Free Lemon by Cordelia Strube Page B

side of his head. Walter keels over and lies there.
    â€˜Get up, man,’ King Jake commands but the boy doesn’t move.
    â€˜Fuck,’ the ever-articulate Slade comments. ‘Get the fuck up.’ He nudges Walter with his Nike. The other geniuses crowd around and I consider making a break for it but the cyclone in my body has cooked me to the point that I feel ready to pass out, to drop from the tree like some kind of overheated iguana.
    â€˜Fuck this shit,’ Slade announces. He and his close companion, who always wears a dog collar, leave the scene of the crime in disgust. The other cretins, led by King Jake, also disperse, muttering fucking this and fucking that . Only Walter the wannabe remains, inert on the grass. I have pissed my pants, can feel the wet spreading. I try to picture myself rushing to Walter’s rescue. Maybe he has a cell and I can call 911 . The cops will appear and applaud my good deed, despite the piss stains and odour. The boy will live because of my self-possession in an emergency situation. Even Blecher will be impressed and will get off my case regarding my lack of enthusiasm. ‘You saved a life, Limone, that’s more than most people do in a lifetime.’
    Walter still hasn’t moved. It could just be a concussion. One of the supremo girl jocks gets concussions on a regular basis. When the teachers ask her questions she says, ‘I don’t know, miss, I’ve got a concussion.’ The hitch is, if I help the boy out, word will spread that I witnessed the event and Bonehead and company will have another reason to tan my hide. Best to remain invisible until some good Samaritan notices the fallen boy. But they don’t. They scoop their dogs’ shit but they don’t see Walter. Or if they do they assume he’s drugged out, passed out, homeless. Just another body to ignore in the jewelled city.
    The tree branch has numbed my ass. I no longer feel hot, only cold, stone cold. I shake a chilled leg and command it to reach down for a limb. Slowly, iguana-style, I crawl down the tree. With both feet on the ground I look at the fallen boy. Then I walk away.
    Avoiding base camp due to my deranged, plant-killing stepmother, and hoping dried piss doesn’t stink, I wait while a Tim Horton serf stiffs me on butter again. ‘You forgot the butter ,’ I say. Usually I’m nice about it, say please and all that, but I’m tired of this game. ‘Butter!’ I almost shout, pointing at my mini-baguette. The skinny-assed one slaps a packet on the counter without looking at me. What happened to ‘Have a nice day’?
    I try not to think about Walter growing cold on the grass among the goose turds. I try to think about the play. Old Lund, my drama teacher, stopped me after class to ask about it. I told him I’d started writing it.
    â€˜What’s it about?’ He always stands with his gut sticking out and his fingers and thumbs touching each other. He’s got one of those skinny beards that follow his jawline. He’s an amateur actor and shows up in Shakespeare plays in church basements.
    I didn’t want to tell him that my play is about people faking it so I said it was about this downsized teller who makes hats and watches soap operas. He looked disappointed. I think he was hoping for a musical.
    â€˜You need conflict,’ he said. ‘Conflict is the essence of drama.’
    â€˜Oh, she’s conflicted,’ I told him.
    â€˜Are there other characters?’
    â€˜There’s her boyfriend who’s already married and wants nooky all the time. And her girlfriend who’s always buying stuff.’
    I could see old Lund was getting worried. He started feeling his beard.
    â€˜She can’t figure out why people don’t act like the hard-bodied crowd on TV ,’ I said. I was thinking about the part I wrote where the podgy, married boyfriend starts feeling Lillian up. She says she doesn’t