Candor

  “But there’s nothing wrong with me.” Now she’s standing close, so close. She puts a light hand on my back. I feel the outline of each finger. “You’re in pain. Do you need to sit down?”

  Her voice is so sincere, so worried. It fools me for a second. She still cares. She still loves me. There’s hope.

  I straighten up and then our lips are together again.

  She stops me with a hard shove. I’m staggering, spinning, trying to get my balance. The pool is coming but my legs can’t save me. My body slaps into the water like I’ve been shot.

  Nia stands over me, her arms crossed over her chest. Just stares. And blinks.

  Water. I hate being in water. Does she remember? I lift a soggy arm, try to touch the side. But I can’t.

  I should ask for help. Demand the Styrofoam ring hanging behind her. But I feel heavy. Like trying to save myself would be wasted effort.

  Besides, I’m worried about something else.

  I’m floating on my back. Staring at her.

  “Please don’t tell,” I say. As if I’m some normal Candor kid who cares what people think.

  A thought whispers through my brain, like a Message. Maybe you’re just like the rest of them. Maybe you’re not so special.

  Her mouth opens. Closes. I think of the fish my father caught, the day he told me to be her friend. But it was me who was hooked.

  Then she says something. “All I want is to be good.”

  “You used to want things for yourself,” I tell her. Like me.

  “Don’t touch me again.”

  All the Candor-installed remorse makes my mouth move. “I won’t. I promise.”

  She just leaves. Walks inside the house and leaves me floating in the pool, arms wide like I’m making snow angels. Staring up at the sky.

  The water tugs on my clothes. If I don’t fight it, I’ll sink. Pulled down to the bottom. It would be easy. Easier than making the few short strokes and big heave to get out of the water.

  I’ve been fighting for eleven years. Maybe it’s time to stop.

  My clothes are getting heavier. Tugging against the body inside. I shut my eyes and let it happen. My legs go down first, with my sneakers pointing to the bottom. I’m upright, my chin touching the water. Then the tug is faster. I’m going under.

  When the water reaches my nostrils, I know what I’ll do.

  I won’t fight anymore.

  But that doesn’t mean I’m quitting.

  I kick my legs and jerk my head up. Suck in air. New ideas flood my brain, like they’ve been waiting all my life.

  No more helping people for money. No more hiding behind Mr. Perfect. I tried it. And I screwed up the one person who’s loved me since my mother left.

  The only way to fix things is to change everything.

  I make the few heaving strokes to the side and pull myself out. Walk straight through their house, dripping water everywhere. Nobody is there. It’s empty, but with light music playing, like a showroom of cheap furniture.

  I don’t call for Nia.

  That’s not how it’s going to work now.

  I just let myself out.

  I CELEBRATE MY decision with the snooze button.

  The alarm goes off at five, like always. Dark like all the others. Coffee waiting to be made. School after that.

  I squint at the clock and look for the button. I’ve never used it before. I’ll have a new kind of morning soon. I should practice.

  I press the button.

  Then it’s six. Getting light out. Six. Six! Less than an hour before school. It’s too late. I pushed things too far. Dad will be wondering why I’m not up. Hungry decaf Dad. I don’t want to deal with that.

  I throw on a polo. White socks. Khakis. I almost forget the postcard I wrote out last night. It’s tucked in page 436 of my calc book. I pull it out and jam it into my back pocket.

  It’s our ticket out of town.

  The smell of coffee meets me halfway down the steps. Morning music is already playing in the ceiling speakers.

  I’m caught.

  But he just smiles when he sees me. “About time.”

  The newspaper has that folded puffy look, like it’s been read and put back together. His coffee cup has just a splash of brown in the bottom.

  My hand slides to my back pocket before I can stop it. The card is still there, tucked low and safe. He can’t see it.

  “Good morning,” I say. “You want more coffee?”

  “Sit.” He hooks the chair next to him with his foot and pulls it close. “We have some things to review.”

  Dad pushes aside the paper. There’s a small device in front of him. It’s about the size of a box of frozen peas. He slides it close, cradling it in both hands.

  Sleeping in was stupid. Why was I in such a hurry to see how it would feel, being free? Now everything is different. And that’s the opposite of what I need. For the next week, things have to stay normal. Nobody can suspect.

  “You want toast? Orange juice?” I ask. Like I’m his waiter, not his kid. Like there’s not some electronic gadget in front of him that’s making me shake.

  He pats the chair next to him and raises an eyebrow.

  I sit.

  He flips the top of the gadget open to reveal a video screen. I recognize it now. Some of the kids bring this device when they come here. You can play games. Check e-mail.

  But nobody e-mails here, and the Messages take care of wanting to play games.

  “Wow. What’s that?” I do my best to sound awed. Curious.

  He doesn’t answer. Just thumbs a green button. Video starts playing.

  It’s me. Me, in my bathroom. Brushing my teeth. I’m shifting my weight from one foot to the other. Squinting at myself in the mirror. A little bit of drool escapes from my mouth.

  It looks so normal. Except for the whole part about being taped.

  “Remember, son. Thirty seconds each side, top and bottom,” Dad says. “I see you doing twenty, tops.”

  “You taped me.” I’m too shocked to try and figure out what I’m supposed to say.

  “New security package. Got to test the products before selling.”

  My neck itches like someone’s watching me. I look up at the ceiling, expecting to see a huge camera trained on my face. Tracking me everywhere. But there’re just the usual speakers and the snake of designer lights.

  Where’d he hide them?

  Dad runs his finger over the screen and the video fast-forwards. I watch tiny Oscar finish getting ready for bed. Blue shorts with the stripes down the side. Gray Cubs T-shirt. I wore that last night.

  Did he install the cameras yesterday?

  Or were they always there?

  Logic filters through my shock. Don’t argue. He’s acting like this is acceptable. Just your typical video-stalking of your teen. Not like he saw anything too shocking.

  Now on-screen Oscar is sitting at his desk, doing homework. Dad fast-forwards and the pages of my history book fly by. My hand takes notes at a frantic pace.

  My heart beats fast. Did he catch me writing out the postcard?

  “Where is it?” he mutters. More fast-forwarding. “There.”

  The video slows to normal. I’m staring into space. Tapping a pencil eraser on my top teeth.

  “I’m very disappointed,” he says.

  It hurts, and it irritates me, too. “I was thinking.”

  “I expect better than that.” He snaps the screen shut and dips his chin to give me a stern stare over his nose. “Focus. Work. There’s not a spot on your transcript for hours spent daydreaming.”

  “Sorry,” I say. My eyes won’t stop flicking to the video player. Is he done? Did he catch me, but he’s not going to say anything?

  When will I know for sure?

  “We paid a lot of money for your dental work,” he says.

  “Thirty seconds each side,” I say.

  Dad checks his watch. “Ten minutes to school. Better hustle.”

  And I have to run my
errand before I get to school. I wrap my rye toast in a paper towel and hurry to the NEV. At least he’s not driving me to school. Not yet. Or maybe … maybe there’s a video camera in here, too.

  As soon as I’m away from the house, I pull over. No pinholes in the sun visor or the roof. I slide my fingers over the inside of the roof. No lumps, no wires—at least that I can feel. Maybe I’m safe.

  Safe enough to take a risk. I have to do this—to save Nia and me. Before he figures things out.

  Besides, once they fix Mandi, she might make more sense. If she can get past the psychotic biting thing. Then she might try to hurt me in other ways. Like telling.

  I pull away from the curb and drive as fast as I dare. The parking lot behind the post office is empty. If I hurry, nobody will see me.

  I slide the card out of my back pocket.

  It’s the last postcard I’ll send to Frank. There’s a photo of a dolphin on front, like always. A speech bubble pokes out of its open mouth. Making a splash in Florida, it reads.

  I double-check the message I wrote.

  PU 02:15 Site 2 10/18

  Pickup at 2:15 A.M. at Site 2, on October 18.

  We’re leaving, Nia and me. It gives me one week to get everything ready.

  Including Nia.

  I pull open the metal door to the mailbox and set the postcard inside. Then I let the door slam shut.

  Just to be sure, I open the door and peek.

  The postcard is gone.

  My plan is officially under way.

  GETTING NIA TO leave with me will be the hardest part. I rushed in. It was stupid. Now she thinks I’m a rude jerk. Not that she’s wrong. It’s just she used to like that jerk.

  I’ll have to use the Messages on her, one last time. Just to get her to understand what she has to do.

  But I’ll need help. Listening to my new CD will have to be someone else’s idea. Someone trustworthy.

  Someone I can control.

  Mandi’s not an option. She’ll be away for a while. And dangerous when she comes back.

  That leaves Sherman. I fed him a few Messages with his last batch. He should want to help.

  I position myself at the start of the lunch line, holding two trays. A few minutes later, Sherman shows up. He’s counting change in his hand like a kid who broke open his piggy bank.

  “I’m hungry,” he moans.

  For once I’m happy to see him. “Lunch is my treat,” I tell him. “Get whatever you want.”

  “Healthy bodies make strong minds.” He sighs and runs a chubby finger over the change in his palm.

  “Then I’ll get you a double order of applesauce.”

  “No thanks. I have enough money for what I’m supposed to eat. My mother counted it out this morning.” Sherman takes the tray and trudges into line.

  Why am I bothering? I don’t have to bribe him. I own him.

  “I could use some help,” I tell him.

  A smile breaks over his face. “I am Oscar’s helper.”

  “But it has to be a secret.”

  His face twitches. “Secrets are bad. I’m not supposed to talk about secrets anymore. Never keep secrets from your family. Secrets are—”

  “I got it.” Looks like Dad delivered nice new booster Messages to the Golub home after Mandi’s escape attempt. And Sherman did a thorough job listening. Will it block my own Messages? Or twist them the wrong way?

  It actually might make me safer. Now I don’t have to worry about Sherman stealing the CD for himself.

  Of course, he still might squeal.

  Maybe I have to offer him something else to make him do what I want. But what?

  “Want to sit with me?” Sherman’s smile is still pathetic. He’s not the full Candor model yet, confident in his specialness.

  “For a little bit, maybe—”

  “Oh, good. Mandi’s out sick, and everybody else keeps asking me to sit with them, but”—Sherman plops down at a table for two—“I’d rather hang out with you.”

  Now I know what I can give him.

  Me.

  It won’t be easy. But it’s just seven days. And it’s for Nia.

  “Maybe we could sit together at study hall, too,” I say.

  He stops chewing and stares at me with happy puppy eyes. “Like best friends?”

  “Best friends.” For the next seven days, at least.

  “Me and Oscar Banks best friends. Wow.” Sherman shakes his head.

  “That’s right. And you know what best friends do?” I ask.

  Sherman’s eyes slide to his food. Then he slowly looks up at me. “Share food?” he whispers. “I mean … I am worthy.”

  That Message was a dud. It made Mandi run and Sherman get fatter.

  “You’re right. Friends do share food.” I slide over my cardboard tub of carrots.

  His fingers hover over them. “They’re good for you,” I tell him.

  He shoves two in his mouth. Chomps down. Orange flecks slide out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Friends help each other with things, too,” I say. “I am Oscar’s helper,” he repeats.

  I slide the envelope out of my notebook. “Can you give this to someone for me?”

  This is my biggest risk. Another CD. In Sherman’s hands. He could steal it. Or listen to it—which would demolish my whole plan.

  But I can’t think of a better way to do this.

  Sherman nods, still chewing. At least the Messages save me from seeing him talk with his mouth full.

  “You can’t tell her that it’s from me. And you have to slip it to her in school. No home delivery.”

  He moans. “That’s a secret.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not a secret. It’s a surprise. Just make sure she listens.”

  “I like surprises.” Sherman takes the envelope and peeks inside. “Who’s it for?”

  “Nia Silva.”

  He grins and wiggles his eyebrows. “Are they love songs? Can I make a copy for Mandi?”

  “Bad idea.” I make a grab, but he’s fast—it’s in his backpack already. “No sharing. It’s just for Nia.”

  “Fine.”

  “Promise me,” I order.

  He rolls his eyes. “I promise. She’ll get it today.”

  Things have flipped. Used to be Sherman needed me. Now I’m the one begging. If he screws up, my whole plan is wrecked.

  Our escape depends on Sherman. The guy who paid me to get out and got stuck staying instead.

  “You sure I can’t buy you something else? An apple or … whatever?” I ask.

  “Want to go to the movies with me? It’s a new cartoon.” His hand slides into his backpack, like he’s touching the envelope. Maybe he’s thinking of how I owe him.

  “Sure,” I say. “That’s what best buds do, right?”

  “We can go to the matinee after school.”

  “I can’t wait.” My last movie in Candor.

  Sherman stands up and gives me a knowing smile. “I’d better go do my special delivery.”

  “Bye.” I watch him walk out of the cafeteria. To find Nia? Or to do something I don’t want him to do?

  Trusting him is a bad idea. I know it. It’s always safest to trust yourself.

  But I can’t do this alone.

  And I don’t have any better options.

  SAVING NIA MEANS breaking the first promise I ever made.

  After Mom left and Dad smashed all her art, he took me to the new ice-cream parlor.

  Ice cream was for celebrations, not sad things. But I wasn’t turning it down. I remember standing in front of the case at Dairymen’s. Forty flavors were lined up in a double row.

  “I want pistachio chip,” I told the tall woman behind the counter. It wasn’t what I was supposed to order. The full-fat, full-of-sugar flavors at Dairymen’s are for the tourists. The Candor people are supposed to slide to the right and pick from the healthy flavors at the end of the case.

  Her eyes flicked to Dad. I looked, too. He frowned, but then he gave
her a tiny nod. “Give me the coffee frozen yogurt,” he said.

  We took our cones outside. It was hot. My legs stuck to the wicker chair, and I peeled them up, slow, my skin glued to the grid of the seat.

  My pistachio chip didn’t taste like much. But it was cold and I wanted to pretend everything was okay. Good, even. So I ate it. I bit off pieces. Licking it would take too long.

  “Everyone leaves,” Dad told me then. It was the first time he ever said it.

  “I won’t,” I told him.

  No reply. He stared across the street at the pond he’d named after my mother. Lake Lulu. His nickname for her.

  I took a big crunchy bite of the cone. The sharp edges scraped the inside of my lip.

  Dad held his cone high and near his face. It looked like he was about to lick it. But he didn’t. Just let it melt. It ran over his fingers and dropped to the ground.

  “I promise I’ll never leave,” I said.

  He didn’t say anything. But I’d promised out loud.

  He warned me a lot after that: everyone leaves. I always made the same promise that I’d stay. At first I said it out loud. Sometimes he’d smile and say something vague, like, “That’s nice.” But mostly he didn’t reply.

  After a while I made the promise in my head instead.

  I wanted to show him he was wrong, maybe. That I could be trusted—I was different from Winston, from Mom.

  But now I’m going to prove he was right. Everyone leaves. Even me.

  Maybe I’m supposed to feel sad, or guilty. But I don’t. Nia changed me, and then he changed Nia. I’m not the boy who made those promises.

  I don’t owe him anything.

  Still, I need to say good-bye. He’s still my father. No matter how much I hate what he’d built Candor—and himself—into.

  But he can’t know it’s good-bye until after I’m gone.

  So I ask him out for ice cream one more time, after dinner.

  “Why?” he asks.

  “Because I want to.”

  Simple truth. It surprises him. He shifts his jaw from side to side. Then he picks up his NEV keys. “Fine.”

  This time I order the fat-free sugar-free cup of good-boy blah. But I get strawberries on mine. Sugary limp strawberries with red juice that pools in the bottom of the clear plastic cup.