You'll Like It Here (Everybody Does) (16 page)

I suddenly remember that I left my cap in my room. I have a vial of vinegar in my pocket, but that's no good when you can't see your head. I consider going back for it, but the store closes at eight. I have to hurry and hope for the best.

I'm passing Building 4 at a trot when I happen upon a kid about ten years old sitting by himself on the curb. He's mumbling something, and I pause beside him to eavesdrop.

“Conformity is contentment,” he's saying. “The daydreamer is discontented.”

He repeats both sentences over and over. Gross reiteration again. It must be even more common than gross vacillation.

I move on, thinking of Meggie and Alison Fink that day in the clothing store. Alison did seem happier after Meggie talked to her. Yeah, sometimes Meggie just accidentally does the smart thing.

At the market, I have to rush to find the things we need. The overhead lights begin to blink, indicating closing time, and I hurry to the register to pay for my groceries.

On the way home I'm surprised to find the boy still sitting there on the curb by himself reiterating the same phrases.

I listen to him for a moment, then sit down beside him, placing the groceries at my feet. Maybe I'll give it a try.

“Got a nice little song for you,” I tell the boy. “I'm going to say it like a poem. It's about wolves, see? Bet you didn't know they used to roam the planet, happy and free as the wind. Here's what they would say if we could hear them today: ‘I remember moonless nights across the frozen land.…' ”

The boy says nothing. His face is expressionless, and he keeps saying his mottoes in a weary monotone.

“Conformity is contentment. The daydreamer is discontented.”

“ ‘I remember cold blue nights of ice and wind,' ” I say to the kid. “Can't you just see those wolves in the moonlight? That's a nice picture you can daydream on. What's your name?”

“Conformity is contentment. The daydreamer is discontented.”

“Their contentment came from living in harmony with the land,” I say, continuing my wolf story.

He looks at me, and I'm encouraged, so I go on.

“ ‘Once the wolves were here. Wild hearts without fear.' ”

“Conformity is contentment. The daydreamer is discontented.”

“ ‘Wild hearts without fear!' ” I say again. “Can you say that?”

“Conformity is contentment. The daydreamer is discontented.”

Man, if I had to live with that constant reiteration day in and day out, it would drive me nuts. It's really infuriating.

“I bet your mom doesn't like to hear that all the time,
does she?” I ask him. “You should surprise her by saying something different tonight.”

“Conformity is con—”

“Come on, kid, it's not that hard,” I say. I'm about to lose it. “Say ‘Wild—' ”

And that's when I see a single teardrop sliding down his cheek. Bummer.

“Hey, dude, don't cry,” I say. “It's okay.”

“Jeremy!” a voice calls, and the kid's head turns to face the building. In the approaching darkness, I can make out the shape of a woman standing on a balcony on the second floor. “Come in now, Jeremy,” she calls.

The boy leaps to his feet and bolts toward the door of Building 4. With hands on hips the woman stands there watching me. I notice then that all the kids have gone in. It must be close to eight-thirty. I stand up, grab my sack of groceries, and hurry toward Building 9. I am passing Building 6 when I hear someone yelling the word that chills me to the bone.

“Lockdown!”

I take off at a gallop.

Building 7. What happens when you don't make curfew? I don't know, and I don't want to find out. I run faster.

Building 8. I can hear all the television sets in the city coming on at the same time: “Welcome to
The Family Hour.
”

Building 9. Surely Tom will see me coming and let me in. I grab the front-door handle. Locked. I pound on the door. Tom doesn't appear. He must have locked himself in already. Panic.

If a night watchman comes along, will he—
can
he—let me in? Will I be arrested and taken to the police station? Will they do a mug shot of me for
The Family Hour
?

“Thirteen-year-old David Blue of Sector B,” I can imagine Sherry Cross reporting, “was arrested for missing
curfew last night. He will be taken before a firing squad at dawn and executed.”

Now it's dark, and from inside the building I can hear
The Family Hour
blasting out its message to the robots of Fashion City. Mom must be out of her mind with worry. What to do? I count six floors up, then two balconies over. Or three? Which one is ours? I'm not sure.

I check a side entrance, which is also locked, then walk around to a rear door—also locked. I slump beside an air-conditioning unit under a first-floor window and stay there, trying to clear my muddled brain. After a while I hear voices coming from the front of the building. Two men are talking. Maybe night watchmen? Should I approach them or stay hidden?

The men seem to be coming around the corner of the building. I press myself against the wall and watch the place where they will soon appear, but they stop just before the corner. At this point I can hear their conversation.

“So, tell me, Carl,” the first man says, “what's the job you're training me for?”

“They didn't tell you?”

“No, they just told me to report tonight. Said they needed somebody right away.”

“We're bounty hunters,” Carl explains. “We catch curfew breakers.”

“What if it's just some poor creep who's on his way to the night shift and runs out of time?” says the first guy.

“Tough luck. You know the law, Kevin. They have to be locked in by eight-thirty whether they're at home or on the job.”

“Do you catch a lot?” asks Kevin.

“On my best night I caught three. A few times I caught two. About once a week I catch one. But most nights? None. That's how it goes.”

“And what do you do with them?”

“Haul 'em down to the police station. That's where you get paid.”

“And what do the police do?”

“They do a harsh interrogation,” Carl replies, “trying to find out if they're gross agitators or just unlucky enough to miss curfew.”

“How are they punished?” asks Kevin.

“Depends on what the police find out in the interrogation. Could be just a warning, could be rehab, or could be—you know, the ultimate.”

The ultimate?
These words hang in the air. I can hear my own heart beating. Would they give the ultimate to a thirteen-year-old boy?

If Kevin and Carl walk about ten steps around that corner, they'll see me huddled against the building. The AC unit clicks on and makes a loud humming noise so that I can no longer hear what they are saying.

My eyes search the darkness. Maybe I'll hide behind another AC unit—one that's farther away from these bounty hunters. Then I realize I'm clutching the bag of groceries tightly against my chest. I need to ditch it. I carefully set the bag down on the ground, glance toward the corner of the building to make sure the men aren't in sight, and then make a dash for a distant AC unit. I find a silent one, curl up behind it, and pull my knees under
my chin. I know I'm just barely hidden, but it's pretty dark out here.

Soon I hear the voices again, and I can tell they're coming my way.

“Look at this. Somebody left groceries on the ground,” Kevin says. “Milk, fruit, and … I'll bet there's a mad mom somewhere in there tonight.”

Mom
. The word stabs my heart. Mom. Gramps. Meggie. They're probably up there pacing the floor during
The Family Hour
. Is Meggie crying? Probably. I tighten my grip around my legs and pull my knees closer to my chin. How long can I stay in this position? Already I'm beginning to cramp. But the bounty hunters are still there. In fact, now they're only a few feet from me, and it seems they're in no hurry to leave.

As I realize I can't sustain this position much longer, fear begins to move through me like a slow hot wave of lava. Now I'm sure the Lotus has worn off. I think again of Meggie. She must have felt like this when the madman threatened her. And when she woke up all those nights screaming. So much fear for a little girl.

At that moment, Kevin says, “Hey, man, look at that!”

“Look at what?” Carl comes back.

“That blue light over there,” Kevin says. “It's fluorescent.”

Blue fluorescent light? No, no, not now!

“You mean that glow behind the AC unit over there?” Carl says. “Yeah, man, I see it. Let's check it out.”

“S
omething must have happened to him,” Mom tells Tom when he comes for lockdown and David has not returned from the store. “He wouldn't miss curfew. He has nowhere to go.” She stands there in the doorway, refusing to move out of Tom's way. “Just give him a few more minutes,” she pleads.

“You know what?” Tom says. “When somebody gets sick or hurt, the police take 'em to the clinic. So I'll call there for you if you like.”

“Please, would you?”

“Sure. Now go on inside and let me lock up. It's the rules.”

Reluctantly Mom moves, and Tom quickly locks us in. At the same time,
The Family Hour
comes on. Mom covers her ears with her hands. Gramps puts an arm around her, and she rests her head on his shoulder.

“We've got to get out of this place,” she mumbles.

“There may be something about David on
The Family Hour
,” Gramps says.

The three of us sit down on one couch to watch.

Sherry Cross is beaming. “A night for celebration, good people of Fashion City,” she says. “There were no arrests today.”

I slump against the cushions.

“In other news,” Sherry Cross continues, “at least five children who are afflicted with gross reiteration have caught a very strange virus. They've been heard repeating this nonsensical phrase.”

The camera pans across five kids of various ages, and they are reiterating something oh so familiar: “It's not easy being green.”

I catch my breath sharply.

“Where they picked it up,” Sherry Cross continues, “and what it means, nobody seems to know. The clinic staff has not determined how this virus should be treated.”

So Kermit's words must have worked for Alison, and now she has taught them to others. You go, girl! I glance at Mom and Gramps, but I can see that their minds are far away from what's on TV. Later I'll confess all, but now is not the time.

The phone rings, and it's Tom reporting that David is not at the clinic.

“Do you have a number for the police?” Mom says frantically. Then she says no more. In another moment she hangs up and sits back down between me and Gramps.

“We're not allowed to call the police,” she says, “unless we have a crime to report.”

Normally I would cry at this point, but not tonight. No, I won't cry. Mom needs me to stay calm. We sit through the rest of
The Family Hour
, lost in our own fears and terrible imaginings.

“Thirty minutes until lights-out,” Sherry Cross says brightly. “Sleep well, happy people of Fashion City.”

“Sleep well?” Mom says to the TV. “You know what, Sherry Cross? You really suck!”

I am so startled and tickled at Mom's words, I'm afraid I'm going to be hysterical. I choke and catch Gramps's eye. He looks away quickly. Any other time we would be howling over this.

At ten we meet the Gilmores on the balcony as usual. When Mom breaks the news about David, Jennifer begins to cry.

“I gave him a Lotus,” she sobs.

“What!” Mom cries.

Jennifer nods. “I'm sorry. I should have let you know, so you could watch out for him.”

“He'll survive,” Colin says coldly.

“That explains his behavior at dinner,” Gramps says.

“What will the police do to him?” Mom asks.

“They'll knock him around a bit,” Colin says, “then let him go.”

“What do you mean ‘knock him around'?” Mom says.

“Enough, Colin,” Gil says to his son, then turns to Mom. “They'll probably just give him a warning, and that will be the end of it unless he gets caught again.”

Nothing else is said about David, or about anything else, for that matter. Mom stands and peers over the balcony railing as if she's expecting to see David down there. Silence lies thick like a blanket over us. In a little while Gramps suggests in a whisper that we call it a night, and nobody gives him an argument. Colin braces his feet against the railing and pulls himself up through the trapdoor; then he gives Jennifer a hand.

“Please don't worry,” Gil says to Mom, “and try to get some sleep.”

But she goes inside without a word to him. Gramps and I say good night to Gil and follow Mom inside.

All night I feel Mom tossing and turning beside me. Several times she gets up and walks through the dark apartment.

At one point I hear her whispering to Gramps in the hallway.

“ ‘Knock him around'? What does that mean? I feel so helpless. There's nobody to call or to listen. In this place it seems nobody cares about anybody else.”

I can hear Gramps murmuring comforting words.

Finally I fall into a nightmarish dream of our first day in Fashion City.

“The Fathers take care of the people.”

“You'll like it here. Everybody does.”

“W
ell, what have we here?” one of the men says with a chuckle, and I recognize the voice as Carl's.

The two of them haul me out from behind the AC unit to a standing position. My legs are trembling so that I can hardly keep them from buckling.