by Pat Schmatz
“But I’m not,” says Rasta.
“Yeah, well, neither am I. We’re the 95 percent. Lucky us.” Sully glances at me. She’s not fooled by the yellow ribbon in my hair. “My little cousin was born a he, and now she’s a beautiful she. They tested her up before Grade One and she scored in the midthirties. Girl for sure. Transition complete by Grade Three, and she passed through PDGT in about six weeks. Easy for her. That guy last night is probably around fifty. I saw some of those midrangers in my cousin’s cohort. They have it rough.”
“Guess I never thought about it like that,” says Rasta, thoughtful.
“That’s because you don’t have to. Benders have to think about it all the time.”
“Sully, Kivali.” Lacey startles us from behind. “Do you know the meaning of Solitude? You too, Rasta. Zip in there.” She stands with her arms crossed until Rasta zips into her slice. Then she points at our pie and bossy-escorts us over there. “Solitude. No chatter. Sleep or study, and do it quietly.”
I AM AMAZED. SULLY completely shut down Rasta’s bender-bash before it even got started. I’ve never heard anyone do that. She did it without pointing me out in any way, although I’m sure she did it because of me. She must have, right?
I pace around my slice until I realize that Nona and Sully can hear my every move. Then I lie down on my cot, drumming my fingers on my stomach. What is going on here? Vapes? Bender defense? Skippy-happy feelings? Did Sheila have any idea?
Was it just yesterday, less than twenty-four hours ago, that I was skizzing along the roads with Sheila, refusing to speak to her? Waiting for the CropCamp joke to be over? Sheila’s always said that the camps are barbaric. When and how did she learn that was wrong?
The gong rings. I thought I had plenty of time to tune in to Lizard Radio, but Solitude is already over. Back to the classroom and the crops, and then kitchen rotation, and then cleanup, and then dinner, and then our daily Cleezy dose of alla-One lecture and meditation to be sure that we’re on spiritual track, compliant in community, and happy about it.
Sheila and I go to the bare minimum of Cleezies — just once a week. Sheila says that it’s too gov-based to be a true religion. Korm says it’s pure poison. She doesn’t follow any regs at all. Sometimes Korm’s ways look good to me, but she and Sheila both say the underground has an underbelly that nobody wants, not even Korm. It’s better than Blight, though.
Blight is full of defiants and defectives of all kinds. SayFree Gov took a whole city, surrounded it with a biosensor fence, and chucked all the problem people in there. They throw the benders and samers and general defiants in there with the violents, and once you’re in, you don’t come out. There’s no gov or structure at all. The only ones who come out are the babies who are born there. No one under the age of eighteen lives in Blight. I keep hoping that something will happen before I turn eighteen to make it easier for me to comply. Until then, they can’t put me there.
After Cleezies we head over for Social on the Quint. We don’t actually have to socialize at all. We just have to be present. I lie back and look at the sky and listen to Sully and Rasta and Tylee and a couple of Monday girls joke around. When the sun drops low, we all walk down to Pieville together. The last strands of daylight leak through the pine tops, and the other comrades drop off one at a time until it’s just me and Sully.
“Home sweet slice.” Sully stops with her zipper halfway up and flicks her eyebrows at me. “Time for a bit of jazz-off.”
My heart thunks like a rock dropping in soft sand. Nobody jazz-talks. Not out loud, anyway. Not that I’ve ever heard. Sully laughs.
“Lizard! Nervous? The plant-petting sensualist? Those jazzy sweetbits of Machete’s landed smack in my biz, and then I spent all of today watching Aaron’s pretty bum.”
I point at Nona’s slice and put a finger to my lips. Sully grins.
“Hope I don’t offend my piemates with alla that. I’m a healthy almost-eighteen, and my mind drifts jazzwise. I can’t help it.”
She zips into her slice and leaves me standing in the deepening dusk. I wipe my sweaty palms on my coveralls, round to my own door, and zip in.
“You listening, Young Lizard?”
With only fabric walls between us, her every movement ripples the walls of my slice.
“No!”
“Ah, come on, I like it when you listen.”
She lets out a little sigh-moan. My stomach does a slow sort of roll that it’s never done before, and my knees feel strangely watery.
“Yeah, do it like that.” Sully husks her voice down, and it lands smack in my biz. “Mmm-hmm, that’s real good. Ooh, baby, you know I love that!”
Then she laughs out loud.
“You okay over there, Little Lizard?”
My face is so hot, I think it might combust. Footsteps approach outside, followed by a zip-zip. The curfew gong rings.
“Hey, look, Nona’s home! Lizard, should I launch an encore?”
I close my eyes and shake my head.
“I’ll save it for later. For you.”
“Sully, that was curfew gong. I would appreciate your silence.”
Nona’s voice sluices over us both like ice water. After a frozen pause, Sully speaks again.
“Good night, Nona, my comrade. I feel your love and I return it manifold.”
Next day in Block Two, Rasta and I move down a long row of potatoes. Four or five plants have sprouted from each mound, and they need to be thinned, so we pull out everything but the two strongest, healthiest in each group. We will feed the cities, one potato mound at a time. We work side by side for a long time, mostly not talking, occasionally looking up to brush hair aside or wave at a gnat. The soft soil kisses my hands. The sun worships my back. The breeze strokes my cheek like a whisper-touch of the finest fabric.
“You like this plant stuff, don’t you?” Rasta asks.
“Yes.”
So far I like a lot of things about CropCamp. It’s much better than school or anything else at home. If I can fit in here, maybe I can step out of low-comply and never worry about Blight.
“My da figured a summer outdoors would be good for me. Plus, he was afraid if I went to something more interesting than crops, I’d get sucked into the cultural melee.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not exactly sure. I think he’s just scared of losing me. Like if I really like camp, I’ll turn into Lacey and never go home again.”
“You as Lacey. Ha.”
I scoot over to the next row. I like thinking about how the little green plants make food for us. At breakfast Sully said that she didn’t care one thing about potatoes, except please pass some more because those are good. Rasta and I move to the next row.
“The hardest part here is how lonely it is.”
“Lonely?” I say. “We’ve got people on top of us all the time, every moment, all day long.”
“Not at night.”
“I hear every move Nona or Sully makes. I even hear them breathing.”
“But we’re all walled off in our own little slices. And during Solitude, too. At home I sleep in the same rounder with my auntie and cousin where I can roll over and touch them, or whisper in the dark. And besides, you’re all strangers. No offense, Lizard — I like you a lot, but I just met you.”
Rasta sits back on her heels and wipes her wrist across her brow. I imagine her at home, a baby crow-chick with family feathers fluffed all around her.
“Lizard!” Micah yells from the edge of the field. “You’ve got DM this morning.”
He taps his ticker and jerks his head toward Machete’s office. I stand, brushing the dirt from my coveralls. Marks from the earthy dampness circle my knees.
“Good luck.” Rasta squints up at me. “You’ve got Machete, right? You think she’ll give you another one of those candy things?”
Jazzy sweetbits.
“Move it, Lizard,” calls Micah.
I move it, heading for the office building and my first decision-making
session. Sully says that the hard cases get Machete. Rasta has Ms. Kroschen, and Tylee has Mr. Mapes. I guess I’m a hard case. I press my hands into my jittery stomach and try to deep-breathe the nerves away.
When I reach the gravel lot, I turn three-sixty and sniff the air. Leaves murmur softly overhead. The granite boulders hulk on either side of the entrance, and beyond that the driveway leads out to the other world. If I can get along with the director, maybe I’ll really be okay here. A chippie scutters around the corner of the main office building. The front door opens, and Machete steps onto the porch.
“Come in,” she says.
The soft soles of my frods hit the worn wood of the porch steps. Machete looms over me, holding the screen door open so I have to duck beneath her arm. I pass into a cool, darkish entry hall.
“In there, have a seat.”
She points to the open door on the right. An armchair angles in front of the big solid dark-wood desk. The chair is surprisingly cool and soft. I burrow in as Machete settles behind her desk.
“I’ve heard the others calling you Lizard,” she says. “Why is that?”
Her tone’s not sharp, but the question comes with a force and a poke, knocking us immediately off the safe doorstep of small talk.
“Just sort of a joke,” I say.
“Do you like the nickname?”
“It’s okay.”
“What do they call you at home?”
“Kivali.”
Even as I say it, I hear Sheila whisper komodo in my ear, as if she’s standing right behind me. I reach in my pocket for reassurance.
“What’s in your pocket?”
“Nothing.”
I let go of the komodo, cross my arms over my chest. The komodo is private. Nobody but Sheila and Korm have ever seen it.
“What would you like me to call you?”
“Kivali,” I say.
“Kivali it is.”
She picks up the Deega from her desk and traces a finger on the screen, reading it over. Then she sets it down and leans forward on her elbows. She snaps her brown eyes to a lock-in with mine.
“You’re a midrange bender, score fifty-two. You chose not to transition, and you were low-comply throughout post-decision gender training. Apparently not from lack of ability to learn, as your academics are consistently high, although group participation ranks at the bottom. You score top of the charts on physical skills — agility, balance, strength — but you refuse to play on any school or community teams.”
I look down at the soft, worn slabs of wooden floor, the dark lines in between. This Machete, she says things right up front. That’s not bad. Better than the school gov worker who sneaks around setting traps with nice words.
“Do you know what this tells me?”
Yes, I know. Potential, intelligence, ability. All wasted if I won’t engage with my peers, participate, and better myself and those around me. Such a shame that I was abandoned, fostered by a low-comply artist who can’t meet state standards with any consistency, but that’s no excuse. The opportunities are there, and it’s up to me to take advantage. I’ve heard it all before, but somehow I can’t make myself be what they want me to be.
“You’re an independent, and you either can’t or won’t disguise it. That kind of independence can be a powerful asset or a dangerous liability. Which is it for you?”
I raise my eyes to meet hers. Independence. It’s just about the only thing that Korm and Sheila agree on. Korm says compliance is a sign of weakness, and I shouldn’t even obey her or Sheila. Sheila says it’s crucial to be independent in your mind, and just as crucial to be smart about when and where you act it out.
“Kivali, you’ve had a rough start.” Machete’s voice gentles down. “Abandoned and fostered. Midrange bender. It’s a difficult path. I imagine that your peers have not been kind. Any problems with your comrades here?”
I shake my head. Does she know about the peer problems? About that day?
“I always keep a close eye on our younger campers. You’re the youngest in this session by more than six months. I think you’re ready, though — despite the concerns that your guardian, Sheila, had about you coming here so young. She’s very anxious.”
Sheila, anxious? Sheila doesn’t do anxious. She meditates, she paints, and she carefully decides when and where to act.
“She’ll be relieved to hear that you’re adjusting well. The separation is difficult for parents, usually worse than for campers. This is especially true when the adult is asolo, without a spouse to help ease the transition. That dynamic creates an unhealthy interdependence between guardian and child, which can interfere with adjustment. Of course, I do update her regularly, and you’ll have your once-weekly inflow from her waiting in the ayvee pod tomorrow.”
“What goes in your updates?” I ask.
“Notes on your academic marks and overall observations about your adjustment. And of course, any behavioral problems, but I don’t expect those. You’re far too bright for that. Anything spoken here in our DM sessions is, of course, entirely confidential, even from Sheila.”
I nod.
“How do you feel about the separation? Do you find it difficult?”
“I see why it’s necessary,” I say. “It helps us to develop independence and bond with our peers in community.”
Machete smiles. She recognizes the quotation from the CropCamp infodoc. I did read some of it.
“Yes, it does,” she says. “But how do you feel about it?”
“I feel okay.”
“Over the years, I’ve found that many campers who were loners in their child-lives have an exceptional maturity and keen intuition. Almost like an uncanny intuitive guide.”
She cannot possibly know about Lizard Radio. It’s private in my head. Sheila wouldn’t have put it in any of the Deega records, would she? Even as un-Sheila as she’s been lately, I don’t think she’d do that.
“You’re exceptionally gifted, Kivali, in all aspects. Your community will benefit greatly from your talents once you learn to share. You have the potential to be a real leader.”
I look up and fully meet Machete’s gaze. Her eyes are deep, warm.
“I’ll enjoy these sessions with you,” she says. “I hope that you’ll come to trust me, to work with me, and to expand your considerable capacities for the benefit of us all. Do you have any questions?”
“There was a boy,” I say. “The first night, in the Pavilion. I haven’t seen him since.”
She doesn’t look away. She doesn’t even blink.
“Very observant. But then, he’s visibly a bender, so of course you would have noticed him.”
“Where is he now?”
“Sometimes, camp and comrade are not a good fit. That was the case here.”
“What happened to him?”
“I can’t tell you that. Each comrade’s privacy is precious, even those who are no longer here. That’s all we have time for today.” Machete pushes her chair back. “We’ll meet every Tuesday morning, but you can request extra sessions. If you have any problems at all, please come to me.”
I stand, shoving my hands in my pockets, finding the komodo.
“I’m involved in every corner of CropCamp,” says Machete. “We’ll get to know each other quite well. Meanwhile, think about my question: is your independence an asset or a liability? We’ll talk about it more next week.”
She walks around the desk as she speaks, steps past me, and opens the door. In order to go through, I have to pass under her arm again.
I FIND RASTA STILL in the potatoes. The crumbly dirt gives my knees a soft place to sink into.
“So? How was it?”
I shake my head and jam my fingers into the ground up to my knuckles. Machete didn’t tell the truth about the bender in the moonlight, but she also didn’t lie. I like how she talked about independence. Different from Korm or Sheila, but with shades of both.
“My da said we need to talk to each other,” says Rasta. “He said we
need to keep each other’s inner sparks alive. Did she throw water on your inner spark?”
I shake my head again, pull my hands out of the earth, and begin thinning the row next to Rasta’s.
“What did she do?” Her voice hushes down to a raspy whisper.
“Nothing. She was fine.”
“So what’s wrong? Something’s wrong. I can tell.”
“No, nothing’s wrong.”
We work in silence for a while, and I replay the DM session again and again. I cannot figure Machete out. She’s nothing like the school gov worker. She seems to understand things the way that Sheila and Korm do. But then how can she work for SayFree? How can she be a camp director? And is the bender boy really the first vape from her camp, ever ever? Or does she cover them up? How could she cover it? When someone’s gone, they’re gone.
“Lizard, will you be my strong alliance?” Suddenly, Rasta is right next to me, in the same row. “We’ll tell each other everything that happens. So one of us can’t lose our inner spark without the other one knowing.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
She tips her head. Not offended, just curious. I take a deep breath, sit back on my knees, and give her my coldest flat-eyed lizard stare. If I’m going to be working with her all the time, she might as well know.
“I’m a bender. Midrange. No T.”
She squints one eye.
“You don’t seem bendery.”
I hitch a move away from her, digging back into the plants.
“Wait, don’t be mad. You just seem like a girl to me. I never would have guessed if you didn’t tell me.”
Like giving me a hand to help me up and stepping on my chest at the same time. I continue digging. Pull out the weak plants, toss them in the bucket. They’ll go to the compost bins.
“I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with it. I know some people are born that way so you can’t help it — I mean, ahhh, I don’t know what I mean. I’m just stupid.”
I move to the next mound. She follows, scooting along on her knees.
“I hate it when I’m stupid. I’m sorry. Really. I like you.”
“Why?” I don’t look up. “Why don’t you go be allies with one of them?”