Lemon

by Cordelia Strube

  ‘Don’t leave me, okay?’

  ‘I should get help.’

  ‘Don’t get help. I’ll kill you if you get help!’

  ‘What did they do to you?’

  ‘Just help me find my clothes.’

  ‘I can’t see anything. Let me get a flashlight.’

  ‘No!’ she shrieks like I just burned her. She starts crawling around, sniffling, searching for her clothes.

  ‘Did they rape you?’

  ‘Shut up,’ she says.

  ‘Was it Jake and the football boys?’

  ‘Nobody raped me, alright, forget it, just help me get my clothes.’

  ‘They’re not in here, Ross. They took them. They want you walking around naked. It’s a big joke.’ She gropes like the blind.

  ‘Where’s your cell?’ I ask. ‘We should call 911.’

  ‘Are you kidding? No way are we calling anybody. Shut up about this, alright, just help me find my clothes.’

  ‘They’re not here, Ross.’

  She starts to sob, brutal, choking sobs like when she was six and her bike got stolen.

  ‘We’ll call your mum,’ I say, ‘and she’ll bring you some clothes.’

  ‘Don’t call my mum!’ she snaps. ‘Anyway, they took my cell.’

  ‘So what are we supposed to do?’

  ‘Find my clothes.’

  The deck lights flash and the crowd starts whistling and stamping their feet. King Jake shouts, ‘Let’s get this show on the road!’ They’re all there, Kirsten, Nicole, the wannabes. Larry Bone. Rossi crouches under a bench and it dawns on me that we’re about to die horrible deaths, that they’ll burn our faces with cigarettes, kick the shit out of us then douse our bodies in lighter fluid and set us on fire.

  ‘The dyke’s in there with her,’ Bonehead announces.

  ‘Fucking lesbos,’ Taylor in the dog collar concludes. ‘What they need is a corrective experience.’

  I have no problem with death if it’s over fast, if I go where Kadylak’s going.

  ‘Yo, ho, show us your tits!’ Slade the blow-job freak shouts.

  ‘We want pink shots!’ they all chant.

  ‘Yo, bitch, show us your gash!’ Bonehead bellows.

  Rossi’s shaking and sobbing and I know she’s destroyed, that she’ll never be the same, that her days will be filled with fear and shame. I look around for a weapon, grab a seat cushion and push open the screen door. They all hoot and holler. ‘Where are her clothes?’ I demand.

  Jake acts surprised. ‘She’s got clothes?’

  ‘The skank’s got clothes?’ Slade echoes.

  ‘Where are her clothes?’ I repeat.

  Kirsten, doubtless the mastermind behind all this, smirks and twirls her hair.

  ‘What’s the slut need clothes for?’ Jake says. ‘She looks better without ’em. Anyway, there might be some good men here who haven’t fucked her yet. Although that’s hard to imagine.’

  All the hatred, the rage, starts sizzling inside me, burning my arms, my legs, my face. I climb down the steps, seat cushion in hand, wanting to terminate this asshole, spit bile into his eyes. ‘Where are her clothes?’ I shout. He keeps acting ignorant and his followers do the same. They should be thrown in toxic pits, smothered in landfill. ‘You are sick!’ I scream.

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s sick,’ Queen Kirsten shrieks, ‘is some bitch saying she’s writing a play and getting everybody to fake-fuck in her basement. That’s sick. That’s fucking mental. You’re a fucking sick mental case!’

  ‘A virgin too,’ Jake surmises. ‘Nobody’d fuck anything that ugly. Five bucks to the first guy who fucks her.’

  Bonehead starts coming at me with druggy eyes. I throw the seat cushion at him, which gets a laugh. Somebody grabs me from behind and I’m slammed into the ground and they’re yanking at my clothes, unzipping my pants and chanting, ‘Fuck the dyke up the ass,’ and all I know is I’d rather be dead then ripped open by these goons. I start kicking and jabbing and biting and smacking my head into their stinking flesh. ‘Kill me, you fucks!’ I’m shouting. ‘Kill me, you fucking losers!’ I taste blood and figure my nose is bleeding. What’s weird is I’m not even scared really, I should be scared but it’s a fight I’ve been waiting for. I’ve been wanting to hurt these degenerates for so long. Some of them back off, stunned. ‘She’s a fucking animal,’ they gasp, grabbing at my legs, but I’m super-energized and they’re canned. Bonehead’s got his hands under my shirt, twisting my breasts. I slam my forehead into his nose and he yowls. Taylor in the dog collar grips me in a headlock, choking me. Slade rips my underpants and I can feel night air against my snatch.

  ‘Whaddayaknow, the dyke’s got a slit,’ Slade announces. I try to kick the side of his head but two other football players grab my thighs and split me open. Goons grab my ankles and yank off my pants while Taylor breathes barbecue chips and beer on me. Slade starts shoving a beer bottle into me and I can’t kick, can’t move for fear of breaking the glass. Taylor is licking my face. I hear Kirsten say, ‘There’s no business like show business.’ Bonehead pulls out his dick and tries to push it in my mouth. I clench my teeth but the stink of him is making me sick. I start choking on vomit because there’s no way I’m opening my mouth. Then somebody else is yelling and swinging a golf club around. The halfwits cover their heads. ‘Leave her alone!’ the guy shouts and I realize it’s Doyle, all six feet four inches of him. He looks scared out of his mind, like he can’t believe he’s swinging a golf club around. He’s taken off his T-shirt and tucked it into his jeans. He throws it at me. ‘Get Rossi,’ he says. I roll over and puke on their Nikes before grabbing my pants. I scramble into the gazebo. Rossi’s still under the bench sobbing. ‘Ross? We’ve got to get out of here.’ I shove my legs into my pants then pull her out, pushing her head through the T-shirt like she’s a little girl. ‘It’s going to be okay,’ I tell her. ‘We’re getting out of here.’ I fit her hands through the armholes. She’s mute, in shock or something. The T-shirt, being Doyle’s, is long and covers her ass. Printed on it is I hope you like animals because I’m a beast. I grip Rossi’s hand and lead her outside.

  ‘Take it easy, man,’ King Jake says to Doyle who’s still whipping the club around. ‘We were just foolin’ around.’

  ‘Yeah, we were just jokin’,’ his subordinates insist, crowding around us.

  ‘Back off!’ I scream.

  Doyle pushes through them and puts his free arm over Rossi’s shoulders. Holding her between us, we walk around the house to the street. They don’t follow. They’re defeated, for now.

  20

  ‘We should go to the police,’ I say, shaking even though I’m not cold. Rossi’s in the back with me, trying to blend in with the upholstery. ‘If you ever want to press charges,’ I say, ‘you have to go to the police now.’ She doesn’t respond so I nudge her. ‘Ross?’

  ‘I’m not pressing charges.’

  ‘You might change your mind later, and you’ll need evidence.’

  ‘I’m not pressing charges, alright.’

  Doyle glances over his shoulder. ‘Where should we go?’

  ‘To the police,’ I say. ‘I’ll stay with you, Ross. You won’t be alone.’

  ‘All cops do is ask questions like “What were you wearing?” Unless you’re dressed like a church lady, they figure you asked for it. I was drunk, Lemon, and I thought it would be fun, with Jake anyway. I wanted to piss off Kirsten.’

  ‘It’s still rape, Ross. I heard you screaming.’ While I was sitting around sucking on pretzels.

  ‘Cops make you stand naked on a piece of paper while they stick swabs in you. They don’t even let you piss. Forget it. I just want to shower.’

  ‘So where are we going?’ Doyle asks.

  ‘Lemon’s. Is that alright?’ She still looks like the kid whose bike was stolen, except there’s makeup smeared all over her face.

  ‘If you shower before the police examine you,’ I say, ‘those shits will get away with it and they’ll gang-ban
g some other girl.’

  ‘Forget about it, alright. Girls like me always lose at rape trials. The horny judge’ll say I deserved it.’

  She’s got a point.

  ‘Alright,’ I say, ‘let’s go to my place.’ Chances are Drew and Vaughn are asleep. She can use the basement bathroom.

  Doyle stops in front of the house but doesn’t get out. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he says.

  ‘Sure,’ I say, although I don’t want him to go, don’t want to be alone with the rape victim. ‘Thanks.’ He shrugs, not looking too excited about being a hero.

  She showers until the hot water runs out. Vaughn comes down to find out what’s going on. I tell him my friend got raped. He doesn’t seem surprised, gives me the tree-frog stare.

  ‘What happened to your face?’ he asks.

  ‘You should see the other guy.’

  ‘Do you need help?’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘She’ll freak if she comes out and finds you here.’

  ‘I’m gone.’

  ‘Don’t tell Drew.’

  ‘Of course not. You should put ice on your face.’ He goes back upstairs.

  Rossi exits the bathroom looking like a peasant woman who’s popped sixteen babies that all died. I hand her some of my clothes, expecting her to say, ‘No way I’m wearing this shit.’ But she puts them on. She looks different without makeup. Washed out.

  ‘Want some tea?’ I ask.

  ‘Whatever.’ She sits on the couch that Kirsten and the gang were fake-fucking on. Kirsten has a point, I mean what kind of sick mental case pretends to write a play so she can get people to fake-fuck in her basement?

  It’s while I’m waiting for the kettle to boil that my legs quit. Whatever’s been holding me up is gone and I’m squatting on the floor looking at the grime you can’t see when you’re standing, the grime hidden under the lip of the counter and the drawer handles. The grease stuck to the oven door and the side of the stove. The dust collecting under shelves and around the garbage can. The inevitability of more grime and grease and dust accumulating sickens me and I have to lie face down on the grimy floor, bond with it, accept it, I who have sexual fantasies about the father of a dying child; I who get people to fake-fuck in my basement; I who let my friend get raped. I’m Clarissa in prison, penitent, waiting to die, only I’m not going to be partying with God, I’m going to dissolve into more grease and grime.

  ‘Lemon?’ It’s washed-out Rossi, shivering. ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Sure.’ I manage to sit up by clinging to grimy and greasy drawer knobs.

  ‘Why are you on the floor?’

  ‘I slipped.’

  ‘We should phone my mum. Can we say I’m staying over?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I watch her dial and listen to her lie. I picture Mrs. Barnfield relieved that her daughter is snug at her girlfriend’s house. I see her turning off the tv and swallowing her meds. With her baby safe, she can sleep now.

  The couch is a pullout bed. We find the sleeping bags and crawl into them. I’d like to talk the way we used to during sleepovers, convinced we’d gab all night but then suddenly waking to find it morning.

  ‘Are you asleep?’ I ask after what feels like hours.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m cold.’

  I slide over so we’re back to back, warming each other.

  ‘Nobody’s going to touch me now,’ Rossi says. ‘Not even Doyle.’

  I shoved his T-shirt in a Ziploc bag and stuffed it in the freezer because I figured it might have forensic evidence on it. She was sitting on it in the guzzler, there must have been leakage.

  ‘You can’t seriously want any of those psychos after this,’ I say.

  ‘Kirsten exposed herself on YouTube and nobody’s calling her a whore.’

  ‘That’s because she’s queen, Ross. They’re all scared of her.’

  ‘Do you have to scare people to make them respect you?’

  That’s a good question. All those kings and queens slaughtering people, were they respected? Or just feared? ‘I don’t think they respect her, exactly, they’re just scared of her.’

  ‘I don’t want to scare people,’ Rossi says in a small voice I haven’t heard for years. ‘I just want them to like me.’

  ‘Yeah, well, most people don’t want to bother with the little guys who just want to be liked unless there’s something in it for them. You’re better off not wanting to be liked. Then if a person turns out half-decent, it’s a bonus.’

  ‘It’s going to be all over the school by Monday.’

  ‘All over the world.’

  ‘They called me trash.’

  If people say things about you over and over, if all you hear is how you’re lazy or stupid, a skank, a whore, trash, you start to believe it.

  Peggy, the obese nurse with rheumatoid arthritis, is arguing with a couple of parents. This happens all the time, Mom and Pop refuse to believe they can’t buy their way into a private room. Most of the rooms are private anyway but there’s one with four beds in it. Acouple of newborn twins are in there now. They were diagnosed with cancer before they were even born. Tumours showed up on an ultrasound. I squeeze past Peggy and head for Kadylak’s room, telling myself not to freak if someone from the waiting list has filled the bed. I tell myself I’ll act normal, get them a freezie then start reading a story. Maybe Jane Eyre. I started reading it again last night while Rossi was twitching around. I’m not wild about the second part when Jane’s obsessing over old Rochester, but I like the beginning when John Reed beats the crap out of her and Mrs. Reed calls her a liar and naughty and all that. Jane tries hard to please Mrs. Reed, but the old warhorse locks her up in the haunted room anyway. Spooked, Jane starts screaming and Bessie, the maid, lets her out but the battle-axe locks her back in there. Jane begins to wonder if she really is all those shitty things the Reeds say she is. Which is what I mean when I say if people keep saying rotten things about you, you start to believe them.

  I push open the door and it’s Kadylak in the bed. She looks up as if she’s been waiting for me. She holds out her arms and I hug her and start bawling, which is completely freaky for me. I don’t want her to see so I hide my face in the little curve between her neck and shoulder but then my ribcage starts to spasm and I’m making horrible sounds like I’m dying or something, and the tears are burning my eyeballs, which can’t be normal. Kadylak just squeezes me harder and we stay like that for ages. She’s even skinnier than before, I’m scared I’ll crush her. I want to tell her what’s happened but I know I can’t. I thought I was dealing with it pretty well. I ate Shredded Wheat and had a shower and put on clothes and all that. It was on the subway I felt their hands all over me. And the sharp cold of the bottle. Bonehead’s dick against my teeth.

  ‘I missed you,’ she says.

  ‘I missed you.’

  ‘We should be sisters, then we could live together always.’ She has two sisters but they hate her because her cancer stole their parents from them.

  ‘We can be sisters anyway,’ I say, still holding her. If she sees my face she’ll know something’s up. ‘I’m so glad you’re better.’

  ‘It was a close one,’ she says.

  ‘You’ve got to start eating more.’

  ‘I will,’ she says, but I know it’s torment eating with sores in your mouth and constant nausea. She stops hugging me and I have to face her, leaving a dark patch where I’ve soaked her hospital gown.

  ‘Why are you crying?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m so happy you’re better.’

  ‘I’m not really better. I’m better for now.’

  ‘That’s all any of us have, really, if you think about it.’

  She grabs Sweetheart the penguin and holds her close. ‘What happened to your face?’

  ‘I fell down.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In my kitchen. It was the weirdest thing. I just kind of
slipped on grease or something.’ I’ve never lied to her before. I feel chains tightening around me.

  ‘It must have hurt.’

  ‘Not really. What do you feel like doing? Do you want to go to the playroom or something?’

  ‘Can we read Tilly?’

  There’s this brutal silence while Tilly Tilly Tilly reverberates inside my head, that piece-of-shit book I can’t even locate in my memory. I try to believe it’s in the bottom of my backpack and that I’ll be able to find it in a jiffy. I start feeling around for it. I’m sweating, can’t speak.

  ‘Didn’t you bring it?’ she asks. Her head scarf’s falling off. I try to straighten it. ‘You thought I died,’ she says.

  ‘No, I just forgot, I … It’s been crazy the last few days.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve had a lot of schoolwork,’ I lie again. The chains rattle. ‘And I’ve been extremely worried about you.’

  ‘If you worry,’ she says, ‘I worry. Please don’t worry. Mama worries. She’s always sick now.’

  ‘Has she come in?’

  She shakes her head. ‘She’s scared I’ll get her flu.’

  ‘What about your dad?’

  ‘He comes. He’s very tired. He doesn’t like Brenda. Why’s she so bossy?’

  I try to think of a reason other than that Brenda’s a miserable sow with a miserable life who gets off making people miserable. ‘It’s her life purpose,’ I say.

  ‘What’s a life purpose?’

  ‘A reason to get up in the morning.’

  ‘Why do you need a reason?’

  That’s a good question. ‘I guess because sometimes you feel like it’s too much, all the crap you have to deal with.’

  ‘What crap?’

  ‘What a loser you are and all that.’

  She thinks about this, fiddling with the tube on her porta-cath. I pull her hand away from it because that’s my job, and because I want to hold her hand forever.

  ‘When I go to sleep,’ she says, ‘I’m glad when I wake up.’

  I kiss her forehead. ‘That’s because you’re special.’

  I scoop ice cream on automatic. Everything looks meaner and uglier, and standing for eight hours proves more challenging after all that kicking and punching. My body aches while customers carp. When they stare at my face I try to stare back but they scare me. They could hurt me. I didn’t use to feel this. The movie crowd swarms the food court, bitching about the special effects in some movie. With bulging eyes and guts they bark orders, leaning against my counter, leaving greasy popcorn prints all over the glass. Some Flintstone type, loitering with his wife and kiddies, keeps telling Wilma to shut up. ‘Did I ask your opinion?’ he keeps saying. ‘Shut your trap.’ Wilma slumps under the weight of a hostile marriage. Her porcine and needy-looking children shove each other while staring hungrily at the flavours. I imagine the counter collapsing under their bulk, the Flintstones crashing into me, smothering me, shoving their greasy fingers under my clothes.