the servers seem to resent handing over extra butter, like it's costing them personally, when we all know the Tim Hortons Corp. can spare a few slabs.

Tora hands me her scrawl. I look down at it, trying to decide which doughnut to consume. Tora wants to be a writer. She plans to go to university and take creative writing. I told her no decent writer studies creative writing. She accused me of being envious because I have no direction. She doesn't think I'm serious about the soap thing. I've actually been thinking about a mint facial soap. Mint's got anti-inflammatory properties, which would be good for zits.

‘I'm going to crash Nicole's party,' Rossi announces.

I get a blueberry cruller. The dough sticks to the top of my mouth, making speech difficult.

‘You've got to get over this party thing,' Tora says.

‘And do what?' Rossi asks. ‘Sit around writing lonely poems? No thank you.'

‘You could get a hobby,' I say.

‘Don't start with the pennies,' Rossi says. When we were in Brownies, I collected pennies to earn a Brownie badge. I've kept it up because I want to have a penny for as many years as possible. My oldest penny is from 1939. I like holding it and thinking about some mother holding it in 1939, listening to the wireless about Herr Hitler, worrying that sonny boy will have to go to war and get his legs blown off. I like knowing that she's dead and that her son's dead and that the penny has changed hands millions of times since then. Hands that belonged to people who were just as freaked about something or other. There's always something to freak about but the penny keeps going.

5

A
cop comes to our school to talk about Youth Violence. He's short and losing his hair and talks really loudly even though the microphone's set up. He keeps popping it on words like
purpose
and
protect.
His name is Power.
Inspector
Power. He says there have already been twelve homicides in our area this year. ‘If you live by the sword, you will die by the sword,' he warns the assembly of head-and butt-scratchers. ‘Lay down your arms,' he says. ‘The families who live here have good hearts and desire peace and just want to raise their families.'

Ms. Brimmers – Drew's replacement – stands gazing at Inspector Power, getting creamy about the man in the uniform. Brimmers is very serious about her job because it's her first gig as principal. Occasionally she smiles, which is truly scary because her lips curl back rodent-style and her nose wrinkles. Unlike Drew, she's always looking over her shoulder, watching for knives.

‘Shootings are a symptom of something else,' Inspector Power says. ‘You need to acquire the social skills that enable you to resolve incidents in a peaceful manner.' He pops the mike on
peaceful.
‘You've got to start thinking about compassion.'

I guess nobody's told him that violence buys status, not to mention stardom. It's not like anybody's forgotten the Columbine boys - heck, they're so famous a video game was named after them. Maybe Inspector Power hasn't noticed that, even in the movies, the good guy ends up blowing everybody's heads off in order to protect the families who desire peace and just want to raise their families. If you look at history, all the killings are supposed to be about protecting somebody or other; from the Romans on it's just one big disembowelling process in the name of defence. No different from gang wars. That's another problem I have with Shakespeare, he makes battlefield stuff look noble when the fact is, it's just more slaughter for no good reason. And while his Henrys and Richards are plotting inside their castles, peasants are being burnt out, raped and pillaged on a regular basis. Over and over again the most ruthless despot wins. I guess there are a few exceptions, Hitler for example, but he still managed to kill six million Jews. Gandhi never lifted a sword but who wants to starve themselves and sit around in a diaper spinning cotton? And anyway, a bullet got him in the end. Meanwhile India and Pakistan are back to wanting to nuke each other, and the Middle East is one big ticking bomb. Somebody should come up with an advertising campaign that makes killing a sign of weakness. A campaign that makes
not
killing sexy, that makes guns look like crutches for cowards who lack social skills, that makes living and dying by the sword something to be ashamed of. Maybe somebody could design
We Wun Without Guns
T-shirts, or Don't Slice, Be Nice hoodies,
Bombs Are for Buttheads
baseball caps. I'm no advertising wizard but it must be possible. Advertisers can make us do anything. The hitch is violence sells. And there's nothing like a war to keep the corporations happy.

I've been reading about Genghis Khan because I'm obsessed with conquerors and monarchs. I like knowing that, even with all that power and cash, they were still dragging their asses and not exactly excited about getting up in the morning. Mostly they fretted about who was out to get them or betray them and, of course, which of their many enemies must be incarcerated or slaughtered. Anyway, for centuries old Genghis has been made out to be this Mongolian psycho killer. Well, it turns out he wasn't half as gruesome as all those Vikings and William the Conqueror. Educated people resented that this labourer – Genghis – turned out to be an amazing warrior leader, but the academics made him out to be a ruthless murderer while the likes of the Plantagenets and Alexander the Great got special treatment. None of them conquered half as much land as old Genghis did. Old Caesar doesn't even compare. But they were of noble birth and thus got noble treatment. That's what I mean when I say the people with post-secondary education
are bad for Spaceship Earth. You can't believe a word they're saying.