The leaves burned an incandescent green. Along the street, maples especially, a few liquid amber, and other suburban front lawn trees with gibbous, grey trunks and pronged leaves, stood lined and at attention. It was a sterling crop, an outstanding class. Except for the Madison's tree, who hunched and torqued just outside the bounds of etiquette. Here was a tree that, you could just tell, would have used the meat fork for his salad, a tree worthy of Mrs. Prig's disdain. (Mrs. Prig was the greying, school marm fixture at local Jefferson Elementary. She must have sprung from the headache of the contractor who built the school; not even the school administration could pinpoint the start of her tenure at Jefferson. She padded quietly around the school halls in worn ballerina shoes. Behind her gaudy rhinestone spectacles that hung on a gold chain, some of the plating flaking off, she would intone nasally, "Which one of you bad apples is going to spoil the rest of the bushel?")

Vivid trees and lawns, multi-hued rose gardens, children's toys and balls, and pastel houses radiated the flustering intensity of early spring. Strokes of color laced the twilight sky. An ephemeral red, like the flush of anger, bled into a disarming orchid violet. The elves who make rainbows pleached and interspersed faded school bus yellow among the wispy clouds.

This hushed family street in the incipience of spring had been named Lemon St. by someone at some point. Situated perfectly east-west as the sun travels, it afforded a dazzling view of the sunset, although no one seemed to be watching it at the moment.

In finger-painting class, kids get caught up in the potential of such a vast array of colors. In their excitement they daub orange and green and blue and pink, some of this and some of that, expecting a resultant brilliance. What they get is brown. Dull, mud puddle, manure, disheartening brown.

If one planted himself at the end of Lemon St., narrowed his eyes and squinted down the extent of the street, absorbing all the vibrant casts, shades and tints and amalgamating them through some arcane network of optic nerve, neurons, memory, ego, thanatos and whatever else goes on inside the sensorium, he would have seen a magnificent, an exultant, a hearty . . . brown. Then the squinter, reasonably, would have hopped in his beat up Volkswagen and driven away.

Roderick, some sort of dwarf mutant, white and brown Spaniel breed had a satellite dish strapped around his neck. The vet said after the horse tail was removed, Roderick would gimp a little, but it wouldn't hurt him much. The important thing was to make sure he didn't chew at the wound. So the dish.

A full month after his incident, Roderick just began to approach what could be called gimping. Until then he had agonizingly shuffled himself across hard linoleum by lowering his dish to slide it in front, pushing simultaneously with his three good legs (much like a squid), and letting his bad right front leg drag pathetically at his side. Eventually he hazarded some slight weight on the leg. Slowly he started to gimp like the vet said he would. And by now, three months later, he was back to his superbly functional martinet mien. No more demeaning satellite dish. He wore a brown leather chest harness with cute little silver studs, apposite to his position. I imagine he wore it with pride, not knowing the quiet fleers he received at the mouths of the neighborhood cats.

This particular evening, as with many, Roderick trotted out, yapped a couple warnings at no one in particular, and then scuttled quickly back inside through the dog door as though he had overstayed his welcome.

Roderick was Dustin McGowan's dog, not by his choice. His mom, Marcy, bought the dog for him when he was five, just after she and Dustin's father divorced. Dustin treated the dog like a stuffed animal he'd outgrown. He remained sentimentally attached but felt occasional waves of embarrassment at having such a pussy dog. He didn't yet appreciate the dog's comic value.

With his mother and dog, Dustin tenanted 871 Lemon St., or Limón as Dustin called it now.

His alarm went off at seven. His head felt groggy, and he blearily envisioned Mr. Fury droning at him about European trade "ruts" when he meant routes. Time to topple the august promise of a budding education, Dustin decided, and went back to sleep. His mom woke him at 7:20, whining, "Dustin, didn't you set your alarm?"

"I don't feel good, mom." He knew this was by no means a sure thing. He had to sell her with his most subtly affected voice.

"What do you mean, sweetey?" she responded appropriately.

"I just . . . I don't know. I feel kind of dizzy and maybe a little feverish." Feverish was always a good word to throw in. It had that resounding ring of formidability. "My God child! If you're feeling feverish then by no means should you be going to school. I'll get to fixin' up a poultice, and maybe even a cold compress, and be back before you can whistle Yankee Doodle. But don't you try it. I wou'nt want you to strain yourself. Feverish! Goodness. I must call the reverend and have him get the congregation to toss up a prayer for my darling, feeble child."

"Really? Feverish?" She put her hand on Dustin's forehead. "Well, I'll go get the thermometer." Deep down she questioned the veracity of Dustin's claim, but what mother wants to call her son a shyster?

Dustin pulled up all his covers and willed himself into fever. It couldn't hurt, he thought. Marcy returned with the thermometer and, as soon as Dustin rallied the stength to wanly separate his lips, gently placed it in Dustin's mouth, with the end beneath his tongue.

Damn, it's cold! Dustin thought. How the hell am I s'posed to heat up this icicle? He settled himself again deep within the ruffles of the covers and imagined a little campfire burning under his tongue. His mom left, to return promptly, Dustin knew, in exactly two minutes when the thermometer had made its judgment.

And so she did. And so the thermometer had. In Dustin's favor, I might add. 99.9. Not earth-shaking, imminent death kind of numbers. But above normal. Enough.

I'm in baby! Dustin's spirit leaped. In the house all day doing nothing but loafing and watching TV.

"Well I guess it is a little high. Do you really feel that bad? Because a fever like this won't hurt you, and I'd just as soon have you in class rather than wasting away at home."

"You mean you'd want me wasting away in class, rather than recuperating at home?" Dustin asked with ungenuinely sincere disbelief. "Oh, come on. You're not that sick." "You saw the thermometer, mom. I just don't feel good. I feel woozy. If I were in class I wouldn't be paying attention anyway. I couldn't concentrate all dizzy and stuff. What good would that do me? I'm suffering with a bout of borborygmus too. I got gas something awful. Come here. Feel my stomach."

"All right. Fine," Marcy relented.

Pass me the rock, baby. I'm wide open. Three, two . . . From way, way out. We're talking nearly half-court.

"You can just have your school lunch if you get hungry," Marcy offered.

Dustin puts up a dream shot for the win. It looks on track.

"It's in a brown bag on the counter. O.K., honey?"

It's in, baby! Dustin comes through to pull out the giant V! Dustin lost himself in Vitale's orgasmic enthusiasm.

"Sorry, what?" Dustin returned.

"Didn't you hear me?"

"No. See. I told you I couldn't concentrate very well now."

"I just said you're lunch was on the counter. O.K.? Feel better. I'll see you when I get home from work." Marcy leaned in and kissed Dustin on the forehead.

"O.K. Bye, mom," Dustin dismissed her and fell back asleep, dreaming . . . of an old-fashioned, rose-tinctured portrait inside a worn, wrought frame. In the portrait Dustin wears an austere black and white suit to complement his jet black handle bar moustache. She wears a ravishing powder blue gown, tight bustier pressing up her budding breasts, billowing bustle disguising the mystery of her legs. She is the new girl in class. They embrace.

'Round 10:30. Dustin awakens to the sound of birds drowned by the rattling, lurching buzz of gas blowers. How does he know the birds are singing? He imagines them, all right. Sunlight filters through his smoky white blinds. A beam lands on his nose (of sun, I mean). He sniffles, yawns, stretches, unintentionally kicks Roderick hard to the floor. A muffled yelp rises to Dustin's ears. He smiles. The day is good.

He lumbers downstairs in Star Wars pajamas. Not Underoos mind you. A regular respectable set of two piece pajamas. Dustin's in seventh grade now. His relatives stopped sending Underoos at Christmas at least two years ago.

First stop is the bathroom. A hard day of loafing demands utmost in lack of discomfort. Bladder pressure spoils any good lounge. He releases, wondering why architects put mirrors behind toilets. He shakes, reassured of his manhood, retreats and realigns, now certain that he's ready.

He treks to the living room and pours himself into the couch, only to find that the remote rests on the top of the television set eight feet away. He rouses and shuffles, slightly groggy, as if his will for sickness worked, to the TV and retrieves the remote. He returns to the couch and plops himself back down with an exhale.

Let's see. Divorce Court, one to come back to if nothing else is on. Andy Griffith Show, quality entertainment but not an instant win. Oral Roberts, switched quicker than an attic gathers dust. Donahue, mothers who buy bad clothes for their daughters. Not one of his better episodes. Undin Smorgasborden, a funny looking French chef, with a powerful accent, dicing celery. Perfect.

Dustin had almost fallen back asleep when the chef shrilled excitedly, and Dustin's eyes shot to the screen, expecting to see a turkey baster or maybe some sort of elaborate marinade. No such luck. But a bouillabaisse. That was pretty good in its own right.

"Zhoost aad a whee toosh ov leemoan to de bouillabaisse." The chef's nose crinkled, his right thumb and forefinger touched, and he brought his chin down sharply to emphasize the weight of his advice. His bloated, white hat bobbed dangerously forward and teetered an instant. In one hand the chef held the limón. In the other a delicate paring knife. He had no free hand to rescue his headpiece. He snapped his head sharply back to redirect the fall of the hat. It didn't work. The hat slid over the chef's eyes and then tumbled forthright into the bouillabaisse.

Dustin lost it.

The show instantly cut to commercial. When they returned, Dustin was still chuckling. The chef wore a clean, new, white hat, indistinguishable from the previous, but had lost some of his unflappable aplomb. He now shucked spasmodically. He gripped the cleaver with a trembling hand. Spices were added with the neophyte inaccuracy of a short order cook. The chef's dicing had been nothing short of majestic before the accident. Now fingers and knife edged closer as they chopped with hesitancy and a precarious lack of faith. One could see it in the chef's eyes. Almost like the hands were working under their own autonomy and bent on self-destruction. The chef feared for his hands and cringed every time they came near the knife.

Apparently the bouillabaisse hadn't suffered much from the hat's unsightly intrusion. Aside from a few small but blatant pieces of white lint, which wouldn't have been noticeable but for the frequent top-view shots, the bouillabaisse still appeared delectable. Appearances can be deceiving. When the show rounded out and came to the conclusion, the chef took a dainty sip of his creation . . . and immediately expelled it straight at the camera. As the credits rolled, some of the film crew aided the chef as he sidled off-stage, racked by choking and sobbing. This last shot was seen through the blurred, brown filter of a bouillabaisse-soaked camera lens.

Dustin felt warm inside for the rest of the day. He glanced at soaps, flicked back and forth between news and Leave It to Beaver, immersed himself in cartoons, and generally had an utterly unproductive but rewarding day of it. He hadn't moved from the couch since about 11:00. It was now 4:30. Roderick curled happily in the space between Dustin's legs on top of Dustin's blanket. Dustin sat up, flicked Roderick's ear until he woke, confused, and then Dustin took a nap.

Marcy shook Dustin awake at 6:00, when she got home.

"How are you feeling?" she cooed.

"I feel a lot better. I'm still a little queezy. Do I look sallow to you?" Never say you've recovered. Just like, "Never let 'em see you sweat." Same idea.

"Sallow? What are you talking about?"

"You know, of a sickly, pale-yellow hue. See my days aren't wasted when I'm not in school. I read and learn and become a better person, all at a much more efficient rate."

"No, you don't look sallow. If anything you look a pallid sepia," she bandied. "You didn't eat your lunch," she finished.

"I didn't feel very hungry. My borborygmus still hasn't settled down, and I didn't want to risk it."

"Well, are you hungry for dinner?" Marcy asked soothingly.

"I think I might be able to squeeze some down. What's on the menu?"

"Chicken stir-fry on a bed of cous-cous. Sound good?"

"What?! That's not food for a sick person. Are you trying to pique my illness?" Dustin cried, not really indignant.

"Oh, I think you'll be able to handle it," Marcy answered unperturbed.

"All right. If you think so. But if I throw up on the rug, I'm not cleaning it up."

"That's O.K. I thought we could just leave it for Roderick to lap up," Marcy volleyed back.

"Eeeuw. Gross, mom! You're not supposed to talk like that."

"I'm going to go make your dinner now. Hush up."

"O.K. Oh, and mom. Can you aad a whee toosh ov leemoan to de bouillabaisse?" Dustin sang out with his best attempt at a French accent.

Marcy rolled her eyes and walked briskly away.

Back where you came from