4 Plant City

Lily

 

Sleeping overnight on the bus was the hardest part, but even that wasn ’ t bad. Evidently Lily Gardener was cut out for this kind of life. I smiled as I congratulated myself with such lofty thoughts and wrote briefly in my journal.

As I shoved the journal back inside my pack, t he string of origami cranes spilled out , reminding me of Ma and stabbing me with guilt at the thought of her discovering my goodbye letter. I held the string of cranes in my hands. I knew I shouldn ’ t have brought it along like this, without a box, destined to get squished and flattened in my backpack. Ma always said the string of four cranes was an important family heirloom. The first crane was from my great-grandmother. Then my grandma, then Ma, and the most recent one was mine, added when I was seven. I was supposed to take care of it, hand it down to my own child when— if— I had one.

I’ m not sure why I brought it. I guess I still wanted a little piece of Ma after all.

As we approached Florida I began to feel giddy. I ’ d gotten a ticket to a place called Plant City, not quite halfway down the long peninsula. I figured if I got off before port I might have a shot at finding Seed Savers friends. Three of the names on Ana ’ s list had what appeared to be actual street addresses, two of them south of Gainesville and one in Plant City.

I admit it, I didn ’ t know much about Florida. I knew it was a vacation destination, that it had warm or hot weather all the time, hurricanes caused a lot of trouble, and the results of climate change were a continuing threat to the coastline. And of course, being a peninsula meant it had lots of beaches. So when we passed the “ Welcome to Florida ” sign, I was surprised the scenery didn ’ t look all that different from where we had just been.

I tried to stay alert and observant as I stared out the window, but despite my best intentions, I saw nothing but cities, suburbs, empty grassland, and trees. Where were the beaches, the theme parks, the tourists? It hadn ’ t occurred to me that Florida was more than the images I ’ d seen flashed across the Monitor. I felt a little foolish but was grateful for the reminder that there were a lot of things to lear n in the world. That we need to seek out information on our own because the kind that comes to us easily might be incomplete and biased. I thought about Clare and Dante and wondered what new things they were learning.

After a while I began noticing something new along the interstate—more walls than before. Sound barriers? I ’ d seen them in a few other places but never for such long stretches. It was eerie and like driving through a never-ending tunne l, these tall white walls in an inverse arc, lining both sides of the freeway. I got out my notebook and sketched a picture of the long straight road and the river of vehicles streaming through the strange structures.

I almost missed my final stop. We arrived in Plant City in the evening . I t wasn ’ t quite dark, for which I was grateful. My plan was to spend the night at a twenty-four-hour mall, moving around enough not to get caught, taking brief naps in between. Then I would find a Monitor Cafe and see if I could pinpoint any of the Seed Savers addresses or figure out whether or not Florida was different from back home. If Arturo was right, maybe things were different here.

Anyhow, if the driver hadn ’ t had her eye on me, I ’ d have missed Plant City. I had dozed off due to the monotony of the walls. Now I stood on a cracked sidewalk, looking up at a sign that read Oak Street. I looked around for oak trees but saw only enormous stumps. The tallest buildings were two, maybe three stories high. Paint peeled of f wall-sized murals, leaving some in the mural crowd faceless. I wasn ’ t used to small towns and it sort of gave me the creeps. Heaving my backpack onto my shoulders, I began walking, wishing for a plan B. It was clear that twenty-four-hour malls did not exist in Plant City.

Then I heard it—a train whistle—right up close. I looked around, squinting to see better in the dim light of dusk. Up ahead an ancient train terminal nudged through the descending darkness. I walked quickly toward it .

The doors to the train station were unlocked, but there were no attendants. Reading the signage, I was surprised to learn that for a full half-century the station had been maintained solely for “ historic ” purposes , only recently reopen ing on a limited basis. The train whose whistle I ’ d heard had passed on through.

I surveyed the small station, its wooden benches polished, the cheerful posters h anging neatly on the wall. A woman slept on one of the benches. I thought how upset Ma would be if she knew what I was about to do. I pushed away any fears. I am on a mission. Soldiers must be brave.

I awoke only once during the night. It was right out of a dream, but in the morning I remembered only that I ’ d had a vivid dream, not what it was about . And I had the strangest sensation I was being watched. My roommate—the woman on the bench—slept on, snoring blissfully. Studying her, I concluded she was not a passenger waiting for the infrequent trains, but a regular station tenant. I decided not to dillydally lest she wasn ’ t the sharing type.

The bathroom wasn ’ t bad—looked like it was cleaned at least twice a week—and had hot running water and a mirror. I did my best to clean myself up, then headed out for my next adventure.

The weather was hot and humid, worse than back home, and I wondered if this area was frequented by hurricanes. The Monitor on the bus had babbled in cessantly about hurricanes and what to do in case of one . I should have paid more attention, but I ’ d been focused on my own plans . I’ d been thinking about my father. Daydreaming about what would happen after reuniting with him . You can understand why I hadn ’ t bothered about the weather. But now the weather was running down my face in rivulets of perspiration, and it was only morning. At this rate, the sunscreen I ’ d carefully applied would be washed off in minutes.

On the bus ride into town I had noticed a Monitor Cafe so I headed back toward Oak Street. Perhaps I could locate the friends listed on Ana ’ s paper. I trudged on, studying my surroundings: flat-topped brick buildings, a few stubby palm trees where the concrete allowed, lines of street lights; too many, it seemed, for the scarcity of traffic. Plant City was a ghost town, and in this heat I could understand why. I reassured myself that the cafe would be air-cooled. Maybe th ere would be cold drinks for sale.

At last I was there, pushing on the door. It didn ’t budge. What? I couldn ’ t believe it wasn ’ t open . W hat kind of two-bit town doesn ’ t have a twenty-four-hour Monitor Cafe? But it was worse than tha t. I n my singlemindedness I had not noticed the dark interior or the giant “ To Lease ” banner draped across the window . I almost cried then and there. Ever been on a long, exhausting trip and just kept going, kept putting one foot in front of the other, and then the tiniest thing, your favorite Sweetie unavailable in the vending machine, a cross word, and you just fall apart, that old dam goes and breaks? Yes? That ’ s how it was. I was about to release the floodgates when I heard something. I n that deserted little town I heard a sound, and it spooked me. It was muffled, maybe an aborted sneeze. I glanced around but saw no one. I took off walking really fast straight down the sidewalk. There would be someplace in this town to go, and I would go there.

But it was 7:30 a.m. and not a big town. I passed a lot of “ Closed ” signs, along with a few “ Not Open ” signs. If you asked me now, whether I had been afraid, I would say it hadn ’ t occurred to me to be afraid . I had grown accustomed to the possibility of GRIM back home, and at that moment GRIM was my first thought. But a stranger, a predator? I never considered i t.

At last I came to a Zuziis. To the uninformed, Zuziis is a national chain snack shack/plug-in station. You know, to recharge your auto and then spend money on overpriced Snacks and Sweeties. I walked in. A bored attendant briefly looked away from the Monitor to see who was incoming but otherwise failed to acknowledge my existence. The air cooler hummed loudly. I lingered in the small store, cooling off, trying to figure out my next move. Maybe the best thing would be to get back on the bus and continue south—any place but here.

“ You gonna buy somethin ’ ? ” The young man, whose carmel-colored skin reminded me of Arturo, was aware of my presence after all.

“ Uh, yeah, ” I said, “ water? ”

He reached under the counter and pulled out the tiniest bottled water I ’ d ever seen. “ Three fifty. ”

I gagged on the price, but dug into my pocket, dropping a crumpled five on the counter. “ Thanks. Is there a library around here? ”

“ Ain’ t open today. ‘ S only on Wednesdays and Thursdays. Over on Main Street. ” He nodded his head toward the upcoming intersection.

“ Okay. Well, bye. ” Lame.

The heat about knocked me over as I opened the door to the outside world. I crossed the street and walked toward the corner, to what I assumed was Main Street. Even though he said the library wasn ’ t open, I headed there for lack of a better idea. I thought about home, about Rose and me on our bikes. About the park and the fountain. Dumb me! Why hadn ’ t I asked about a pool or a park? The library? I had half a mind to turn around and go back. But that would be so stupid . No, I’ d keep my eyes open—it shouldn ’ t be hard to find a park in a place this size. I was beginning to understand the wisdom of Clare and Dante leaving on bikes.

A building with four towering white columns and an American flag on a tall pole caught my eye. I ran across the street. The library was an ancient structure and like the train depot, kept in good repair. The town seemed to value its historical heritage even if the oak trees existed in name only. Though still on the lookout for a park, the lure of th e old building was irresistible. The shade of giant trees invited me closer. Like a trespasser, I looked over both shoulders and darted forward, creeping around the exterior, peeking in the windows. That ’ s when I saw it—a basement window, cracked open. It ’ s also when I realized I was a sneaky person. (Sure, you already knew that; you recognized it way back. You knew it the moment I disclosed I ’ d planted seeds around town despite Clare ’ s wishes. I ’ ll bet you said it out loud back then, Why that Lil y . . . But it was the moment at the Plant City library that brought it home to me.)

The open window in front of me, I didn ’t hesitate. After a mental measurement of the space and my own thin frame, I disengaged my backpack, swung it in, and slid through. It was a drop to the floor, but not too bad—a lot like jumping out of a tree, only the landing a bit harder.

The first thing I noticed was how much cooler it was. I hadn ’ t experienced a great many basements in my life, but after what I ’ d just been through with the extreme heat and all, I was convinced everyone should have one. I wandered around, inhaling the intoxicating aroma of old books. A closed door caught my eye; I tried the knob—open. A torrent of cold air struck me as I entered. Six pristine Monitors greeted me. I closed the door gently and turned on the lights. For the briefest moment I thought I heard voices and quickly flicked the lights off, straining to listen. Hearing nothing, I switched them back on and sat down in front of the Monitor nearest the door.