You'll Like It Here (Everybody Does) (10 page)

“What are we—stupid?” David whispers again.

I giggle.

“Even if a person wanted to drown himself,” David goes on, “he'd want to find a more sanitary watery grave.”

The mall, by American standards, is small. There are only three clothing stores, and all of them sell the same clothes—in white, black, gray, navy, olive, and brown. Many of the T-shirts display the slogans we've heard again and again since coming to Fashion City, the most common one being
Praise the Fathers
.

The other stores are selling things like sewing machines, radios, guitars, bicycles, and toys. The toys are limited to guns and military supplies, dolls and stuffed animals.

We walk into one of the clothing stores, and I'm in the sleepwear section trying in vain to find something I like, when I hear someone muttering.

“Animals are filthy and carry disease. Animals are filthy and carry disease. Animals are filthy and carry disease.” And on and on and on.

I peep around a rack of robes and see a display of teddy bears and other stuffed animals tucked in with the pj's. I'm surprised to see that many of the animals are brightly colored. And standing beside the display is Alison Fink, a girl from my fifth-grade class. I always thought she was so cool because she had a fantastic imagination. She made
up stories about the people in our class and how she thought we would turn out in the future. In my story, I was to become a famous astronaut. As for Alison, she loved animals, and wrote about herself as a veterinarian.

At the moment she's playing absentmindedly with the stuffed animals as she repeats that dumb phrase.

“Alison! I'm so happy to see you!” But no, no, I have to remind myself, this is not the Alison I used to know. This is her double.

Alison glances up at me but doesn't lose her train of thought. She goes on with her repetitious phrase while she plays with the toys. She is slow and deliberate in saying each word, like she doesn't want to miss a syllable. “Animals are filthy and carry disease. Animals are filthy and carry disease.”

So this must be one of those cases of gross reiteration Jennifer mentioned. That phrase is stuck in Alison's head, probably because it's been repeated to her so often, and now she can't get it out. It must be hard for her to live in a world without animals.

I watch and listen for a moment, but it's really nerve-wracking. I'm reminded of how a tune gets stuck in my head sometimes and nearly drives me nuts. What I have to do is replace it with another tune that I like better. Then I concentrate on the tune I like, and hum it out loud, or in my head, and presto! The other tune evaporates.

I move over to stand beside Alison, and pick up a furry cat. “Wouldn't you just love to be an animal doctor?” I say.

“Animals are filthy and carry disease” is her response.

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.

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 …