Lizard Radio

by Pat Schmatz

  Seems like years ago that Sully and I were scrambling back to our pie, thinking that we were in trouble.

  “Thanks, Nona. And thanks for warning us.”

  “You’re welcome. I owed you.”

  “For what?”

  “For doing what I asked, enough for Machete to believe it. You’re decent, and I appreciate it.”

  She turns and zips into her own slice, leaving me in the dark. I don’t think she stole the dragon. I don’t think she would do that. And I don’t need the kickshaw. Not right this minute, anyway.

  Back in my slice, I find all my pink and yellow ribbons and begin to saw through them with the secateurs, which are gritty and dull from cutting hair. I cut and tear the ribbons to shreds, and then I slow-zip my door open and sift through the loose dirt and hair, feeling for the komodo. I still can’t find it, although the hole is now almost twice its original size. I dump the ribbon shreds in with my shorn hair and cover it all over again with pine needles and dirt.

  Then I drop my coveralls, and spread out on my back in my boxers. It’s way too hot. I slept all day; there’s no way I’ll sleep tonight without kickshaw — but after two days of fog, it’s good to have a clear head.

  Where is Sheila? Come on, breathe. Out. In. What does it really mean, vaping? And who does Machete know who vaped? Besides Donovan Freer? Tomorrow I’ll tell her how I saw him vape, and that I saw her see him vape. Then she’ll tell me what vaping really is. She must know, and it’s important that she and I be truthful with one another. She said so.

  Also tomorrow, I’ll dig around in that hole in full daylight and find the dragon. I can be here and be in community and have my dragon, too, can’t I? And Sheila? Sure, I can. Tomorrow. For now, just breathe, two, three. . . .

  No gentle murmuring this time, no vague shadows. Image after image hurtles my way, flashing through the heavy, humid darkness behind my eyelids. The visuals are louder than Lizard Radio ever was and more solid than any dream has ever been.

  Donovan Freer steps into focus. His burning green eyes sear through me, and then he spins away. He reaches up and pleads with the skies.

  And then he’s Korm, pleading with the skies.

  Then the moonlit field is empty — but no — there’s someone coming from the boys’ side. It’s Aaron, creeping on all fours in the night. He is a cat, but he is Aaron. He leaps up and catches a bird, rips it apart with teeth and claws. He turns to me and smiles his easy jazzy smile. His shiny white teeth drip with blood. I turn and run, and I end up in Korm’s basement meeting-place.

  The tiny silver komodo is in the back corner with one foot raised, inanimate. I take a step toward it and then stop. The komodo grows before my eyes, swelling to full-size living flesh. It leaps across the room in two bounds, a fury of teeth and claws and hot fetid breath. I fall and whimper and crawl away, crawl back to consciousness, shivering in the dark. A dream. It was a dream.

  Rasta is right. Lonely in our slices. I need kickshaw. I should get up and get it from Rasta, but I’m afraid. The dragon is mad, maybe too mad to be gentled back to me. I cannot step over its dark lair, not even for kickshaw.

  I close my eyes and finally drift in the direction of sleep. Korm meets me there. She sits in the middle of the oak grove, stroking the back of a little green gecko, no bigger than my thumb.

  Tokay, it croaks, looking at me. Tokay.

  “This gecko.” Korm strokes the tiny lizard from tip of nose to end of tail. “This gecko can hold eight times its body weight with a single toe. Did you know that?”

  Of course I know that. I studied geckos in my first year with Korm. I know their environment, defense and reproduction, their distribution and habitat. I open my mouth to recite but not a word will come out, not one sound. Korm leaps up and stares at me with the fiery green eyes of Donovan Freer.

  “You didn’t know that, did you, Kivali? There’s a lot that you don’t know, isn’t there?”

  She squats and puts her index finger under the gecko’s chin. It crawls up her arm as she straightens, and comes to rest on her shoulder. They both look down at me. Korm shakes her head, disappointed.

  “Go tell that to your One,” she says.

  I WAKE WITH A sick heart. The air is dense and silent. No birds, no tree froggies, no Sully hollering. The gong rings. It’s Saturday. The sky is gray. I don’t know anything. I pull coveralls onto my already-sweating body, hit the privo, and wash up. Then I stand next to our pie and wait for Nona to emerge.

  She steps out, nods to me, and zips her door closed behind her.

  “Do you know where vapers go?” I ask.

  “Do you?”

  Who does she think she is, Machete?

  “Come on, Nona. Just tell me, okay? You seemed happy about Donovan vaping. Where did he go?”

  “Lizard!” Rasta comes bounding from the privo. “You did it! You made it through the night.”

  Nona presses her lips together and shakes her head slightly. Rasta looks at her, then at me.

  “Did I miss something?”

  Again, Nona shakes her head. After an awkward moment, I turn and start walking. Rasta, strong alliance as always, shrugs and walks with me. Nona walks on the other side. There’s no horseplay with the three of us, none of the tumble-and-ease we have when it’s Sully. But somehow, that’s all right.

  At morning CounCircle, Machete looks at me meaningfully. I nod: yes, I am okay. Once I get Nona to tell me what she knows, I will definitely ask Machete some direct questions and get some direct answers. Emmett joins us for breakfast. He sits across from me and doesn’t say anything. I like that about him very much.

  Katrina catches me as I’m getting up from the table.

  “Ms. Mischetti told me to fix your hair.”

  She carries a Mealio chair outside and motions me to sit. She has a spray bottle, a towel, a hand mirror, and sleek, shiny scissors to clean up Rasta’s and my hack job.

  This haircut is nothing like the secateurs cut, or like the time Korm chopped off my ponytail. Katrina starts by putting the towel around my neck, tucking it into the collar of my coveralls. She combs her fingers through my hair, starting at my forehead and traveling to the base of my skull. I close my eyes. She sprays a cool mist from the bottle and uses the comb to lightly rake water through my hair. A drop trickles behind my ear, and she catches it with the towel. She runs her fingers close to my scalp, pulls a lock out, and snicks the scissors. Another lock, another snick. Dark wet tufts fall to my shoulders, my lap, and to the ground.

  Katrina’s touch is like Sully’s, minus the heat and jazz and plus some extra cool-glowing warmth. No one has ever touched my head so gently. I close my eyes, but it’s not Sully I see on the insides of my eyelids. It’s Sheila.

  Was she gentle like this when I was a baby? I can’t remember. Sheila’s kind and measured, but not what you’d call gentle. Not like this. Maybe if I fall asleep with Katrina’s hands in my hair, I’ll wake up and everything will be okay, today and on into forever.

  “There.” Katrina’s voice startles me, and I open my eyes. She ruffles my hair and hands me a mirror. “Looks much better, don’t you think?”

  My hair is like Aaron’s, a bit tidier and minus the sideburns. No scraggle or strand. I run my fingers through, and it feels unbelievably good. I feel more bender and more lizard and more comrade, all at once. My head is so light, I can’t get over it. Like I’m free from a binding mask.

  “So much better,” I say. “Thank you.”

  She pulls the towel out from my collar and passes it over the back of my neck, roughing the itch away.

  “You’d best get going.” She snaps the towel, and hair clippings waft on the air. “I took longer than I should have.”

  I take off at a trot past the fields to get my booktron and secateurs. The sky is textured, with one level of gray shifting over another. I open the trot to a run, and the air fills my lungs and my heart picks up its pace as if it’s headed for home. If no one were around I might skip or gallop. But it�
��s still Block One, and the Saturdays and Thursdays are in the cucumbers. Sully pops to her feet and trots over to intercept me. Always happy for an excuse to get out of the fields.

  “Hey, Lizard. Look at you — nice haircut!”

  She reaches to touch it, and I knock her hand away. I dance around, my fists up. “Come on.” I poke toward her jaw, dance back.

  She doesn’t play. She takes a step back, looking at me.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  “I’m fine! Come on, hit me.”

  I punch her on the shoulder, and she rubs her arm.

  “Can you stop that a second? I’m trying to say something here.”

  I ease back, still jouncing on the balls of my feet. She shoves her hands in her pockets, takes a breath that raises her almost up on her toes, and lets it out.

  “I want to say that I’m sorry. About everything. Sorry that whatever bad thing is happening, you don’t trust me enough to talk to me. I never should have played jazz with you. I wish that I could take it back.”

  I can’t contain the ouch. She sees my flinch, of course, and she reaches fingers toward my face. Again, I knock her hand away. Her eyes pop wide, bare-naked and full of genuine hurt. She backs off, blinks as she turns away from me.

  “Don’t hate me, Lizard.”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “We’re still friends, right? You and me?”

  “Sure. Friends.”

  My voice comes out colder than I mean. With half a sad smile, Sully returns to the cucumbers. She doesn’t look at me again. She wants to take back the moment when she made me human. I want to not care. Neither of us can get what we want.

  I’m almost back up the path from Pieville when the sky opens. No sprinkles, no pitter-patter. One moment the clouds are heavy and low and quiet, and the next they dump everything they’ve got. I don’t bother to run. I let the huge drops smatter my head and face. My hair drips in my eyes. By the time I get to the fields, the Thursdays and Saturdays have run for shelter. I arrive in the Study Center, drenched, just before the gong for Block Two. All the other Wednesdays are dry, but by the time we run to the toolshed they’re as wet as I am. My coveralls are heavy and dragging, and the chill of my exchange with Sully soaks into my skin and deeper.

  Micah splits us into different tasks, and Rasta and I head for the corner with armloads of spades and hoes to clean. Rasta asks me something but I can’t quite hear because the rain is jumping up and down on the metal roof. I lean closer, and she raises her voice.

  “So what were you and Nona talking about?”

  I can’t answer her without yelling, and it’s not anything I want to yell, so I shrug.

  “You’re the only one she ever talks to. I think you’re the only one she actually likes.”

  I nod. The rain hammers on. Rasta and I use wire brushes to clean the spade blades. She doesn’t poke any further. That’s one thing about Rasta. She speaks when it’s time to speak, and shuts up when it’s time for silence. Maybe they taught her that in the baby-crow nest.

  When we finally leave the metal-roof noise and walk in the rain again, she bumps up close to me.

  “Maybe you could come to my house,” she says. “After camp. My MaDa could foster you.”

  “They might still find Sheila.” I speak quickly. “Just because they say it’s a vape doesn’t mean that it is.”

  Rasta meets my eyes from beneath the dripping bill of her cap. I have to look away.

  At lunchtime, Lacey squats next to my chair.

  “Ms. Mischetti asked me to see how you’re doing. If you need anything.”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I don’t need anything.”

  The rain continues. I’m glad to get back to my slice for Solitude and strip off my wet coveralls. I flop on the cot and close my eyes, and the next thing I know, the gong is ringing.

  “Lizard?”

  The voice is so far away. I wrench open my eyes. The zipper moves on my door, and Lacey pokes her head in.

  “Ms. Mischetti says that you shouldn’t miss dinner.”

  Dinner? Lacey leaves, and I blink at the ticker. They let me sleep through Blocks Three and Four. Why? Then I remember and wish that I didn’t.

  Water cascades during dinner, making the always-noisy Mealio even more chaotic. Emmett comes close as we walk out of the Mealio and speaks directly in my ear. His breath is warm, but I don’t quite understand his words.

  “Wait.” We step into the corner of the Mealio until almost everyone is out. “Say it again?”

  “Donovan Freer was my piemate.”

  I look over my shoulder. We are alone except for the few comrades on rotation, crashing dishes in the kitchen. Emmett continues in a whisper.

  “I met him that first aft. I heard him leave his slice in the night. I followed him. I saw it happen.”

  “I saw it, too,” I say.

  “I know. I heard you warn him when the light came on. Did you see Machete?”

  I drop to a squat like Machete in the field, arms over my head. I pop back up, and Emmett nods. We saw the same thing.

  “It scared me,” he says. “I ran back to Pieville, zipped in, and stayed. Saxem and Micah came before morning gong and took Donovan’s things. They told us that there’d been complications with Donovan’s registration, and he had to leave in the night.”

  “Have you told anyone else?”

  “No one.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you were there. And because — well — I think that you should know now. Right?”

  His long-lashed eyes look into mine. My own eyes start and sting, and I look away. The gong rings for Cleezies. We rush through the rain. I fall onto the wooden bench next to Rasta, panting, shivering anew with the dream image of Donovan begging to the skies, and then of Korm begging to the skies.

  Machete stands to begin Cleezies. Her mouth moves, but the rain torrents on the roof and drowns her out. She shakes her head and taps her ear, indicating that we should just listen. So we sit, comrades and guides and Machete and teachers and counselors, all of us in community. We listen as the water attacks the roof.

  Rasta and I lean shoulder to shoulder, propping each other up. Even with all of that sleeping, I’m still so tired. I look down at the rocks and let my vision fuzz. Slowly, my eyes close, and the pounding rain surrounds me on all sides.

  A curious vibration begins somewhere in my rib cage. A cellular chitter. As if Lizard Radio has set up a tower deep inside of me. The transmission is strong, and it increases in power, morphing my cells from the inside out. My nose lengthens into a snout, and my skin crusts into scales. I stretch out long and slide my belly along the rocks. My fingernails grow into claws and I raise my head, flicking my yellow-forked tongue, testing the air. My breath rasps, catching deep in my chest.

  A bony jab strikes my side. I open my eyes.

  “You’re snoring,” Rasta whispers.

  Snoring? I blink awake to the chilly, damp evening air. No dragon skin, no radio. The boot-stomping deluge is over. Now the rain trots lightly back and forth on the roof. Machete signals us to stand, and I push myself up on two legs. I check my skin, my hands. No beads or scales. My fingernails are short. Machete releases us, and we pour out into the evening. Rain still spatters from the treetops, but the sky has finally emptied itself. The sun is an orange spotlight sinking in the west.

  Rasta stops to talk with Tylee, and I don’t wait for her because a hurricane of tears is rapidly rising from my gut, rushing up my throat. The intensity of dragon sensation in the Pavilion makes reality all the more painful. There is no Lizard Radio, there are no saurians, and there will be no rescue. All of that is gone now, truly gone forever along with Sheila and Korm and everything that I thought I knew. Dreams are dreams, and real is real.

  The last rays of sunlight sear through the fabric wall as I fumble with the zipper and slide into my slice. My eyes hit the shelf, and the hurricane halts.

  The toy komodo crouches on my shelf, left fr
ont leg raised.

  I wrap my arms around my chest, holding in the bangety-bang of my heart. I stare at the komodo, waiting for it to move. It does not. Finally, I take one step forward. Then another. I reach out a shaky hand and touch its back. It does not move. It is inanimate.

  I zip the door open and drop to my knees. The wet pine needles haven’t been disturbed. I push them aside and dig through clumped strands of wet hair and shredded ribbon. I dig farther into the mud. Nothing. I cover it over and zip back in.

  I wipe my muddy hands on my coveralls. The komodo is still in the same position. I reach out gingerly, take a step closer, and pick it up. It is clean. No dirt in its creases, no sign of being underground for two weeks.

  I bring the komodo up close to my nose and look into its steely eyes.

  “How did you do that?”

  My breath shakes and my words quiver. The lizard speaks not.

  IT’S HARD TO SETTLE down and sleep. Every time I close my eyes, explanations and ideas about the komodo’s reappearance swirl through my head. I keep jerking up to be sure that the toy dragon hasn’t moved. It hasn’t. It’s a quiet silver glint in the moonlight. Finally, long after CropCamp has settled, I manage to keep my eyes closed. I follow my breath in and out, and shadows begin to move on the insides of my eyelids. A soft murmur rises, and the Radio carries me to sleep.

  The gong rings. I open my eyes. I don’t know if I’ve slept or not. Was I dreaming? Or was Lizard Radio playing all night? It seems like both and neither. I reach for the komodo and cradle it in my palm. Stroke between the eyes as I’ve done hundreds of thousands of times since the day Sheila gave it to me.

  I’ve now been at CropCamp for three full weeks, a lifetime and a flash. I set the komodo back on the shelf, get out of bed, and unzip my window. The air is light and clear. Blue skies and a skippy breeze. The birds sound so happy.

  Maybe I dug the komodo out, and somehow made myself forget it.

  Maybe I never buried it in the first place.

  Maybe it crawled through the dirt up to the fields and feasted on the kickshaw that Rasta buried there, and then returned to me.