Chapter 15
I feel so silly I could melt when the grandmothers graciously stick me so deep into the rows upon rows of uniformed people that I’d loose myself if my mind wasn’t stuck inside my head.
I almost giggle. But no. No, that would be bad. That would defeat the ladies’ whole purpose. I focus on not locking my knees and keeping my chest out chin up.
The whole courtyard is packed shoulder to shoulder with people dressed in squared off uniforms like mine. Starting right below the front wall, the majority of the field is covered with the military sector people, their helmets glinting spots of sun back to the rest of us. Guns and knives strapped on them with black leather that grasps like they want a ride. The men have on trousers, of course, and flat shoes that I’m so jealous of I almost snort at myself.
I tell myself to please shut up. And to stop fantasizing about breaking protocol. I don’t know why I keep thinking about it. It’d just be so…easy, nothing there to stop me. It’s very wearying.
I focus on what’s ahead of me. Again. After the military section is a narrow stripe of color. The communications-broadcasting people, formalwear yellow-fringed shoulder caps sprinkled on their rows. That would be Andrew’s section. I could see him in shoulder caps. I think they’d look good on him. I think he’d be good at inspections, actually. They wouldn’t make him nervous.
Behind those people, squished all the way up against the main tower, is my section. A long pool of the sky blue and navy of the academic sector. I lucked out, I happen to be in the shade of the buildings. But a few rows ahead, some guys I recognize from engineering are beginning to accumulate dabs of wet on their shirts. They could get cited for that. I hope nobody comes back this far.
Through the rows and columns of the base personnel are perfect aisles of invisible soldiers, standing at attention just like us. The inspectors mill over them, yanking on collars, eyeing belts, sniffing helmets. Every so often, one will stride into a block and have someone step out for a close inspection.
We stand out there at attention while the bells toll the start of a new hour two times, and move on for a third. Meanwhile, the July sun roasts us good. My tongue is thick and sticky, and I’m not sure if my vision is blurry or if that’s just the hot air roiling as it dreams of the sea.
The men around me are dripping wet, and they keep breaking form to swipe the sweat from their eyes, or to pinch damp shirts away from their bodies. And they smell. Manly. Of course, the academic sector isn’t exactly known for our hygiene. I mean, when I was in school the fact that I took a bath every day caught the attention of a ridiculous amount of kids. Yup, that was me. The weird girl who took lots of baths. I didn’t mind the curious ones, but I didn’t like some of the ugly whispered reasons I’d overheard in the common room once or twice. Those stung. And the loud speeches about wasting resources were just annoying.
But after this inspection, I think everyone could use a bath. A lot of these guys won’t take one, though. That’s just how a lot of these people are. They probably don’t even smell their own stink. They’ll just wander past the closing banquet and go right back to work.
An inspector crunches the grass at the head of my block. Even after all this time, my heart thuds faster. I think I’m dehydrated because it makes me feel lightheaded. I stare ahead and freeze, every muscle aching and burning as soon as I hit the correct pose. The sweat dribbles over my skin, clawing and itching as it goes.
I stop breathing when the inspector moves into a row a couple ahead of mine. That’s good. If he does that one for his close inspection, then he won’t come to mine. I want to close my eyes and let the relief wash through my steaming body. I don’t, but this makes a dark haze fall over me, and I do feel cooler.
“You,” the inspector says. He lifts his marker and prods a man in the chest. The man chokes and hits the dry grass on one knee. “Join the collection at the bell tower at dismissal.”
“You. You. You. You. What is wrong with you people?” He prods another man, right in the sky blue sweat spot under his arm, and the academic drops heavily onto his backside.
Glinting, he rasps, “You represent your country! You are the best of the best! People see you, and think that! And you all look like a bunch of slobbering dogs!” He whacks downward, connecting with a middle-aged lady’s shoulder. She cries out into the ripe silence, and it carries through the field, right up to the cement walls.
Then the inspector turns right around that row and marches up the next one, poking each person. The man in front of me crumples to his knees, and I feel exposed, nothing between me and the inspector. My heart thunders away as he continues.
He turns down my row. Now he’s talking to himself, and seems to be randomly winging the marker around. He gets one, then two men, but he misses most. People are ducking. Then he’s on me, and his arm is in the air.
“Hair,” I hear him say, and there is a fierce sting on my ear. It’s a reflex when I cringe and crumple, disconnecting from the bolt that felt so much thicker than the marker itself.
The pain’s gone, then, drained away, just barely swirling around the rim of the pool it made and left so quickly. My ears ring and it’s so hot, I want to throw up. I start pretending I don’t.
The inspection doesn’t go on for much longer after that. Those who have passed go to the side buildings for refreshments and closing ceremonies, while the ones who were flagged are rounded up around the base of the main tower.
I stand there as my section breaks. I’m not sure which of those groups I should be in.
In the shade, I rub the gooseflesh under my sleeves as a white haired man talks into a microphone and his voice comes from all around the courtyard. He starts announcing violation numbers and the corresponding work detail groups.
I bite my lip. Hair is a violation, yes. But it’s not a number, is it. So it’s really not my fault. I enter the main tower through the maintenance entrance in the back, ignore the men in aprons that are smoking, and dart down to my lab.
I make it to the main floor at my usual time, but it takes ten minutes for me to get out the door. There’s a traffic jam in the lobby. A repeating announcement. Workers roll in cardboard boxes and peel them open, punctuating the announcements with their long rips.
They’ve delivered us dinner. The packed lobby rolls forward, and I’m lucky to snatch a water bottle and a meal bar before being extruded into the courtyard.
“Orders are to go straight to your barracks. There was an incident in the courtyard and the area is restricted until further notice. Dismissed.”
I have to stay in the women’s barracks that night. At least there’s an elevator. As I’m washing up, I hear what happened. I guess a young military man on a disciplinary work detail climbed over the plate glass in the belfry and he jumped. When I walked past earlier, all I saw was lots of officers standing around, and trucks parked on the grass, but I guess they had to do a whole investigation and they couldn’t disturb the body for a while.
It’s even mentioned on the national news half-hour, with the main anchors taking over the weather report by questioning the meteorologist, who is here somewhere. I’m glad of this because at least my zizi will know I’m ok and that I just got held up.
A lady from communications-broadcasting tries to start a conversation with me during the commercial break, but I shrug and get into bed. She turns around and goes on and on with some other woman, though, so it’s impossible for me to actually sleep until they’re done.
It’s with an aching elbow and a headache that I finally get off base and start the walk home the next morning. I follow the decline head on through the woods instead of rambling around in circles on the path, just wanting to get into my own bed as soon as possible.
A few minutes later, I stop. My ankle is itching something fierce. There’s a white bump in the middle of a red splotch. Spider bite, I bet. Stupid of me to go through the underbrush like this. I probably have tics all over me.
T
o make things even better, I come out way down the road and have to backtrack, uphill, to the meetinghouse. We call this road the old walls path, as two old rock walls slither along either side of it.
There’s also the creek path, the well path, the wetlands path, the circle on the green, the path down (of which there are about five depending on who you talk to), the one along the beach, the north side ones, and the little trail i.e. the path that goes up to the base. Those are just the names that people are in the habit of using. Of course, a lot of the time someone will come up with their own name, and then they’ll get someone else lost on some deer trail out in the woods.
I drag myself through the middle of the green instead of going around on the circle. It’s overgrown, but I already have to check myself for ticks so a few more won’t make a difference.
I walk in the front doors and consider taking a nap right there.
“Sweet Lord, honey, go check yourself for ticks. I saw you walk right through all that grass. What were you thinking?”
“Nothing. I was already doing that.”
“I was just reminding you.”
“Ok.”
“Ok, then.”
I trudge across the meetinghall, “Can you not run the water, zizi? I want a bath before I go back.”
“Fine. You look awful, by the way. But when you do go again, take one of your cousins. I don’t want you running around the island by yourself now that you’re engaged.”
She’s still grumbling to herself when I finally get out of her sight at the top of the stairs. I go into the bathroom and strip all my clothes, checking each fold and crease for little black specks. Then I spend a long time with the handmirror checking my back and my underarms, the backs of my knees, between my thighs, under my breasts, my neck, all the warm places ticks love.
Then I scratch my fingers through every millimeter of scalp, shivering while I imagine them crawling all over my head. Getting so full of blood that they feel like fresh corn kernels when you do find them. Giving you lyme disease. All those little legs flailing while their faces are clamped onto you, sucking. Uck.
I find three of the little puppies, and I crush the living daylights out of them with one of my zizi’s decorative shells. Then, while I bathe, I give them a bath too, drowning them in a cup of water for about ten minutes, and pouring them out the window for good measure. You have to make sure they’re dead or they’ll just come back and suck on someone again.
I tear up while I’m waiting for the ticks to drown, keeping a close watch just incase any decide to come back to life and make a break for it. One reason is because the tepid bathwater feels so good, slurping all the itchy July heat out of my body. Also, I’m thinking about the young man that’s dead. Which is silly of me, because I didn’t even know him.
I decide I am so not putting this tick-infested uniform on ever again, so I dodge across the hall into my room as I am. It must be later in the morning, because there are lots of voices rising up the stairs, but maybe I’m just being paranoid because I’m naked.
I open my closet. And throw on a sundress. I open a dresser drawer, take out my slate, and code my attendance record to show I’m out doing fieldwork today.
I want to go out somewhere. I’ll visit Cassie, I decide, slipping on my sandals. She’s just who I want to see right now. I can tell her I’m miserable and she won’t even mind it, and then we can talk about mindless things and have some snacks and maybe play a card game.
I dart through the kitchen full of people before anyone can say anything to me. I run all the way- around- the green and down the stonewall path. We keep each other company until we remark that we can’t believe the stars are still out. She gives me a big shirt to change into, and we sprawl out over the covers on her bed. She settles in so easily. I just can’t help myself. I tell her I found five ticks on myself today.
“Aaah!”
She tumbles right off the edge.