by Sandra Smith
So that had been the plan—to keep going. And then, after another long stretch, we started noticing more houses, more roads, more traffic. Arturo pulled off of the road and we headed for some trees.
“I think is time we check the coordinates and see if we are near any friends,” he said after we jumped off and stretched.
“I agree.”
We entered the numbers into the nav-map, and several dots blinked back at us. We were quite near one of them.
“We are lucky,” Arturo said.
I nodded in agreement. “Let’s go.”
“Keep your eyes open. Watch for cameras, drones, things suspicious.”
I thought back to a few short weeks ago, how I had not even noticed Arturo following Rose and me. I’d learned a lot since then.
“Of course,” I answered.
Arturo did his best to head toward the closest blinking light without using roads. The ATV was great: small, fast, and nearly silent; even if spotted, no one would be alarmed. Just kids out having fun.
According to our nav-map, we were within sight of the friends. We scanned the horizon. It had to be the large square house in the distance; there was nothing else. We approached slowly. Something wasn’t right. There were too many cars … GRIM!
“Turn around!”
I didn’t need to say any more. Arturo, too, had sensed the danger. We were speeding away in seconds. I lost track of the direction we were headed; Arturo had snapped off the map immediately. We could check our location later. Right now we needed to get far away and hope no one had seen us or could track us through our nav-map connection. I held on tight, not because I needed to, but because for the first time since I left home, the danger had made itself real again—three dimensional, right there in front of me. Arturo felt the tightening of my grip and glanced back.
“Is okay, Lily.”
His eyes, kind and sensitive, were little pools of worry—worry for me. Seeing this, I realized something about myself. Though the danger was real, I wasn’t afraid. Then why am I hanging on tighter? The answer came, Because this is exciting, exhilarating. I couldn’t help it, I laughed out loud. Once again Arturo glanced back at me, confusion flooding his handsome face. I answered with a smile.
What happened on the back of the bike that day was the realization that I was a brave person. That I had what it took to be a leader, to go against GRIM or whoever or whatever opposition we might face. Back home, growing up, I’d been okay. I wasn’t shy. Socially awkward, maybe. But I hadn’t thought of myself as anything special. When Clare brought me in on the questionable adventure of gardening, I hadn’t had any qualms about it. Clare was one of the most cautious and straight-laced people I knew, and if she was okay with doing something illegal, I was next in line. In fact, I had gone further; I had planted seeds out in public—fearlessly. Stupidly, some would argue, but looking back, it was without fear. Then I’d left home—alone. It hadn’t been spur of the moment, out of fear, as I know Clare’s must have been, but planned. I left notes, hid things. I rode a bus by myself, with unfamiliar folks nodding off on my shoulders. I slept in a train station. I’d gotten into cars with strangers. And very few of these times had I been afraid. But it was only that day, on the back of the bike, speeding away from GRIM and looking into the worried orbs of Arturo’s eyes, that I realized he needn’t worry. Because Lily Gardener wasn’t scared. That’s why I laughed. Because I met myself that day. And I was delightfully surprised.
CHAPTER 21
Clare and Dante
Rain streamed down the south-facing window, washing away Clare’s hopes for the day. Genevieve had said they needed a few more dry days to plant the first outdoor seeds, maybe put out the tiny onion starts. Now they would have to wait all over again for the ground to dry. The forecast warned there might be three centimeters of rain with this storm. At least Dante would finally get to give onion Bob his flat top.
The Guardian class schedule was flexible in order to make the most of Mother Nature’s fickle displays. When it was clear and not too cold, the students worked outside. If it rained and there was plenty to do inside, the greenhouse was an option. If nothing else, during the more dreary days, back-to-back classes, as they had done in January, were the final resort. Unfortunately, if the weather pulled a fast one, the more interesting teachers weren’t always available. And so, the class on vertebrate pests, which should have been interesting—Dante had even come—was dry and boring. The teacher lectured endlessly, with no hands-on or small group work. The saving grace was a short video at the end showing a parasitic wasp larvae eating a caterpillar from the inside out.
Clare was grateful the next session would be political history since Stan was always interesting, even when he lectured. A person passionate about his field brings a contagious enthusiasm. Dante, of course, went home early.
“After the questions from last class, I’ve decided to take things more slowly,” Stan said. “I did not realize the extent of your lack of knowledge on the subject. Not your fault,” he added quickly, lest he offend the expectant eyes geared toward him. “The very idea that this class has been added to the Guardian program should have clued me in.
“Let’s go back a hundred years.” He clicked on the slideshow. “Most of you have been here long enough to know the names of these fruits and vegetables…” On the screen, photos of apples, pears, plums, corn, beans, and potatoes appeared one at a time, melting into the next. “A hundred years ago in the United States, any person on the street could have identified them.” Papers had stopped their shuffling, chairs their screechy scooting. Clare could hear the breathing of the man next to her. “So what happened?” Stan asked.
“In 1977 a lot of people were not farmers. Only about 4% of the population. Of course today it is less than 1%. However, around twenty years before that, in 1955, nearly 10%—one in ten people—could say they were farmers. People knew what food was; they knew where it came from. Many of them planted gardens, and the crops grown by farmers were diverse. One small farm—and this was also true in the 1970s—might grow hay and wheat and cherries or berries. They didn’t just grow, say, corn.
“Anyway, a century ago, farmers in the U.S. were undergoing an agricultural revolution. Between 1950 and 1975, agricultural productivity changed more rapidly than at any other time in history up to that point. Although fewer people farmed and farm acreage dropped by 6%, production nearly tripled. This was partly due to technology, development of hybrids and other genetic improvements, and the use of pesticides and fertilizers. Which is why I wanted to start today’s lesson by looking back one hundred years and not just twenty or fifty years. To see the true beginning of a thing, sometimes you need to look a few decades before the thing seems to have begun.
“So imagine, if you will, giving people the tools they needed to make life easier. Farming was not easy. It was a lot of hard work. You didn’t take vacations. And sometimes, if the weather wasn’t in your favor, or prices for your product were low, maybe you didn’t earn any money for the year.” He widened his eyes as he said the word year, causing Clare to stifle a snicker. “Then, thanks to science, along comes a plethora of labor-saving devices, higher-yielding seeds, and chemicals to fight the fallen world of weeds, diseases, and crop-destroying bugs and varmints. The kids can have an easier life; they can go to college; they’re not needed on the farm. Maybe there’s not even room for them anymore. No real harm in that—right?
“Enter twenty years after that. Those high-yielding seeds are now patented and owned.” He turned and wrote on the board, Whoever owns the world’s seeds controls the world’s food supply.
Clare turned. Jason was sitting two rows behind her. His lips were tight, and the furrow between his brows had deepened.
“Which brings us back to our current dilemma of why you are here and not in your own spacious and fertile country. How did we get to a point where our seeds are held ransom? Permit me to go even further back, to the very beginning of Nipungyo.” Someone behind Clare
hissed. She wasn’t sure, but she thought it was Jason.
“In 1912, then known as Dejarno, Nipungyo began manufacturing over-the-counter drugs such as aspirin and caffeine; those were the early years. The company did well, of course, and in the 1970s began seriously looking into biotechnology. By the 1980s, they had created a research group on plant genetics.
“Even though for centuries people had crossed and saved and coaxed the very best out of seeds, Nipungyo wasn’t satisfied. They weren’t even satisfied with hybrids, a speeding up of the breeding process; Nipungyo scientists became the first to genetically modify plant cells, to mess with the DNA.
“I could go on about everything inherently wrong with that, but I want to keep my focus on how you people got to where you are today. Once Nipungyo tinkered with a seed’s genetics, they were handed the right to patent the seed and consequently “own” it. Now, listen up, because there are a lot of plays going on all at once in this game. And remember—” he pointed to the board “—Whoever owns the world’s seeds controls the world’s food supply. So here goes: In 1985 there were no genetically modified crops grown in the U.S. Twenty years later, in 2005, there were 142 million acres. Ooh, I heard that,” Stan said, echoing the ripple sent through the classroom.
“Did farmers own the seeds? No; they bought them, they planted them, they sold the product. And they signed reams of paperwork specifying what they could and could not do, even after paying good money for the seed. Eventually the GMO seed cross-pollinated with non-GMO seed, and Nipungyo threatened and sued…” He paced across the classroom, hands swinging, “I’m sure you’ve heard this part of the story … yadda yadda … gradually it became difficult for farmers to even buy non-patented seed; it just wasn’t available.” He glanced at the clock, shook his head. “I don’t know why I always think I can do this in forty-five minutes.
“All right, let’s fast forward another fifteen years to the twenties. Nipungyo supporters had earlier recognized that their biggest barrier to controlling the food supply was the government. In the years leading up to the 2020s they systematically infiltrated government positions in the FDA, EPA, CDC. If you become the government, ta-da, number one barrier out of the way. So the GMO patented crops faced little opposition from the government agencies that should have been looking out for farmers and consumers. Additionally, when grassroots movements sprang up in opposition, the government passed food safety legislation that helped shut them down … don’t worry … I know this isn’t enough detail … we’ll have more classes covering 2015 ‘til today…”
Clare looked at the clock. It really was too much information. She had no context for any of this. It’s not that she wasn’t interested. She had, after all, tried to search it out on the Monitor once or twice. Maybe she would ask John more about it sometime. Her real interest was in gardening, but she felt it was her duty as a citizen to know the history, to understand the politics.
“ … the thirties were packed with court cases, failed voter initiatives, and the safety regulations that ultimately led to the mandates in 2043 forbidding seed ownership and home gardening. Private farmers growing market crops had long since been squeezed out by the power and size of agribusiness. 2044 marked the end of all previous agencies such as the FDA and others, and the emergence of GRIM, the Green Resource Investigation Machine,” he rolled his eyes. “Don’t know who thought up that doozy. The explanation by the U.S. Congress was that by consolidating various agencies they could save money and be more efficient. In reality, the deep pockets of Nipungyo encouraged them—even as taxpayers were stuck funding the dirty work formerly bankrolled by Nipungyo.”
He turned toward the screen, clicking his controller, the slideshow of real food morphing into pictures of Vitees, Carbos, Proteins, Sweeties, and Snacks. “So what about this,” he cleared his throat, “crap, you call food? During the thirties, while the food laws were falling neatly into place, Nipungyo was busy working with non-food discount retailers—big stores such as Bingemart and Spendco. These stores had become major players in the food system.” He reminded the class, “After the number one barrier, government, was snugly in their pocket, Nipungyo identified loss, or wasted food, as the second cause preventing maximum return. Their partnership with the retailers paved the way in removing this second barrier as they set about eliminating fresh food from the mainstream American diet— channeling it instead into America’s fascinating food groups of today.” The sarcasm dripping from his voice gave Clare a sick feeling. “In this way, the previous loss and waste formerly occurring at virtually every stage of production and distribution was nullified. Goal met.” Stan glanced up at the clock. Five minutes over.
“And that, my friends, is a quick overview of food policies in United States in the last one hundred or so years.”
CHAPTER 22
Lily
Arturo had been so stunned to hear and see me laughing and grinning as we sped away from GRIM that he offered to stop as soon as it was safe. I assured him I was okay and motioned for him to keep going. It wasn’t impossible for us to hear each other while we rode, but the helmets and the wind did make it difficult.
After about thirty minutes, we stopped in a wooded area.
“You wanna tell me what is so funny about GRIM agents?” he asked, a bit hurt when I started laughing again. He folded his arms in his ‘I’m-so-annoyed-with-you’ way and stared at me.
I forced myself to stop the giggles; I cleared my throat and tried to sound serious. “Nothing. Nothing is funny about GRIM agents.” Then I totally discredited my words by breaking into unabashed laughter. I couldn’t help it. He was really just so cute right then, looking all hurt and worried. He said a couple of sentences in Spanish and turned his back on me. Oops. I hadn’t seen him angry since back home, that day he told me to steer clear of Rose. I remembered what that was like and didn’t want to go there. I could do this. I was half-Japanese. I had excellent emotional control (yes, I know, a stereotype I often rally against).
“Arturo. I’m sorry. I was laughing because I was happy.”
He turned back and stared. “Happy?”
“—wait, I’m not done. Let me finish.” I talked fast, probably too fast for him to take in. Trying to explain about my moment of self-actualization. The moment I realized I wasn’t afraid, this new understanding of myself as a person. This great “aha” moment of my young life. He listened without interruption. And then I was done, waiting for him to say something.
He looked down at his watch. “So what now?” he asked.
I was taken aback that he didn’t comment on my great revelation and disclosure, in fact, so taken aback that I allowed him to get away with it.
“Um. I don’t know. We still need to find friends. Our whole plan depends on it.”
“I am afraid to use nav-map. GRIM maybe track us if we turn on.”
“Then we’ll have to be careful. Maybe we should lay low for a while. Remember what Aaron said—how Clare and Dante travelled at night. Maybe we can try that.”
“And if we do not travel now, we do what ?”
“Nap?”
“Okay,” he agreed easily, “siesta.” He parked the bike and kicked a few stones out of the way. He spread out on the ground, slipped the soft helmet off his head and over his eyes, and just like that, fell asleep.
I took a book out of my backpack—the one I’d found on the bus during my long ride to Florida. I hadn’t gotten far, it hadn’t caught my interest yet, but now was a good time to give it another try.
The book didn’t put me to sleep, but it did help pass the time. Arturo slept for two hours, and though envious, I squelched the urge of my devil-half to awaken him. When he finally opened his eyes, I was relieved to have company again.
He squinted his eyes against the bright sun that pierced the trees like broken glass. “¿Dónde estoy?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
He turned and looked at me, startled at first, then the look of comprehension.
“Arturo.”
“Sorry. I forget where I am.”
I smiled. “Hungry?” I asked, holding out provisions from Meg. “I ate while you napped.”
He made a face that said, ‘That stuff’s not food,’ but took it without commenting.
“Now what?” I asked. It was a long time until dark.
“You talk while I eat,” he said. “Tell me more about you.”
I knew what he was asking but played dumb. “Well, let’s see. My middle name is Amaya—”
“Amaya?”
“Yes, it means ‘night rain.’”
“In Spanish it is ‘high place.’”
“You have Amaya in Spanish?”
“Is a girl name.”
“Huh. I think I prefer ‘night rain.’ My mom used to whisper ‘Lily Amaya’ to me when I sat in her lap as a little kid. She said more, but it was in Japanese. I think I may have understood it then, but eventually I lost most of my Japanese. ‘Lily Amaya, Lily Amaya, a flower nurtured by the night rain.’ That’s it! That’s what she said. But I can’t remember the Japanese…”
“Is beautiful,” Arturo said. “All your name is so beautiful. Flower, rain, garden. This quest you are on—is destino, I think.”
And we were right back to what he had wanted to know in the first place.
He took a long swig of water. “Tell me about your father, the Movement.”
It had been on my mind during those long hours on the bike. I didn’t like the way Arturo had learned about my father and me. It felt lousy. And there hadn’t been time to explain; everything moved super fast at Meg and Aaron’s. Although we could have tried conversing during the long rides or the short breaks, neither of us had brought it up. I just couldn’t figure out how. Start with an apology?
