Lizard Radio

by Pat Schmatz

  “They were in our flat?”

  “Of course we were in your flat. Everyone wants to find her safe. It’s not they, Kivali. It’s us. We’re together on this. We all want to find Sheila.”

  I pull my knees in closer.

  “Kivali, I’m so sorry. It’s a terrible thing, a frightening thing.” Her voice glides into a smooth melt, like Cleezies, like kickshaw. “You’ll need your community now, all of us, to help you through. Especially if this turns out to be a vape.”

  The word hits my chest like a concrete block. I’ve believed that Korm will vape one day. But not Sheila. Not ever Sheila. I look out the window and inch air back into my lungs. Then I turn to Machete.

  “Is it you?” I watch carefully for a flinch or a look-away. “SayFree? Did you take her?”

  Machete slowly shakes her head back and forth, meeting me eye for eye.

  “Vapes are not the gov, Kivali. I would not work for a gov that vapes its citizens. I would not be an us to such a them.”

  I don’t think she’s lying. Machete doesn’t need to lie. If she doesn’t want to answer, she just asks a question back.

  “Then where is she?” I whisper.

  “We don’t know.”

  I close my eyes. Don’t look. Don’t breathe.

  “Kivali.”

  What if Sheila is gone? Really, truly gone forever? I don’t care if it’s an honor. I don’t care if it’s a privilege for the wise and the good. I don’t want Sheila to be gone.

  “Kivali.”

  It’s a huge effort to open my eyes. Machete holds out a kickshaw.

  “You need community,” she says. “You need us. Take this. Let us help you through.”

  Kickshaws are not good. But what if they are?

  I uncurl my legs, set my feet on the floor. Step up, take the kickshaw, put it in my mouth. Close my eyes. Sensation flows over me, but I don’t feel good and happy. Just tired. So, so tired.

  “You’ll want to rest in the Quarry.” Machete stands, puts her arm around my shoulder. She wants to protect me. “It’s quiet and cool downstairs. No one will bother you there. You can barely hear the gongs.”

  Yes, quiet. And cool. That’s what I want. Sleep.

  I WAKE TO SOFT SEMIDARKNESS. The Quarry room is quiet and cool. I’m on a cot with my coveralls still on, blanket over me. Gray light filters through the high row of small windows. Dusk or early morning? I can’t tell. The bed is much softer than my cot. Feels like floating.

  Something happened. Something bad. I don’t feel bad, though. The bed is good. Everything is okay. Sleep. Rest is good.

  “Sheila?” I can’t see anything. I thrash my arms in the darkness, trying to swim clear to the light. “Sheila?” My voice is shrill, frantic.

  Then I remember. My heart races but there’s nowhere to go, so it crashes against my ribs like a wild pony trying to escape its stall. I put my hand on my chest, trying to soothe it. I’m wide awake. I have no idea what time it is. Calm down, heart. C’mon, easy. Shh. Settle. Deep breath in, two, three.

  My breath shakes all the way in. Out, two, three. Yes. That’s better. In, two, three. I close my eyes. Out. Deep inhale and — there! A faint, distant chitter. The lizards sound like home, like comfort, but the signal is shaky. I reach out, trying to grasp it and hold it and pull it close, and then it is gone.

  “Kivali.”

  It’s full daylight. Machete hands me a glass of water. I sit up, blink awake. Peel away the strands of hair sweat-stuck to my face. The room is large and square. Three beds line one wall. The other two are neatly made. The high rectangular windows are made of thick, opaque glass. They let in light but not clarity. The far corner is curtained off, and I have a vague memory of using the privo there.

  “Kivali, how do you feel?”

  Machete has pulled a chair up next to me.

  “Did they find Sheila?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. I drain the water glass. I am so dry.

  “She’s been missing five days now. It’s officially been designated a vape.”

  I don’t plan to throw the water glass, but it flies through the air and crashes impressively against the opposite wall. Machete doesn’t flinch. I lie back down and stare at the ceiling. If I had another glass, I’d throw it.

  “I know,” she says. “Someone very close to me vaped, a long time ago. I know how you feel.”

  I don’t look at her. She doesn’t know how I feel. She knows how she felt. Maybe that was bad, and I’m sorry, but she doesn’t know how I feel. Even I don’t know how I feel.

  “You need your community now more than ever,” she says. “It’s not good to grieve alone.”

  I’m not grieving. Sheila will be back. She just doesn’t want to be found. She wouldn’t leave me.

  “I think it’ll be good for you to sleep in your own slice tonight, and go back to classes and crops tomorrow. It’s close to dinnertime now. You must be hungry.”

  I am very hungry.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “Four fifteen. Friday.”

  Friday?

  “Yes.” Machete reads my face again. “Grief can make a person sleep for a long time.”

  But I’m not grieving. There’s no reason to grieve.

  “Ease your way back into camp. Your comrades know that you’ve had trouble at home, but I haven’t told them any details.”

  She walks me upstairs, past her office, and out onto the porch.

  She gives me three shower chits.

  “If you get overwhelmed, come right back. And check in with me after Cleezies — you’ll want another kickshaw to help you sleep.”

  Yes. Yes, I will want another kickshaw. It will help me sleep.

  The gong rings to end Block Four as I finish a luxurious three-chit shower. I’m sweating again by the time I get back to my slice. Nona’s footsteps approach, and she zips in. Seems like there was something that I wanted to ask her, but now I can’t think what it was. I sit on the edge of my cot, looking at my hands. My hair irritates me, clinging to my neck and cheeks, dripping down my back. I start to whip it into a wet braid, and then stop.

  My secateurs are tucked in the holster on the shelf. I slide them out and release the safety catch so the blades yawn open. I pick up a lock of wet hair and saw through. It’s not easy — the blades aren’t meant for cutting hair — but the sharp pull on my scalp feels oddly good. Tears start in my eyes, and then recede. I grab another chunk of hair and snip and saw. I hate this long hair. I’ve always hated it.

  “Lizard.” A whisper outside my window. “It’s me, Rasta.”

  I unzip the door, step back to let her in, and zip back up. It’s an auto-culpa, being in someone else’s slice with the door zipped, but surely they won’t do anything to me right now, or to Rasta. Community and all.

  “Help me?”

  I hand her the secateurs and drop to the floor, sitting cross-legged.

  She looks the question into my eyes. I nod. She sits behind me on the cot, lifts a lock and starts cutting. She tosses a wet clump on the fabric floor beside me.

  “Keep going,” I say. “Short all over.”

  My scalp prickles and burns as Rasta pulls and saws. I try to keep my head still.

  “I’m hurting you.”

  “It’s fine. Don’t stop.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod. She cuts. My head feels lighter. I close my eyes, surrendering completely to Rasta’s yank and pull. They made me grow it out. I never liked how it looked or felt, but I couldn’t pass PDGT until it was long enough to braid. I got less of the what-are-you looks and comments when I tied it off with a pink or yellow ribbon. I could walk into a public women’s room without anyone screaming at me.

  The day after I passed PDGT, Korm helped me celebrate by cutting off the long ponytail. Sheila was furious. Korm overstepped this time. She should know better. It made school worse than usual, and the school gov worker was not pleased. Visibly bending at age thirteen — people don’t like tha
t. Sheila convinced me to let it grow again. A little extra hair, a silly ribbon. These things won’t kill you. Other things might.

  A tear trickles down my cheek, and I brush it away. Rasta stops.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Keep going.”

  “I’m done. It’s kinda choppy-looking, but I don’t think I can do any better with these.”

  I run my fingers through. No tangles. No sweaty strands. It feels good. Better than good. It feels fantastic. My head is light and free. Not safe, but free. Rasta kneels and uses the side of her hand to brush all of the hair into a single clump.

  “Machete said that you have trouble at home,” she said. “What does that mean?”

  “They say Sheila vaped.”

  Rasta looks up with big wide eyes.

  “Vaped?”

  Footsteps rustle outside. I ram my finger against my lips.

  “Lizard?” It’s Lacey. “Ms. Mischetti asked me to check on you.”

  “I’m trying to sleep.” I don’t have to fake the irritation in my voice. “Can you just leave me alone?”

  “Sorry. I’ll be back at dinner gong to walk you up.”

  We barely breathe for the next few ticks. I get up quietly, unzip my window, and check. No sign of Lacey. Rasta slips out.

  “I’ll be in my slice,” she whispers. “Stop and get me on the way to dinner, okay?”

  I don’t close the door behind her. Instead, I brush away the pine needles in front of my door and carefully dig away the first layer of loose dirt. I search with my fingertips for the hard metal edges. A sudden fear seizes me. The komodo is angry. I feel it. It will bite me.

  I take a deep breath and exhale, shaking the fear away. If the komodo chomps, I’ll pull it out dangling from my finger. I will apologize for putting it out of sight, for hiding away the one tangible thing that I have from Sheila. I will gentle it back to me.

  I dig deeper with fingernails and secateurs, searching for the familiar shape. The komodo is not there. I use the blade tips to dig the hole wider and deeper, to scrape down and down, but I find no dragon in the dark and the dirt. Where can it be? Who could’ve taken it? Nona? Did Nona see me bury it?

  The predinner gong rings. Footsteps approach on the path from Lacey’s direction. I grab the clump of hair, put it in the bottom of the hole, and quickly cover it. Toy dragons don’t vape. I just didn’t look closely enough.

  I stand, wiping my dirty hands on my coveralls. Lacey stops short, eyebrows drawn at my choppy hair.

  “What happened to you?”

  I don’t answer. Lacey’s eyebrows go up, and she shrugs.

  “Well, come on. I’ll walk you up to the Mealio.”

  She’s on a special community-care mission from Machete, but it doesn’t mean anything. If Machete expuls me, Lacey will be the first to heave my duffel out of Pieville. I stop at the spigot to wash up, and Rasta joins me.

  With Lacey right behind us, we can’t really talk. When we get to the Mealio, Emmett appears on my other side as if he’s been summoned. He and Rasta flank me through dinner like twin guardian spirits. I don’t know what makes Emmett think that I want him there, but I do. It’s just how he showed up the other day, in the middle of Sully’s flirt with Aaron, perfect timing with his angelic dimple-smile.

  He doesn’t seem to notice my choppy hair, but others do. People stare and look away. Sully gives me a nod and a solemn smile from across the Mealio. Everyone obviously knows that something is wrong. I wish they didn’t know. I hate everyone looking at me.

  It gets worse in Cleezies.

  “We gather here for three months,” says Machete, “and the rest of the world continues on. Sometimes while we’re here, difficult things happen at home.”

  My stomach curls in on itself. No. What about confidentiality, what about privacy and discretion?

  “When they do, it’s more crucial than ever that we come together as a community. This is where we learn to support one another outside of our insular family units, to be with the One, and stay together in the light. We create communal safety.

  “Your comrade Kivali — Lizard, many of you call her —”

  She’s doing it.

  “— has had some difficult news from home. A terrible loss. I ask that you support her, that you hold her in the One, that you consider her more deeply and more carefully than you ever have. She needs us all right now, and we need her.”

  I wish that I had another glass to throw. I’d fling it at Machete’s head. She signals Saxem, and he plays a tiny two-fingered tune. She tells us to close our eyes, and everyone does. It’s a relief to get their stares off of me.

  Machete tells us to breathe deeply, and at first I won’t. I glare at her, but she closes her own eyes. She counts the breath, and I fall into rhythm with everyone’s in-and-out without meaning to. I breathe with my comrades and watch their shuttered eyes, and the frantic skittering beneath my ribs begins to settle. All of us, in, two, three, and out together. I let my own eyes close.

  In the quiet, behind the safety of my eyelids, glimmers of real pain spark and crackle. Maybe Sheila is hurt and alone somewhere. Maybe I should leave camp and try to find her. I don’t want to. Where would I look? And where is my dragon? I can’t leave here without the komodo.

  Saxem’s music continues to weave around me, and the pain and uncertainty flares, fades, flares again, melts, sharpens, pulses. If I still had my lizard skin, this wouldn’t hurt so much. Or maybe it would hurt more. Maybe Sheila’s disappearance would rip that skin right off and leave a gaping mortal wound. Here at CropCamp, I’ve built up some human endurance. I’m not alone.

  Machete brings us slowly back into the Pavilion.

  “Before you open your eyes, please think deeply.” She speaks in that warm, swirling kickshaw voice. “If you were experiencing sharp pain, fear and grief and uncertainty, how would you want your comrades to treat you? Think about that. Then think even more deeply, not about yourself but about what you know of your comrade Kivali. How do you think that she might like to be treated? What would keep her safe? What would make her feel held in the light of the One, now more than ever?”

  There’s a long pause, and I can feel everyone thinking about me, and I hate it. I don’t want anyone to think about me, not ever. I hold my breath, dreading the moment when they all stare at me.

  Rasta nudges me with her shoulder. Emmett puts a toe on my instep, a foot caress. I barely slit my eyes open. I look for Sully, spot her on the other side of the circle. She nods at me. No jazz, just warmth. Nobody else looks at me at all, and Machete is right. They are keeping me safe. Holding me in the One. Comfort and care wash over me. These comrades, they are not vague murmurings that come and go in the dark. They are real, and they are here, and they are with me.

  I like CropCamp.

  I like having Machete in charge.

  I like being part of the One, living in the light.

  Maybe Sheila and the dragon left because they knew that I’d already left them.

  I LEAVE THE PAVILION with Rasta but Machete calls me back, and I remember her kickshaw promise.

  “What does she want?” Rasta asks.

  “She’s giving me a kickshaw to help me sleep.”

  “Don’t take it,” Rasta whispers. “At least not right away. You can save it for later.”

  A half moon hovers over the treetops as comrades stream to the boys’ and girls’ sides. I go back to Machete while Rasta waits.

  “How are you?” Machete asks.

  “All right.”

  “You cut your hair.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did it help?”

  “Help what?”

  Machete smiles, and puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “Kivali, I admire your courage. I’ll get Katrina to trim that up for you tomorrow. Meanwhile, take this, and get some rest tonight.”

  She hands me the kickshaw, and I put it in my pocket.

  “I want to wait till I’m back in my slice,” I say
. “I’ll take it there, when I’m alone. That way I can feel the community around me all night.”

  I’m doing what Rasta wants and what Machete wants, both at the same time. Can’t get better than that — unless I can get Sully in on it, too. Machete nods and squeezes my shoulder.

  “Good night,” she says. “I’ll expect you on regular schedule tomorrow, but please know that you can come to my office at any point. We can talk if you’d like, or you can have some alone time in the Quarry. Meanwhile, talk to your friends. Let them help you. And stay checked in with me. I’ll help you through this.”

  I nod, and return to Rasta.

  “Good job,” she says once we’re well away from Machete. “Now I think that you should give it to me.”

  I put my hand in my pocket, and for a split second my fingers think they will find the komodo. Instead, they find the kickshaw, and the touch alone makes my mouth water.

  “But I want it,” I say.

  “I know. But maybe you can try the night without it. Just try. I won’t rip it up and bury it. If you really need it, pretend that you’re going to the privo, and whisper outside my slice, and I’ll give it to you. I promise.”

  We skid down the steep part of the path and approach Rasta’s slice. There’s no one else I’d trust with a kickshaw, but I know that Rasta won’t take it. When we get to her pie, she holds out her hand. I hesitate.

  “You’ll keep it for me, right? In case I change my mind?”

  “Promise.”

  She takes it and holds up her other hand. We touch fingertips, and I walk back to my slice with crow feathers wrapped around me. I stop at Sully’s door and whisper-call.

  “Hey, Sully.”

  “Hey, Lizard. You okay?”

  I want her to come out and look deep into my eyes and ask again. I want her to pull answers out of me, to find all that I’m hiding from myself. The chirp of tree frogs carries on the dense, humid air.

  “Yes,” I finally say.

  “Good.”

  I wait. She doesn’t come out. I want the kickshaw. I turn back toward Rasta’s pie and almost knock into Nona.

  “I am sorry for your loss.” She doesn’t whisper. She doesn’t care if Sully hears. “And I’m glad that you got back in time.”