No Jokes About Lemont

A strange breeze whistled around the classroom the day Stanley Lemont joined Little Haven Elementary. The breeze was irrelevant to Stanley Lemont's coming, for the weather has very little interest in the dealings of eight-year-old boys and new schools - but it did appear to announce his arrival with an eerie quality. Of course, nobody paid much attention to the weather and everyone knew that there would be a new student at Little Haven before the breeze whipped up. So the breeze, after much blowing and howling for about an hour, gave up and retreated to some forgotten corner, to sulk.

Kevin Kruger prided himself on being the first to know that there would be a new student. Miss Neelam had told class and the class, surprisingly, had listened. Kevin smiled to himself, because ten minutes before Miss Neelam had bent down to his level on the playground and asked him to be very helpful and would she mind helping him with another student?

Where Stanley was from, few people knew. There were rumors - of course there were rumors - that said he was from Maine, Alabama, New Mexico or even a far off place some called England - but it was all speculation. Nobody had heard him speak. Miss Neelam hadn't mentioned anything about him.

When Stanley arrived, he was doomed. Moving schools, homes, states - perhaps even countries - was hard enough, but Stanley Lemont was a ridiculous name to take with him. He should have left it behind in Maine, Alabama, New Mexico or even a far off place some called England for his own good.

As it was, Stanley Lemont was unaware of his disadvantage. He stood up straighter than a soldier and said in a clear, indifferent voice that the eight-year-olds would later recognise as the voice of a future employer that he was Stanley Lemont, just moved, eight years old and (he said this with an uncharacteristic snarl which Miss Neelam did not like) NO JOKES ABOUT LEMONT.

What a stupid thing to say.

The students quickly identified the name Lemont as a weakness. They targetted the name. They realized Stanley's motives and hit him hard with the weapon he had given them.

"LEEEEEEEEEMOOOOOOOOOOON!" it followed them out of school. Stanley walked a little behind Kevin with a placid face. It was beginning to irritate Kevin, and he was only in charge of walking the new kid home.

"Can we walk faster?" asked Stanley briskly. The comment had very little at all to do with the children who called him Lemon. Kevin's dad had a nice way of describing this sort of attitude: it's his WAY. Way of what? The psychiatrist who saw Stanley when he was approaching sixteen would say in a cryptic voice that it was Stanley's way of coping with stress. On the contrary, Stanley wouldn't know much stress at all. His indifference made stress and responsibility slide from him.

"Sure," replied Kevin, and adjusted his pace. It hurt to walk so fast with so many books.

"Why are we walking faster?" he questioned.

"The best things you can accomplish are fast things," lectured Stanley, "Steven King wrote the novella Running Man in 72 hours. And that got made into a film. Well, that's what the rumors say, anyway. I believe them. King hasn't contradicted them and the book is written as though he was running. You can see his hand fly across the keyboard."

"Who's Steven King?" asked Kevin. He didn't particularly like Stanley. He felt out of step and out of breath and completely out of his league, intellectually. Was this guy really his age?

"He writes horror books. Perfect for the big screen. Adult. Very good," Stanley informed him. His speech was full of stops and starts. He might have been extremely clever, but he was not going to be liked - admired and respected, but not loved. He was out of place in every social occasion. A lamentable lemon.

"Do you think my name is stupid?" asked Stanley.

"No."

"I agree. It sounds stupid backward, though. Tnomel Yelnats. Absurd. Yours is Regurk Nevik. Bizarre, isn't it?"

"I think it was stupid you drew attention to it."

"I agree. I had a speech rehearsed. But I did it backward. Or, rather, I said it backward. And by the time I'd realized, I couldn't say the first thing last otherwise it wouldn't've made sense. So I stuck to a section."

"Now I do think your name is stupid."

"I agree. Everything is backward, isn't it?"

The backward boy continued to talk but Kevin stopped listening. With the hope and desperation of a normal eight-year-old he pleaded with the wind that had hidden itself, the wind that had announced Stanley's arrival, to announce his departure.