by Ruth White
I pick up a big green frog. It looks a bit like Kermit.
“You know,” I say, holding the frog in front of her, “I bet it’s not easy being green.”
She pays me no attention. Obviously, when you have this affliction, you are able to focus on nothing but the words you are reiterating.
“Let’s name him Kermit,” I say. “If you were to write his story, how would it go?”
This time when she looks at me, there’s a flicker in her eyes. But then they go dead again, and she goes back to her browsing and mumbling. “Animals are filthy and carry disease.”
“I love animals,” I whisper close to her ear.
“Animals are filthy and carry disease.”
“In your story, Kermit could be a frog who is very lonely because he’s the only green animal. He’s unique, but he can’t help it. That’s just the way he was made.”
Now I know she’s listening. I can tell by her expression. Her voice goes soft.
“ ‘It’s Not Easy Being Green’ would make a good title,” I tell her.
“Animals are filthy and carry disease.”
I hold up the frog again, and say, “Animals are totally wonderful, but it’s not easy being green.”
Now she pauses and looks at me curiously.
I say “It’s not easy being green” again, then again and again. She continues with her own phrase, but I say mine faster and louder. “It’s not easy being green.”
We go on this way as if we are in competition with one another, when all of a sudden she derails. “Animals are green and filthy,” she says. Now her face is puzzled. “Animals are easy … carry green disease.”
“It’s not easy being green,” I say.
“Green is filthy—” she starts, but I interrupt her.
“It’s not easy being different.”
“It’s not easy being me,” she responds, and I think she is really trying to carry on a conversation with me. “I mean, I mean … it’s not easy being green.”
“Yes!” Now I’m excited. “It’s not easy being green!”
A slow smile comes onto her face. “It’s not easy being green!” she repeats. “It’s not easy being green!”
“You’ve read stories, haven’t you?” I ask, and I think—but I’m not sure—she nods her head at me. “I know you could write a good one.”
“It’s not easy being green,” she says. “It’s not easy being green.”
At that moment I see David. He’s watching and listening to us, and he’s not smiling. I walk over and whisper to him, “Look, David, it’s Alison Fink.”
“Not really, Meggie.” He whispers too. “You shouldn’t be saying those things to her.”
“Why not?”
“Listen to her. Nobody will understand. They’ll think she’s nuts.”
“Do you understand?” I ask him.
He says nothing, just looks at me.
“But don’t you see? She’s come unstuck,” I say. “Look at her face.”
Alison picks up the green frog and says to it, “It’s not easy being green.” Then she hugs it to her and smiles at me and David. “It’s not easy being green.”
“I admit she’s stuck on something else now,” I say, “but at least it’s different.”
“Alison!” someone calls, and a woman comes around the end of the robes. It’s her mom. I’ve seen her picking Alison up at school.
Alison hands the frog to her mom and points to the cash register. “It’s not easy being green,” she says.
“What on earth are you saying now?” Mrs. Fink asks, obviously irritated, as she takes the frog and guides her daughter toward the checkout.
“It’s not easy being green,” Alison says. “It’s not easy being green.”
“Don’t say that out loud!” Mrs. Fink orders.
Alison begins to whisper, and the two of them move out of earshot.
“You’ve just made things harder for her,” David says to me.
“I don’t think so,” I say hotly. “You don’t know everything.”
He shrugs and walks away from me.
In another half hour or so, we have settled on two pairs of jeans and four plain T-shirts for each of us, plus socks, pajamas, and underwear for everybody.
Amanda Harp didn’t give us enough rations for so much clothing, but “Not to worry,” the bubbling store clerk tells us. “You can charge it to the factory, and the costs will be deducted from your paychecks, a little at a time, of course. The Fathers take care of the people here.”
“Is that right?” Gramps says, acting like he’s really surprised, and he gives the clerk his best I’m-poking-fun-at-you-and-you-don’t-even-know-it smile.
“Oh, yes, praise the Fathers,” the clerk says as she glances through our purchases. “But …”
“But what?” Mom says.
The clerk seems a bit uneasy, but goes on. “Let me suggest that you buy at least one shirt that praises the Fathers. You know, since you’re new here, everybody is curious about your loyalty.”
“Oh, of course,” Mom mumbles. “Good advice.”
Gramps says nothing, but tags along with Mom as she goes back to the T-shirt rack. Without enthusiasm, they come back to the register with one shirt for each of us that displays some kind of slogan about the Fathers.
Gramps winks and whispers to me and David, “We don’t have to wear them all at the same time, like we’re quadruplets. We’ll just have one token patriot per day.”
Back in our apartment David and I prepare to go to the education center for our placement tests.
“I want you to do something for me,” Mom says when we appear in our dull new clothes. She clears her throat nervously. “I know I have always told you to do your best at everything.”
We nod. Is she worried about this test?
“Well, today I want you to do just the opposite.”
“What!”
“Yes, I want you to do poorly on this test—not too poorly, but aim for what was considered low average in the schools you have attended in the past.”
“But why, Mom?” I ask.
“I know why,” David says. “They like to think we’re from a savage place, as Officer Brent said. So we’ll let them think it.”
“That’s right,” Mom says. “If the Fathers—whoever they are—realize how educated and intelligent we are, they’ll see us as a threat. It’s obvious they like to keep people in the dark about many things, and under their control.”
“So we should flunk the test?” I say.
“Yes, for your own good, flunk it.”
At the education center a young woman named Amy carefully goes over instructions for use of the computer.
“This is called a mouse,” Amy explains, “and this is a keyboard.”
David and I have used computers all our lives, but we play dumb, listen carefully, and ask the appropriate questions. Then Amy leaves us alone with the computer test, after we promise to call her if we have any trouble.
David and I have the same test, and it’s so easy, I manage to breeze through it in no time flat. Then I go back over it and deliberately mark several answers wrong. I look over at David, who whispers, “Do it again more slowly.”
So I go through the test one more time, then check out the computer. That’s when I find an icon for an Internet connection. Excitedly I click on it, but nothing happens, so I click again. This time I get a yellow warning triangle: INACCESSIBLE!
Then a message comes up on the screen for me: Meggie Blue is to be placed in fourth level, channel three, one o’clock. David’s message says he is to be placed in the fifth level, channel four, at one o’clock. So it looks like I’ve finally managed to beat David at something—I’ve out-flunked him.
Amy comes back into the room with a box of school supplies for us.
“Tune in to your class tomorrow and follow instructions,” she says. “At the end of the season you’ll return here for testing again on the computer.”
“Meggie�
��s in fourth level and I’m in fifth,” David says with disgust as we are walking home with Mom and Gramps. “Do you think that’s equivalent to the fourth and fifth grade?”
“I imagine their grade levels are different from what you’re used to,” Mom says. “What kind of questions did you get?”
“A lot of math,” I say. “But it was easy.”
“What else?” Gramps asks. “Any history, geography, science?”
He’s our token patriot for the day in his ugly gray shirt that reads THE FATHERS TAKE CARE OF THE PEOPLE.
“Just elementary grammar,” David says. “Then we had to read some paragraphs and answer questions about what we read.”
“I have a feeling the Fathers don’t encourage real education,” Mom says. “They teach the people only what they need to know in order to live and work in this society.”
“I wonder about art and music,” Gramps says. “The kids here must be starved for self-expression.”
“Maybe you could start some art classes yourself, Gramps,” David says.
“I doubt it would be allowed,” Gramps says. “Something tells me if the people here get any instruction in the arts, they have to teach themselves.”
“There was an Internet connection on my computer,” I tell them, “but it was useless. I couldn’t get online.”
“Well, it’s good to know they have an Internet,” Gramps says, “but I’m guessing only the Fathers have access to it.”
“Another way to keep people in the dark,” Mom comments.
“Right,” Gramps says. “As they say, knowledge is power.”
“We don’t even have a radio,” David says. “Wonder what’s on it?”
“No doubt the same stuff we get on TV,” Mom says. “Who needs more of that?”
I’m sure David won’t mention to Mom what happened with Alison Fink in the clothing store. He’s not a squealer. And it’s for sure I’m not going to tell, because I know Mom would not approve. She would say my getting involved was like violating the Prime Directive on Star Trek, meaning you never interfere with the ways of the natives.
• 16 •
The following afternoon, David and I tune in to our classes at one o’clock while Mom and Gramps go to the grocery store. David uses the TV in the living room and I go into my and Mom’s bedroom. I spread out my school supplies on the bed and go to work.
At the end of the period I’m instructed to place my lessons in a pocket that is attached to our front door, where they will be collected by the building superintendent. Then what? I wonder. I’ll be free for the rest of the day, but free to do what? We can’t play sports. We have nothing to read. I would love to go to the park, but it looks like you can be arrested for going there out of turn. And television is a joke. No Disney channel, no MTV, no Animal Planet, no game shows, no movies, not even real news.
I look around this bare room. It symbolizes all the drabness of this place. How could you ever have pleasant dreams in a room so starved of color and decoration? Then my eye falls on the closet, and I remember the Carriage. Yeah, it’s stashed in there. And it has a computer. If I messed around with that computer, Gramps could actually blow his cool with me, and Mom’s face might burst into flames. But if they don’t know …
I go to the closet and pull the backpack down from the shelf. I rummage around in the Carriage material and find the control panel, which Mom folded so carefully down to the size of a book.
Suddenly there’s a tap on my door. “Finished, Meg?” It’s David.
“Uh … no, I’m still working.”
I’m glad my brother has the good manners not to come barging into my bedroom without being asked.
“For real?” he says. “My class is over.”
“Mine has a ways to go,” I lie.
I climb back into the center of the bed and open the control panel. The computer automatically lights up. The keyboard is built into the panel just below the tiny screen. The mouse is a ball that rolls in the keyboard. A question pops up.
DO YOU WISH TO EXPLORE FAR WORLDS TODAY?
I click on yes.
For the next ten minutes or so I’m totally engrossed as I focus on a distant planet called Crisis, all circled with rainbow rings like Saturn, but it’s not Saturn. The text tells me strange and wonderful things about this world. In spite of the beauty and richness of their planet, the people are constantly embroiled in some kind of battle. The civilization is many millions of years old, but for some reason, its people are like children who never grow up.
I think of the blue streaks I would so like to see in my hair because they are a mark of maturity in the world I came from. I wonder if I can do a search on Chroma.… Then it hits me like a truck. This text is not in English. It is, of course, written in Chromish. I have been reading Chromish!
I scan the menu. Yes, I can read this. Yes, I understand that. Yes, but how?
A flash of memory comes. I see myself as a three-year-old resting my head on Dad’s pillow. I see a diamond-shaped electronic book, and I see my dad’s finger move down a column of symbols as he reads aloud to me.
The sound of voices in the living room interrupts my thoughts. Mom and Gramps are back from the store. I scramble to close the control panel, tuck it into the backpack, and return it to the closet shelf.
As Mom and Gramps are preparing dinner, David and I watch another idiotic sitcom, but my mind is racing. I can read Chromish, and I’m almost sure that David can’t. I don’t think he can even speak it very well anymore. I have all this information at my fingertips in the Carriage computer. What am I going to do with it? I can learn anything, go anywhere—cyberwise, that is.
The doorbell rings, and David leaps to his feet. It’s Jennifer with two other people, who must be her brother and father. The boy is a few years older than Jennifer, and really cute. The man is around forty with a touch of gray at his temples and pleasant blue eyes. I guess he’s cute too, for a dad. He’s holding a huge cake loaded with chocolate icing. It makes my mouth water.
Gramps and Mom appear from the kitchen.
“We’re the Gilmores,” the man says. “I think you have met my daughter, Jennifer, and this is my son, Colin. You can call me Gil. Everybody does. We have come to welcome you to our building.”
“How nice,” Mom says, taking the cake. “I’m Linda Blue. These are my children, David and Meggie, and this is my father, Sam Lane.”
“Just call me Gramps. Everybody does,” Gramps echoes Gil. “Won’t you come in?”
“No, we didn’t come to intrude on your evening meal,” Gil says. “We’ll visit another time. We just wanted to say welcome to Fashion City. We know you’ll like it here. Everybody does.”
“Why not come back and have dessert with us after dinner?” Mom suggests. “There is surely enough cake here for two families.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” Gil says, turning to Colin and Jennifer, who nod eagerly. As they leave us, I suspect that invitation was exactly what they were hoping for. With the Gilmores expected, we are excited at dinner. We can imagine we’re really at home and everything is normal. Even the nuked meals aren’t bad. The sight of the chocolate cake on the countertop makes me eat faster and clean my microwaveable plate. Afterward David and I tidy up the kitchen quickly, then sit down in the living room to wait for the Gilmores. I manage to get to the door first when the bell rings.
“Tell us about yourselves,” Gramps says to the Gilmores as we dig into the cake.
I’m not surprised that it tastes like an American cake, because I figure the ingredients are about the same—flour, sugar, eggs, butter. I like it. (Everybody does.)
Jennifer and Colin are sitting on either side of their father on one couch, while David and I sit with Mom on the other couch, with the coffee table conveniently arranged before us. Gramps sits in an armchair and balances his dessert dish on his knees.
“I’m in charge of programming at the television station,” Gil says, “and the kids, of course, are still in school
.”
“But I’m turning sixteen this season, so I’ll be joining the military,” Colin says happily, as if he has announced he’s going to the Super Bowl.
“Don’t you want to go to college?” David blurts out.
There’s no immediate response, just big-eyed stares, as if David has said something in Chromish.
“I certainly do,” David adds, seeming a bit uncomfortable under their gaze.
“I will gladly give four years to serve the Fathers,” Colin finally says. “And so should you, David.”
“Four years is a long time,” David says.
“At the age of sixteen in Fashion City every young man and woman joins the military,” Colin explains. “They do it gladly. Of course, we don’t have to fight for the first year. We’re in training until the age of seventeen, when we go to the front lines.”
“Front lines of what?” Gramps says.
“The war, of course,” Colin says.
“What war?” Mom says.
“Whatever war we happen to be fighting at the time. People are always attacking the Land of the Fathers.”
“What people?” Gramps persists. “What countries attack you?”
Colin shrugs.
“We don’t know their names,” Gil explains. “We don’t need to know. They are people who hate us because they envy our freedoms and our way of life, and we have to defend our land. This is one way we can repay the Fathers for all they have done for us.”
“And the girls go too?” I say, looking at Jennifer, who sits quietly eating her cake.
“Some of the girls are kept at home to tend the day care at the factories,” Gil says. “When the time comes, we will apply for Jennifer to have that job so she won’t have to fight. Your mom will no doubt do the same for you, Meggie. But there is much competition for those jobs.”
He places an arm protectively across Jennifer’s shoulders. She seems so delicate, it’s impossible to picture her in military gear. I can’t see Colin fighting either. He seems like the kind of kid who, on our Earth, would have kept his nose in a book or his eyes on a test tube.
“But I’m puzzled about something,” Gil says. “You all ask so many questions that I thought you would already know the answers to.” He speaks directly to Mom. “I’m sure, Linda, that things in Fashion City have changed somewhat since you lived here before the insurrection. You must have been very young when you left, and your kids were born in the Western Province.” Then he turns to Gramps. “But it seems that you, sir, would remember the wars from having grown up here.”
