Candor (18 page)

WE GO TO school like it’s any other day.

There was no choice. It was almost seven. The Messages make sure every good girl and boy is headed for first period.

And as King Good Boy, how could I do anything different?

I looked for her everywhere. Study hall. Lunch. Founder’s Park.

But Nia doesn’t come to school. Neither does Sherman. It should be good news that he’s not here. But I can’t be happy. If both are missing, they probably went to the same place.

The Listening Room.

All I can do is wait. I wait through school and dinner and dishes and three hours of staring at the same page of my chem book.

Still the light under my father’s door is on. It’s nearly midnight. Isn’t he going to go to bed? Let him go to bed. I don’t want him leaving. Not tonight.

But then I hear the door alarm squeal. He’s left. And that means Nia might not be safe. There’s only one place he’d go at this hour.

I wait fifteen minutes. Stuff the bed with pillows and wet my toothbrush. Just in case he beats me home.

Then I walk downtown, staying in any shadows I can find.

Dad built the Listening Room after Mom left. Maybe he thought he could have kept her if he’d put her there. Or maybe he was hoping to find her. Bring her back.

Then he could have made her love us enough to stay.

It doesn’t look like a place where people’s every independent thought is erased. You’d expect it to be hidden away, in a warehouse on the edge of town or in a basement. But Candor doesn’t have warehouses (too ugly) or basements (we’re built on top of a swamp; they’d flood), and Dad thinks the Listening Room is just swell. Why hide away one of his most genius inventions?

So it’s on Candor Avenue, the road that cuts through the heart of town. There’s a row of little shops—dog bakery, picture-framing place, a realtor’s office—and then the Listening Room. Frosted glass door. Gold letters on the front:

CANDOR SPA. BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.

Nobody goes there for pedicures.

It’s not hidden, but it’s discreet. Kids don’t know about it. Neither do our visitors. Dad tells people about it only after they’ve moved in and something isn’t right. Can’t quit smoking in a week? Come for a few hours. Drug habit? Maybe an overnight would be best.

I go to the alley behind the shops. His NEV is parked there.

I hurry up the fire stairs to the roof. One easy pull-up and I’m on the clay roof tiles.

The smart thing would be to go home. I’m supposed to be done with her. That’s what I told her. The Room can fix the rest.

But I can’t go home. I thought all I’d ever remember are the horrible things she said. But all I can think about are the good parts. Black toenails under blue water. Laughing at the pathetic clones we were so different from. How she tasted like vanilla. All I remember are the things I miss. And that she loved me.

There are dormer windows tucked in along the slope of the roof. I belly-crawl until I can see the fronts of the windows. There are four. Two are lit up.

Just enough for Sherman and Nia.

I ease over to the first one. It’s not hard. The roof is nearly flat, with ridged clay tiles that give me something to hold on to.

I peer inside.

It looks like a five-star hotel room. Big bed with a million fluffy pillows. An enormous chair with a blanket draped over one arm. But the walls don’t have any pictures on them, and there isn’t a TV. Everything is white.

You can’t see the speakers. There are thirty of them. Behind the walls. In the ceiling. Under the rug. It’s impossible to touch them. Or to stop the music that’s playing.

Someone is lying on the bed facedown. T-shirt stretched tight over back blubber. Khakis slipping down his butt. Greasy hair that’s probably leaving a mark on that snow-white pillow.

Beautiful. It’s Sherman.

He has his hands over his ears. His body is still. I wonder if he’s trying to fight it.

This is exactly what I needed to happen. And it’s what he deserves. Sherman will be erased. Molded into a nice Candor boy. There won’t be any room in his brain to remember me. And he definitely won’t feel like making any kind of mischief.

I can’t feel happy, even though this is what I wanted. More than that: it’s what I made happen. But it means that maybe Mandi got what she wanted, too.

Until I check the other window, the only thing I’ll feel is terror. Please let it be a housewife who can’t stop eating. Or a chain-smoker workaholic asshole. Somebody, anybody, except Nia.

I see headlights coming down the street. Somebody’s out late.

I flatten my body against the roof and hold on to the tile tight.

Then I hear the hum. It’s the mosquito truck. A white cloud follows behind it: harmless orange citrus spray, Dad tells people. The finest in pest control.

He doesn’t mention the Messages that play from speakers hidden in the roof. Whenever everybody needs to forget something, Dad sends out the truck. It drives all night long. The brain is most receptive at night.

I brought my iPod, just in case. I pull the earphones out of my front pocket and jam them in my ears. Hit play.

These are my emergency Messages. They keep me strong when the truck is out. Or when I feel myself slipping.

I close my eyes as it goes by.

“The Messages don’t own me,” I mutter. “I control my own thoughts.”

Nothing floods my brain. But I wonder what it was. Something about forgetting the graffiti, I bet. Maybe even something about Sherman.

Or Nia.

The truck is gone. I slither to the other lit window.

Nia. Sitting on the edge of her chair, with her head in her hands. She’s rocking. Rocking, like a crazy monkey in a zoo.

“No.” I slam my fist on the tile. It makes a useless thud. She won’t hear it. She wouldn’t hear me if I shouted at the top of my lungs. The music is loud inside. And there’s never a break.

Still I try. I bang on the window. But she doesn’t look up.

Just keeps rocking.

What would I do, anyway? What if she looked up and saw me here?

A long time ago, I found Dad’s folders about the Listening Room. They filled an entire drawer in his office at home. Blueprints. Papers about extreme brainwashing—“mind control,” they called it. Case studies. And a long list of side effects.

It’s bad enough that he’s erasing her. But what comes after will be worse. Migraines. Amnesia. Tremors. Cravings to eat things that aren’t food. Usually those fade away in a few weeks. But a few people have it worse. Strokes. Psychosis. An uncontrollable urge to hurt yourself.

I study the blueprints every few weeks, to see if I’m missing something. A way out. Just in case. I haven’t found it yet.

“Fight it.” I say it like she can hear me. I spread my hand against the window. Slices of white room glow between each finger.

She’s pacing now. How long will it take before she gives in?

I remember how her lips felt on mine. How she stared at me. And then she drew the real me, right on a flat piece of paper.

And now I’m losing her. It’s all being wiped away. Everything special. Maybe—probably—her memories of us.

I shouldn’t have walked away. I shouldn’t have said I was done.

I should have begged her to understand. Made her listen until she wasn’t mad, mad enough to do something stupid.

Something that would guarantee we’d never be together.

Then I find the right words to say. If I’d told her this, maybe things would be different. It’s too late. But I say it anyway.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I love you.”

She pauses for a second and tugs at her hair. Like she heard me.

I know she didn’t. But I can’t leave, not yet. I’ll stay with her until sunrise. If I brace my feet, I won’t slide. I can rest my cheek on the roof tile and still see her. Pacing. Pulling her hair.

“I’ll fix you,” I tell her. “I promise.”

Even though I don’t know how.

It’s better than good-bye.

DAD SENDS ME grocery shopping on Saturday morning. Like it’s a normal week. Like before. Before I loved Nia. Before he ruined her.

“If they don’t have skim, skip it. And don’t forget: organic.” Dad slaps the grocery list in my hand, along with some cash.

He doesn’t bother telling me to give him the change back. In his mind I’m still perfect. I’m not a kid who sneaks out every night and crawls onto the roof of the Listening Room. Watches his girl get slowly erased.

He doesn’t even notice my bloodshot eyes.

It’s been four nights. Nia isn’t pacing anymore. She’s sitting, mostly. Last night she took an hour to brush her hair before she went to sleep.

Sleep. She didn’t do that the first three nights. Does that mean she’s nearly broken? Nobody stays strong forever in the Listening Room.

Even I would break eventually.

“Why don’t you pick up some frozen yogurt? A special treat,” he says. Dad’s been in a great mood since he sent Nia and Sherman to the Listening Room.

“You’re the best,” I say. It’s easiest to act grateful, even if I hate him. Without sleep it’s hard to fight all the time.

McKennon’s is grocery-store porn. The produce is stacked in glistening pyramids. It always smells like fresh-baked bread, even by the fish counter. The cans and boxes are on shallow wood shelves. Nothing is too high or deep. There’s always jazz music playing.

As usual it’s full of ponytail mommies in yoga pants with shiny-faced babies. One of them gives me an approving smile.

“Cookie!” The kid holds up a carrot with the feathery green still attached to the top.

“Seriously?” I ask.

The woman gives me a wide-eyed
don’t say anything
look and walks away fast. I watch her go. Yoga pants are the tightest pants you see in Candor.

If I’m fast, I can drive the NEV past Nia’s house when I’m done. See if there’s any sign. I’m not sure what to look for. But maybe something will show me how she’s doing since last night. When she’ll come home.

Besides, I like seeing the curtains in her window. I pretend she’s inside, drawing, or chewing on her black nail polish.

Aisle 7, canned fruits. I grab the biggest jar of unsweetened applesauce. Dad’s favorite snack. The jar is so clean, my fingers squeak against it.

Another cart rolls up next to me. At first I don’t pay any attention. But the cart doesn’t keep going. My neck burns like I’m being stared at.

I slide my eyes sideways. There’s a girl my age. She’s standing completely still. Like I’m a wild animal and she doesn’t want to scare me. Her eyes are fastened to my face.

“There’s plenty.” I move forward. “Help yourself.”

“I can’t believe you shop here,” she says. “Oscar Banks shops in the same store as my family. We buy food from the same shelves.”

Great. A groupie. “It’s the only grocery store in Candor,” I tell her.

“I’m so silly. I forget things lately.” She rubs her head and for a second her smile dims, like something hurts.

The girl looks different when she doesn’t have a psycho smile stretched across her face. She’s still all Candor: clothes two sizes too big, white sneakers, ponytail. But now she looks familiar. It makes me feel good, somehow.

“Are you in one of my classes?” I ask. “Math, maybe?”

She shakes her head, and I get a whiff of baby powder. “We’re in the same lunch. I’ve seen you sitting with your pretty girlfriend and all those really smart kids.”

“You mean Nia?” Saying her name to somebody else feels good. Like she still exists.

She squints at me. “What?”

“My girlfriend. Her name is Nia.”

“That’s weird.” Her smile is sickeningly fast and sweet—almost robotic. “My name is Nia.”

My hand opens up and there’s a loud pop. I feel something wet against my foot.

“Your applesauce!” She shoves her cart away and bends low to look at my foot.

I look down at the top of her head. Dark brown hair. Little ears with holes running down their curves. Earrings used to be in there.

“You’re Nia Silva?” I have to force the words over my teeth.

“You
do
know me!” She pops back to her feet. “Wow! I feel famous.”

Her green eyes look so small without the black ring of mascara and eye goop. Like a child’s eyes. They’re all wrong. I can barely look at them.

“I know who you are.” It comes out as a whisper.

But she doesn’t know me. Not who I am to her, at least.

Amnesia is a common side effect. Or maybe all of the Messages they fed her made her want to forget.

They erased us.

“You might have glass in your foot.” She gives me a sweet, worried smile that I’ve never seen on her face before. “Maybe you’d better go to the doctor. Let me take you.”

“No. I don’t need help.” It sounds rude. But I can’t do it. She’s not Nia.

It’s disgusting. They melted my girl down and poured her into their mold. And this perversion is what she cooled into. I can’t be near her. Can’t see her, smell her, hear her voice chirping like a bird.

I tell her the same thing I’ve been whispering every night on the roof. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

“Everybody makes mistakes.” She shrugs. “They’ll clean it up in five minutes.”

We both stare at the floor. There’s red now. My blood, mixing with the pale yellow of the applesauce.