Candor (5 page)

The morning after Mom left, Dad gathered up all her pots and plates and the little zoo of animals she had made for my fifth birthday. Took them outside. And chucked them at the fence, one by one. Mom leaving must have hurt more than ignoring the Messages that he should have heard, telling him to stop.

I didn’t stop him. I was angry, too. This was what she deserved, I thought. She’d come back and see how much she hurt us.

But she didn’t come back.

When he was done, he made me clean up. I saved a piece, yellow with brown spots. I think it was part of a giraffe. I put it in my desk drawer. Sometimes the sharp edges scrape me when I reach for a pencil or my calculator.

They remind me not to trust anyone. It’s like Dad says. Everyone leaves.

So I might as well profit from it.

I launch the usual speech. “I have a proposal,” I say. “Well—you know. Not that kind of proposal. Not going to Vegas or anything. A deal. I want to make a deal with you.”

It’s coming out all wrong. How does she do that? How does she make my mouth open and let out words that don’t make sense? I’ve given this speech a million times. That’s not how it’s supposed to start.

But she doesn’t seem to hear me. She’s running one finger over her sketch pad. The other hand reaches up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. She glances up at me. Looks back at the pad.

“To start, I have to tell you something shocking,” I say. Good. Back on track.

“Shh.” She circles a pencil over the pad. But it doesn’t touch the paper. Just circles. Floats down, almost touches. Flies up. Circles again. It looks like a bird that doesn’t know how to stop flying.

“You might not believe me at first. But I promise it’s true.”

More pencil circling. More ignoring me.

I check my watch. Just twelve minutes before the bell. Sixteen minutes before physics. “Listen to me,” I tell her.

“Dammit!” Now she balls her hand into a fist and slams it on the pad. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

I bet it wasn’t always this hard for her. “You’re forgetting how to do it, aren’t you?” I ask.

“I’m just having a hard time getting started. It happens.”

Sure. It wouldn’t be those Messages that are seeping in, telling her there are more important things to be doing. “It happens to all the arty kids who move to Candor,” I tell her. “Eventually they give up.”

Her eyes dart to meet mine then go back to her empty pad. “That doesn’t really happen, does it?”

“It’s true. In a week, you won’t even care about drawing or painting. Unless …”

“Stop. Just stop talking.” Now her voice is loud and certain again. She jabs her pencil toward me. “And don’t move.”

“But I can help you.” I have to.

“Shut up. Sit still. Or go.” She jerks her head back toward the school.

The breeze shifts. Her hair blows around her face. I smell something sweet. Lilacs. They used to grow outside our kitchen door in Chicago. But it’s too hot for them here. I breathe in deep.

“You get three minutes,” I tell her. “Then I talk, and you listen.”

“I’ve got it now,” she mutters. Her hand swoops over her sketch pad. It’s not a lost bird anymore. Now it’s graceful. Certain. The pencil leaves dark arcs and lines behind. They don’t look like anything yet. But I can tell she has a plan.

She looks up at me. Squints.

“Like what you see?” I wiggle my eyebrows.

“Silence.” But a corner of her mouth twitches up just for a second. Then she’s back to drawing.

Not many people order me around. There’s my dad—and I guess my teachers, if you count assignments as orders. But the kids at school respect me. Vote for me when I run for elections. Sometimes even when I don’t. Last year I won Class President on a write-in.

The church bell bongs noon. Just seven minutes until the bell. I have to tell her. The music I’m playing now won’t be enough—she needs lots more.

“It’s my turn,” I tell her.

“One more minute. Don’t talk.” She picks her pencil off the paper and moves it toward my face. I watch it come closer until I’m cross-eyed.

Then she touches the eraser to the bottom of my lip. Drags it slowly around the edge of my mouth. It feels gritty, but soft. Gentle.

“There,” she whispers. “Now I’ve got the shape.”

She pulls it away fast and starts drawing again. My lips tingle. I want her to do it again.

No. She’s running the show. That has to stop.

“My turn.” I slap my hand over the drawing.

She looks up. “There are better places to put that hand.”

I let myself imagine. One lucky hand, set loose. No boundaries. I shiver. “Where do you want me to start?” I say.

A Candor girl would spew a few Messages at me if I tried that. Probably walk away as fast as she could, once she was done reminding me how good she was. But Nia just pokes my hand off the paper with her pencil eraser and goes back to drawing.

Then I remember: I have to make this fast and convincing. So I start at the end of my usual speech. “They’re brainwashing you,” I say. “Soon there won’t be anything special left.”

She snorts and glances up. “And here I thought you were all robots. Robots can do all kinds of interesting things, you know.”

“It’s not a joke. People are perfect here because of the Messages.”

“You have points on the tips of your ears.” She tilts her head and stares at me. “Like a big, tall elf.”

“You have to listen to me.” I hear my voice getting loud, like it’s some other guy talking. Some guy who can’t control himself. “Or you won’t be drawing anymore. You’ll be just like them.”

“Now that’s scary.” But she’s still smiling as she sketches.

The bell rings. Four minutes. I feel the urge to hurry. “You don’t have long,” I tell her. “Usually it only takes a week, maybe two. Unless you let me help you.”

“The great are never late! We must go inside quickly!” A familiar voice. Familiar spotless white sneakers. Socks with white lace around the ankles. I look up. Yes. It’s Mandi.

“Oscar?” She looks at Nia, then back at me. “You never come to Founder’s Park.”

Mandi is a Founder’s Park regular, especially when there’s a test coming up. And there’s almost always a test coming up.

“It was a nice day out,” I lie. It’s hot, like always. I feel the sweat running down my back, but I feel like I owe her a lie.

Nia shades her eyes and looks up. “Are you his nanny?”

It doesn’t dent Mandi’s smile. “You must be new here. I’m Mandi Able. President of the Welcome Club. Did you like your basket?”

“I hate bananas. They’re so yellow and cheerful.” Nia leans back on her hands, like she’s settling in. Not like she’s got a class in two minutes.

“Well, but there was a lot more than … fruit….” Mandi bites her lip and looks at the school.

“Maybe you’d better get to class, Mandi.” Nia gives me a wink. As if I’m going to stay sitting here with her, which I won’t. I can’t. People would see. And I never, ever, blow my cover.

I stand up.

Mandi holds her hand out to me. “Come on, honey. We have to hurry.”

Honey
. She hardly ever calls me that. It’s sentimental and Mandi’s too busy for that. Why did she have to pull it out today? I feel like a kindergartner whose mother just showed up at the playground with spare underpants.

I don’t take her hand. I reach in my backpack and turn off the music. Then I feel the CDs. I can’t go without giving them to Nia.

“Take these.” I drop them by her feet. She meets my eyes. For a second, it feels like we’re alone again.

“A present? For
me?”
Nia bats her eyes at Mandi. “How sweet. Sweet like honey.”

Mandi balls her fists up, just for a second. When they relax, her back gets even straighter.

Before Mandi moved here, she was the queen of the teen beauty pageant circuit. She wasn’t just pretty, she was … determined. She’d do anything, say anything, to win. None of the adults knew how bad it was until something went wrong. Miss Hidalgo County killed herself and left a note blaming Mandi. It’s embarrassing for a preacher’s daughter to tease a kid to death. Her parents decided she needed a change of attitude.

And now she’s just the queen nerd. She’s forgotten how to be mean, at least most of the time.

Mandi folds her arms. “Oscar didn’t mention he was working on a class project with you, either.”

“He isn’t.” Nia slaps her notebook shut and stands up.

It looks like Mandi wants to say something, but it’s stuck inside her mouth. So she just flicks her bangs back and looks at me. “Ready to go?”

They’re both staring at me. I lean down, slowly, to pick up my backpack. The CDs are on the grass.

I hold them out, breaking my own rule. Never talk to a client about business in public. And definitely not in front of a witness. Especially a curious, slightly unstable one.

“Promise me you’ll listen,” I say.

Because I need to protect her.

Because some of my Messages will make sure she stays this interesting.

Nia takes them.

“See you later,
honey.”
Nia gives me a fake smile, almost as bright as Mandi’s. “Thanks for the gifties.”

She takes off, fast, almost jogging. Not headed for school.

“You’re going the wrong way,” Mandi shouts.

Nia flips us the bird and keeps on going.

“I guess she already knew that,” I say.

The second bell rings. We are officially late.

“We’re late,” she whispers. “We’re in trouble.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll tell Ms. Russo it was my fault.” I start toward school.

But she grabs my elbow to stop me. “This is the part where you say nice things to make me feel better.”

I’m not the best boyfriend, seeing as how Mandi bores me to death. But she’s been useful. I owe her something, I think. “It was nothing,” I say. “We were just talking. The CDs are a thing for my psych class. It’s not like she’s pretty. Or smart, like you.”

She gives me a funny look. “I mean about getting detention.”

“Oh. Right.” So I spend the rest of the walk to class telling her how great detention is. It’s like study hall. It doesn’t go on your permanent record. And it’s really, really quiet so you can concentrate on flash cards and writing brilliant admissions essays.

Not that I would know. I’ve never been there, either.

I only look over my shoulder once, maybe twice. Wondering where Nia went.

Wishing I’d had the guts to go with her.

Wishing I’d been invited.

I CAN’T STOP thinking about Nia. Her hand swooping, drawing. The lilac smell of her hair. How she walked away from school without even looking back.

It’s like she’s become a Message, stuck in my brain. I hate it. But I want it. Just by existing, she’s controlling me.

This has to be fixed.

After dinner, I give Dad the usual lie. “I’m going to the library.”

“Be home by ten,” he says.

It’s that easy to sneak out. Sometimes being brainwashed is useful. Dad is sure that I would never lie to him or do anything naughty.

When I get to the Roxbury, I go in through the backyard. There are still lights on in the house: kitchen, dining nook, and one of the bedrooms upstairs. Nobody’s inside. Dad just likes to make it look that way. The lights are programmed to change every two hours.

But the shed is dark. I guess nobody in Dad’s fantasy world gardens in the dark.

The key is under the ladybug doormat, like always. I only use one electric lantern, and I keep the blinds shut. From the outside you can’t tell someone is here.

The shed feels like a real place, where somebody actually gardens and arranges flowers and hangs them to dry from the rafters.

It’s bigger than anything called a shed deserves to be. There’s room for a tall wood table in the middle, twice the length of our dining room table. There are two sinks: one for mixing fertilizer, or washing your shovels, or whatever gardeners do. The other is supposed to be for arranging flowers. There are pots and a pair of scissors sitting by that one and some fake half-arranged flowers. I keep two sets of earphones in that vase, beneath the wire stems.

Below the counters are bins and buckets of all sizes and colors. Handy for hiding things, like my portable DVD player.

Tonight I pull out a metal bin. The recorder is inside. My thumb rests easily on the button. I know exactly what I’m going to tell myself to do.

Why waste time? I press the button down, but my lips are glued shut. They won’t let the words through.

Nia Silva is boring. Ignore her
. Six short words. Smart ones.

I’ve made plenty of Messages for myself. Why does this one have to be so hard?

My first was about Winston.
Winston was your big brother
. I knew Dad wanted me to forget. But I wouldn’t let him do that to me—or Winston. I still listen to that Message sometimes. Just to be sure.

I try again. “Nia is—” But that’s all I can get out.

Maybe I need something to make me less jittery. I walk to the back wall and tug on a seam in the glossy white paneling.

The panel swings open to reveal my stash. Devil Dogs and Pop-Tarts, stored in plastic containers so the ants can’t get them. Gum—strictly forbidden in Candor. There’s a pile of tasty movies and magazines, and some video games with buxom chicks. Then I run my finger over the bottle collection. Pick my favorite and uncap. Pour liberally.