Candor (19 page)

“I have to go.” I fish my foot out of the glop and stagger down the aisle. I have to get away, fast. But everything moves too slowly. I feel like I fell asleep in the meat freezer and woke up in another world. I’m numb, shocked, my brain too sluggish to keep up with what’s happening.

My feet won’t work right. I stumble into the display at the end of the aisle. Boxes are falling, yellow cereal boxes, blocking my escape.

I walk right over them. My feet smash cardboard, crunching whatever healthy grain yuck is inside. I slip on one box and almost hit the ground. But I’m up and moving faster now. Almost away from her. Away from the place where I learned what I’d lost.

“See you at school, then!” she calls after me.

I make the mistake of looking back. As if the picture would be different now.

It’s not.

She bends her arm at the elbow and sticks her hand up, like a beauty queen. Then she wiggles her fingers good-bye.

I don’t wave back.

A stock boy is here now. He’s stacking the fallen boxes. In a few minutes nobody will know what I did.

Everything will be perfect again.

Except for my life.

AS SOON AS I’m outside, Dad’s car pulls up. One tinted window slides down. “The manager called,” he says.

I thought I hated him before, but now I know what hate is. I want to get even for what he did. He took away my girl and made her forget everything important. Now all that’s left is another useless Candor clone.

But I still have to survive. Alone. So I open the door to get in.

“Wait.” Dad holds up a towel. “Is there blood?”

I nod.

He spreads the towel on the plush floor mat. “Okay. Now you can get in.”

Nice to know the car comes first. I guess it cost a lot more than me.

Tears leak out of my eyes and slide down my neck. They puddle where the seat belt crosses over my shirt.

“Does it hurt that much?” Dad shoots me a worried look.

“More than you’d think,” I tell him.

If he’d known how much I love her, would he have still done it? Should I have begged? Tried harder to save her? I’m his son. Maybe that would have mattered.

Or maybe it would have made things worse.

“We’re going to the hospital,” he says.

Sick people shouldn’t have to leave Candor. That’s what all the marketing literature says. And the Messages make sure everyone agrees.

“Let me go home.” I sound whiney, like a kid.

“You will go. And you will get better,” he says. Gives me a stare that warns me not to argue. “Banks men are strong.”

“It’s just a cut.”

“Maybe it’s more.” Now he stares straight ahead. Fear pushes away the pain. Where are we really going? What will happen when we get there?

We pull into the ambulance parking, right at the entrance of the hospital. Not the Listening Room. I’ve never been so happy to see it. Maybe I’m safe.

Dad grabs a wheelchair and points. I get in and he takes me inside.

The waiting room has a vaulted ceiling, with big windows that overlook a lake. The furniture has thick cushions with a palm tree pattern. There aren’t any TVs, just soft “healing music” that plays 24/7, everywhere: patient rooms, treatment rooms, even operating rooms.

We go to a desk. It feels like we’re opening a bank account, not showing up sick.

I’ve never been here, unless you count the grand openings for different wings. Candor kids don’t break a lot of bones.

“No big deal,” I tell the nurse at the desk. “I just need a Band-Aid.”

“Fill these out.” She slaps a fat packet in front of Dad. “Welcome, Mr. Banks. It’s an honor to have you here.”

Even town founders have to fill out paperwork. Dad sighs and scribbles his signature on the first page of the packet. Flips. Writes some more. Flips.

It’s a lot of writing for a cut foot. I lean close and try to read it.

The glass doors hiss open behind us. The nurse glances over. Her eyes get big.

It’s a couple, half-carrying a guy into the ER. He’s taller than both of them. His head hangs low, bouncing, swinging, like it’s connected by a single elastic thread.

“Ouchies! Ouchies!” he yells in a high voice.

Dad looks, too. But when he sees who it is, he turns half away. Like he doesn’t want to be seen. “He shouldn’t be here,” he mutters.

The kid is fat. Familiar. It has to be Sherman, out from the Listening Room, too.

I can’t see his face; his chin is tucked against his chest. A long string of drool slides from his mouth and dangles above the polished tile floor.

“What’s wrong with him?” I ask.

“He’s fine. Focus on your foot,” Dad snaps.

Sure. He looks great. This wouldn’t have anything to do with having his brain steam-cleaned for four days.

It’s my fault
. It ripples through my mind like a Message. But it’s my voice. Something my brain cooked up all on its own.

No. It’s not my fault. It’s my father. He’s the one who invented the Messages. The Listening Room. He’s the one who locked Sherman and Nia in there.

Dad leans over the desk and whispers something to the nurse.

She picks up her phone and pushes a red button. “Pizza delivery for Dr. Stevens,” she says. “Overbaked.”

They have codes for this. Like it happens all the time.

“Do you see them?” Sherman lifts his face now. “They’re all over! Biting! Biting!”

The other people in the waiting room stop staring at him and look at the ground. “Where? Where are they?” a little girl yells.

Dad makes a frantic gesture. Our nurse rushes away and pushes through double doors. Running away from Dad or running to get help. I don’t know which.

The woman with Sherman strokes his cheek with her free hand. Rings sparkle from every finger except her thumb. “There’s nothing there, baby.” I recognize her now, from the brick ceremony. Sherman’s mother.

Dad’s half-turned away now, watching Sherman. But keeping still. Like he doesn’t want to be seen.

I know how he feels.

“Watch out!” Sherman picks up one foot, then another, like a bear doing an Irish dance.

The man helping Sherman looks up—his father, I bet. He’s clearly spotted us; his eyes are stuck on Dad. “You!” he shouts. “You did this.”

Dad finds the energy to get over to them. Real fast. “Drugs kill,” Dad says loudly.

Sherman stops dancing. He’s pointing at the ceiling now. Following an invisible something with his finger.

Everyone is staring at Sherman again. And Dad. I know they want him to fix this. He’s everybody’s daddy in Candor. He makes everything all better.

“This isn’t drugs,” the man spits. He’s almost as tall as Sherman, with the same dirty blond hair and thick lips. But lots more wrinkles.

Sherman’s mother chimes in. “My baby never did drugs!”

“Look!” Sherman cries, still looking up. “A dead bird!”

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” Dad murmurs. “Sit down and wait for the doctors.”

“You said this would
help
him,” Sherman’s father says. “And now look at him. I knew we never should have consented to this.”

Now Dad lowers his voice and I can’t hear him anymore. People look away, sensing this is None of Their Business.

Except for me. I get up and hobble closer. My foot hurts. I picture a trail of blood behind me on the floor, like a slug leaving its trail on the sidewalk. But when I check, there’s nothing there.

They don’t notice me standing behind Dad. “I didn’t approve his release,” he says. “He wasn’t ready.”

“We pulled him out. My wife had a bad feeling, and she was right. My boy’s brain is destroyed.” Sherman’s Dad is getting louder and louder.

“Exercise some discretion.” Dad’s voice is soft. But clearly in charge.

I’ve read all of Dad’s secret files about the Listening Room. Seen bulleted lists of aftereffects. Pictures. Charts. But I never saw it in person before. It’s revolting. Embarrassing. Like I’m watching Sherman dance naked and drunk.

“What’s going on?” A short, thin man in blue scrubs steps between Dad and Sherman. He pulls down Sherman’s chin so he can look in his eyes.

Sherman’s mother points at Dad. “He did it.”

The doctor dares to let out a sigh. “Our second one this week.”

Dad’s lips press together. Then he gives the doctor a tight smile. “I know you’ll do your best, Dr. Reeb.”

The nurse brings a wheelchair. “Bring him back to the usual room,” the doctor tells her.

I step back, over, keep an eye on the nurse. The last thing I want is a surprise ending. Grab Oscar! Bring him back!

The nurse shoves Sherman into the seat with one hand and straps him in. He yells, “Dead birdie! Dead birdie!”

But now the doctor looks at me. “A third? A real bumper crop.”

He pulls a light from his pocket and grabs my chin. I try to jerk away, but the light is in my eyes. Dots everywhere.

“It’s just my foot,” I say. “No need for you. Or, um, that light.”

“How refreshing.” The doctor lets go of my face. “He’s relatively intact. Sit over there. We’ll bring you in. Eventually.”

The music in the ceiling switches to a new song. Something with soft flutes, and a violin. It’s pretty. I wonder what’s underneath.

Will the Messages tell me to forget what happened today?

Or will we just pretend it never happened?

I FIND NIA at lunch. She’s sitting at the table of silent studiers, staring at her earth-science book like she used to look at art. Her jaw moves slowly, working on the huge pile of carrots in front of her.

I want her back.

Not the shiny, empty Nia. I want the mouthy, beautiful, sweet-and-sour girl who kissed me. The one who’d still hate me, if she could remember anything besides SAT words and good manners.

Before I get closer, I slide my hand in my pocket. Wrap my fingers around the folded piece of paper I put in there last night, at the shed. A reminder of how things used to be.

My plan. The first part of it, at least.

“Lot of vegetables at this table.” I slide into the seat across from her. A girl a few seats down clears her throat and stares at me. I ignore her.

Nia looks up, eyes big. Doesn’t get the joke. “Vegetables make you strong. Good food makes good brains.” I’ll bet if I followed her around for the rest of the day, I could hear half the Messages my dad ever wrote.

“I think I’ve heard that one before,” I say.

“Would you like some?” She pushes the tray toward me.

“Too hard to stomach.”

Her eyes narrow, just for a second. “Why are you here?”

It makes me wonder. Does she remember our fight? Any part of
us?

It’s not a question I planned for. I improvise. “You seemed like you wanted to be friends, at the grocery store.”

“Your foot!” She leans over to look but bonks her head on the table. “Ow. Ow.”

“Sit up.” I take her wrist gently, and pull. There’s a waft of baby-powder smell. No lilacs.

She jerks it back. “Respectful space in every place.” But then her face looks sorry. Or confused, maybe.

I could just be imagining what I want to see.

“Just trying to help,” I say.

“That was rude. I was rude, I mean. You barely know me.”

“It’s okay.” This morning, I gave myself a talk. She doesn’t remember us. Not yet. Don’t be surprised. Don’t be hurt.

But it still burns to hear her say she barely knows me. “We could be friends,” I say. Sounding a little too pathetic. I shut up and touch the paper in my pocket.

“Your other friends would miss you.” Nia’s eyes slide to another table. My old table, where all the superstars sit. Not my friends. Followers. Acolytes. The best listeners.

Including Mandi, today. Sherman is sitting next to her. He’s shoveling food into his mouth, in slow motion. Mandi puts her fingertips on his chin and pushes up so his mouth closes.

“One should strive to be friends with everyone.” I turn away and focus on Nia.

She’s got the look down: zero makeup, unless you count the pale pink lips. Loose cardigan, grandma pants.

But something’s wrong with her face. Her right cheek and eye are twitching. Cheek twitches. Then eye. Then cheek.

Nia tilts her head to the side and shakes it, like there’s water in her ear.

“Are you feeling okay?” I ask.