Lizard Radio

by Pat Schmatz

  “Are you okay?”

  Clearly not. A sheen of sweat glistens on her face, and her skin is papery pale. Her eyes are halfway open, and for a heart-stop tick I think she’s dead. But dead people don’t moan. I put a hand on her forehead. Coal-hot.

  “You have a fever. I’m going to get someone.”

  “No!” She moves, grabbing the pant leg of my coveralls. “No.”

  “But they’ll come looking when you don’t show up.”

  “I’m okay,” she whispers.

  I sit on the edge of the cot. She shivers so hard, it makes the whole cot shake. I go next door for another blanket and throw it on top of her, tucking it under her chin. She grabs my pant leg again and stares into my eyes, like she’s begging but I don’t know for what.

  “Where’s Donovan?”

  I lean closer. Her whisper barely has any breath behind it.

  “What?”

  “I want Donovan.”

  “Nona?” No response. “I’m going to get someone.”

  She doesn’t protest this time. I run up the path, into the crowded Mealio, and I find Katrina, the Friday guide.

  “Nona’s sick with a fever, a bad one. She’s down in her slice.”

  Katrina nods, goes to Machete’s table. I leave the Mealio after breakfast without meeting anyone’s eyes. The depth and force of an unguarded Nona unnerved me. Her fever shivers shook into my very cells.

  “About your escapade last week.”

  Sheila is on the screen with her hands fisted, chin tilted up, angled toward the cam as if she’s about to start marching off the screen, right into the ayvee pod with me. She’s wearing that crazy head-scarf with the yellow flowers, the one that she used to wear to make me laugh while she drilled me in PDGT exercises.

  “Kivali, you must comport yourself in the manner of a young citizen. You must comply with the regs. You are there to learn, and to assimilate, and to become an integral cog in this great wheeling nation.”

  What, exactly, did Machete tell her about Thursday night?

  “You must not lose your focus. You must not risk your future. You must take full advantage of this opportunity, and you must not waste it on shenanning. Listen!”

  She raises one fist with her pointer finger straight up. I hit pause. She freezes in the rinkety-dink pose.

  Soon after I started PDGT, SayFree Radio came on one night while we were cleaning up after dinner, and instead of turning it off, Sheila threw down the dish towel, pointed one finger straight up in the air, and yelled, “Listen!”

  Then she grabbed my soapy wet hand, pulling me with her in a march around the table.

  “I listen to SayFree — I don’t think,” she chanted. “Love me some SayFree, rinkety-dink. SayFree talker is a big dumb fink.” I started laughing and tried to pull away, but she yanked me along behind her high-stepped marching.

  “I speak for SayFree, I’m missing a link. Can’t hear me now, I’ll write it in ink. In a few more years, I’ll be extinct. I smell worse than the pee of a mink. Yup, it’s true, I very much stink. I’m a twikkery fikery finkety-fink.”

  She kept going until she didn’t make any sense at all, and we both fell on the kitchen floor laughing. Since then we’ve called SayFree-speak rinkety-dink, and neither of us needs to say a word. We just point up. I kept pointing up a few weeks ago whenever she talked about CropCamp. She acted like she didn’t notice. I’m so relieved to see her do it now. That’s the real Sheila.

  I hit PLAY. The screen blinks, and she’s in a normal stance, hands in her pockets, head-scarf gone.

  “It’s early summer still. I think of you when I wake and wonder what you do between the up and the down. I mean, when you’re not breaking rules and wreaking havoc and generally bringing shame on the family name.”

  She moves in close again, even closer than before, so that one eye fills the entire screen. Individual lashes and etchings on the skin, and deep warm brown with glimmers of gold surrounding the black center.

  “Sweet komodo. Gorgeous gecko, my lovely lizard. You must be brave, and you must be smart. I wish I could hold you in my arms like I did so long ago, but you’re way too big and you’d break my elbows. I picture you every single day, and I draw your face when I miss you too much. You know where I live?”

  She moves back, her face and body coming into view again. She bams her right fist in the center of her chest. The thud comes through on the mic, loud and clear.

  “I live right here. You can always find me.”

  Her lip stud curves up, and her eyes dance unspoken words. Then the screen goes blank. I pull air into my lungs, a lot of it. All I can hold. I let it out slow. I can actually feel her. I thud my own chest. Right here.

  I punch PLAY again. Why did she send me to CropCamp? I don’t think it’s because she’s dying of some disease. She looks plenty healthy. Maybe she knew that it would be good. But how could she know? She couldn’t know that Sully would be here.

  “Gorgeous gecko,” the ayvee Sheila says again. “My lovely lizard.”

  I’m not really a lizard. Sheila knows that, right?

  NONA DOESN’T TURN UP all day, and she’s not in her slice when I go down that night. I worry that she’s been sent home for sickness, or maybe expulled, so I’m relieved to hear a zip-zip the next morning before gong. I wait until Sully goes to the privo, and then round to Nona’s door.

  “Nona? Where’ve you been?”

  “Quarry. For sick people.”

  Her voice is its usual flat tone, minus the fever-quaver.

  “Are you okay? Feeling better?”

  “Yes. Better.”

  She opens her door and hands me my blanket.

  “Hope you didn’t freeze last night. Don’t worry, there’s nothing contagious on it.”

  She’s still pale, and her closed-up slice smells of fever. I take the blanket and she starts to zip the door, but I reach out and stop her.

  “You said something yesterday when you were in the fever.”

  Her face is carefully expressionless but color deepens on her cheeks.

  “What did I say?”

  “You asked for Donovan.”

  “Do you know him? Donovan Freer?”

  She is still careful with her face and her voice, but a trace of that fever-longing shakes through. I shrug and shake my head.

  “I was delirious,” she says. “You don’t need to check on me anymore.”

  She zips the door in my face.

  The next couple of days pass in the new normal. CounCircle, breakfast, ag class, crops, Solitude, crops, citizenship class, dinner, Cleezies, Social on the Quint, sleep. Nona doesn’t have any fever rants. Rasta survives her DM with Machete without throwing up.

  I am doing okay with Sully. At night I sleep a few paces from her. In the day I see her light. I have two and a half months left with her. I will soak it up. I won’t waste one second of this time in her presence trying to force something that can’t and won’t and probably shouldn’t ever happen.

  So I study, and cycle for shower chits, and weed and plant and cull and tend. I say “return to One; live in the light,” and I play whuck-chuck on the Quint. I don’t tune in, and I don’t go to the oak grove. I toss the acorn out into the woods where it belongs. I give a courtesy nod to the komodo each time that I step over it, except for when I forget. I am human with the humans. I joke around with Sully, and I look away when she and Aaron flirt. I try not to replay every moment alone with Sully in my head all day long. Mostly I am not successful, but I try.

  I wake Saturday with cramping in my guts and I hurry for the privo. I feel worse as the morning goes on. Reddaze never agrees with me. When we get out to the fields in Block Two, I curl in the grass alongside the greens. Just for a tick or two. Just to let the sunbeams stroke me until I feel good enough to work.

  Micah boot-toes me awake.

  “Lizard, what’s the matter? Are you sick?”

  I drag myself up to a sit. He squats and looks in my eyes. I’ve never been
up close to Micah, never seen past the muddy face-hair. His eyes are brown, and kind.

  “Go take a rest,” he says. “You look like hell.”

  “It’s just reddaze. I’ll be okay.”

  “Get out of here. I’ll see you in Block Three. Don’t skip lunch.”

  I push myself up against the heavy humidity. I wave to Rasta and trudge toward the pine ridge. Halfway down the path, I remember that it’s Saturday. Sully’s day off.

  My feet lose some of their cement, and I catch a quick face-wash at the spigot. Sully has Machete this afternoon. I can help her think about what to say, how to get on Machete’s good side so she stays here for sure. We can go back to the grove, lie in the grass, look up at the sky, and talk. Nothing wrong with that. It’s too hot in my slice, anyway. I’ll rest better back in the grove, in the breeze. With Sully.

  Five steps short of the pie, I stop.

  “Sully!” I whisper. I move forward a few steps, tap on the fabric. “Sully, it’s me, Lizard.”

  Not there. Cramps squeeze my innards again, and every part of me is dripping sweat. I’ll go back to the grove anyway. It’ll be nicer back there. Micah said to take a rest; he didn’t say where. I meander along the path, deeper into the green. I really should come back here more often. It’s so beautiful.

  I walk quiet-quiet, no sound. Set my frods on the earthy path, not disturbing the birds or the chippies. I come to the opening, turn right. Stop. My stomach hits the ground.

  Sully. And Aaron.

  She’s lying on top of him. Pressed body to body, in a way that I haven’t known enough to want until right now. She looks up, and our eyes lock for an instant that goes on for hours inside of me.

  I turn and run, pounding away from the grove. I zip into my slice, close the window tight, and dive into my cot, pulling the covers over my head. I’m soaked in sweat, and I’m surrounded by the smell of myself, and it is not good. Cramps seize my entire body.

  The grove scene is locked on the inside of my eyelids, and I’d give anything to un-see it. Sully’s face. Aaron’s hands in her hair. My grove, holding the two of them in deep green as if they belong there. And behind that, the shadow of me spinning lizard tales. A ridiculous, deluded child. No wonder she resisted.

  I’m not special. Not to the saurians, not to Sheila, and definitely not to Sully. Who falls in love with a bender who thinks she’s a lizard? Nobody, that’s who. I bet I was a bad kisser, too. I’m sure that Aaron is a good kisser. At least he didn’t see me. I don’t think so, anyway. I’m not human or lizard. I’m less than both, not enough of either.

  I avoid Sully for the rest of the day, and she makes it easy for me because she’s never where I am. I sit with Nona at dinner. By myself at Cleezies. I leave the Quint right after Social and walk down with Nona. She doesn’t ask me anything, and I don’t ask her anything. I hole up in my slice for the night, trying not to breathe too loud. Whatever I am, it’s all wrong.

  SULLY DOESN’T HOLLER ME AWAKE. I stumble through the day with my head down, taking care of business, earning shower chits, doing an extra kitchen rotation. I run into Rasta on the way to evening Cleezies, and we sit opposite Sully and Tylee.

  “Sully’s waving at you,” Rasta whispers.

  “I don’t care.”

  I don’t look at Rasta, and I don’t meet her eyes. She can probably smell it on me. Not just the lie, but the shame, the freakishness. Why does she keep looking at me?

  “I’m going to pocket again,” she whispers.

  I need that kickshaw. I’d never turn it down.

  “Maybe you will, too.”

  I shake my head no.

  “It feels good to resist. Try it.”

  Machete comes in, and we shut up. We sit through the Sunday reports from crews and a couple of songs and some supposedly funny stories. We act like civilized people when inside we’re a bunch of starvers riveted on kickshaw juice. All of us except Rasta.

  When Machete steps to the center, my spit pumps start working overtime. If I open my mouth, I’ll be stringing saliva. Every cell in me wants that kickshaw. I want the taste, the texture, the sensation. I want it to slide through my cells and take away this horrible taste of otherness and failure.

  “It’s our third Sunday together,” Machete says. “Now is when the real work begins.

  “Our camps serve many purposes, but experiential learning is the most important. Unless you learn to properly apply the words of the booktron, the concepts are useless. Empty, lifeless words. This afternoon, we continue with a long-standing tradition of comrade instruction. Each week at Sunday Cleezies, I will call upon a comrade to deliver a spontaneous talk on a SayFree tenet studied during the week.”

  Machete scans the circle like a high-flying hawk on a search for prey.

  “Today’s topic is community cohesion through participation. Rasta, please step forward.”

  Rasta’s body twitches next to me. For a moment, I think she’ll refuse. But then she stands. Two spots of deep red ride high on her cheeks. Machete looms over Rasta, and when she speaks, her voice slices through the empath-hush of the circle.

  “Rasta, will you please speak about Tenet Two and the common good?”

  She steps back, leaving Rasta alone. I can’t look and I can’t look away. Of all people to drag up in front — why didn’t Machete choose Aaron, or Tylee, or even me, for that matter?

  “Tenet Two.” Rasta’s voice is a soft rasp. She clears her throat and speaks to her feet. “Tenet Two says that personal safety for all depends upon unity.”

  “And that means . . .” Machete prompts.

  “It means that we have to keep the group in mind at all times. To remember that we come from One. A finger and a toe seem to be a long ways away from each other, but if you cut the toe and get an infection, it eventually affects the finger. Every action I take, I need to consider the effect on everyone, not just on me or my crew or even just CropCamp, but everyone.”

  “Very good, Rasta. Tell us, what does that mean for you personally? How do you apply that in your own life?”

  Rasta clears her throat again. Eyes down.

  “It means don’t be selfish.” Whatever magical chemical Rasta carries in her throat deepens. “I shouldn’t ever use my freedom to do something that compromises your safety. Freedom comes only with safety. It’s not FreeSafe. It’s SayFree.”

  Silence walks the circle. Rasta’s last words reverberate.

  “Rasta, that’s a beautiful interpretation.” Machete walks back to the center. “Nicely done.”

  Rasta starts to move back to her seat but Machete drops a hand on her shoulder.

  “Now comes your reward. Micah, the kickshaws, please. Everyone stand.”

  We all stand. Obedient, waiting, hands out while Micah roves the circle. He sets a kickshaw on my palm. Rasta does not look safe up there, and certainly not free. She looks sick. She’ll gag on kickshaw in front of everyone. She’ll never get it down.

  “We all experienced feelings of empathy and camaraderie,” says Machete, “when I asked Rasta to speak for the rest of you. She spoke well. Now, we all experience relaxation and delight together, as a community. Rasta, please lead us.”

  Rasta’s cheeks blaze. Will she refuse? Not in front of everyone, surely not. She picks up the kickshaw — hesitates with it at her lips — then takes it in. The kickshaw sensation visibly washes across her face. Her color fades, and her shoulders settle. My own body melts and de-tenses.

  “Now, everyone.”

  If I were better, I’d honor my strong alliance and do the right thing. But I want the taste. Even more, I want the ease that comes with following a strong leader, of being one of the all, living in the light. Safe.

  I want to believe what Machete said, about all of us being in the kickshaw. I want Machete to be right.

  “My da . . .”

  Rasta sobs in the dusky pine light. I walk her down to Pieville, away from the people, back to the little clearing. First time I’ve been here since we
gathered with Sabi.

  “But Rasta, what could you do? You had to take it.”

  “He said, ‘Don’t stand out, baby.’ ”

  Her words rasp out on a fresh tide of tears. Her da is a mythical creature to me, a paragon of love and courage and warm understanding. Fierce feathered wings wrapped around Rasta, holding her close and making her strong.

  “He said, ‘Keep your head lower than low.’ So first I get caught in that stupid power cadre, and now I’m the first one to get picked out of the crowd.”

  “He’d be proud of you.” I want it to be true. “You’re braver than any of us, Rasta, and stronger, too. You did it just right. And tonight, it was good what you said. You did great.”

  She wraps her arms tight around her legs and bangs her forehead on her knees.

  “I did what she wanted, like a puppet bobbling around. And then you all did it, too.”

  “It’s not your fault, what we all did. We would’ve done it no matter what because we wanted kickshaw. Plus, that was so smart, that thing about SayFree and not FreeSafe. Did you think of that on the spot?”

  “My da said it once.”

  “He talks to you about the tenets?”

  “Of course.”

  Rasta’s da grows bigger, giant-size benevolence and wisdom. Living in the system but still thinking, not just rinkety-dinking. Sheila never talks about the tenets except to make fun of them. We aren’t any freer than Rasta’s family, and I think we are way less safe.

  “Nobody knew that I pocketed last week.” Rasta picks up her head and stares at me. “No one but you.” Her red-rimmed eyes drill into mine. “Did you tell?”

  “Of course not! I wouldn’t!”

  “I don’t mean Machete. I mean, did you tell anyone else? Sully, maybe?”

  “No. I didn’t tell anyone.” I might have told Sully if other things hadn’t happened, but they did, and I didn’t. “Maybe it was just a coincidence that she made you go first.”

  “Made me get up in front of everyone and talk about participation? And then eat a kickshaw where everyone could see me?”

  “Okay, maybe not a coincidence. Maybe one of the guides saw you pocket and told her.”