Candor (20 page)

“It’s so cold in here.” She grabs the front edges of her cardigan and pulls them around her.

Then she tosses her head, as if it’s hair hanging loose and wild in her face.

As if part of her remembers how to be herself.

Someone slaps a tray down on the table. It’s chess boy. He’s easier to remember, now, seeing as how he finds me in the hallway every day.

“We’re kind of having a private conversation,” I tell him.

“No, we’re not. It’s fine.” Nia pats the seat next to hers. Then she leans to whisper to me. “One should strive to be friends with everyone.”

He sits down fast. “I heard that. And she’s right.”

“Seriously. Would you mind going somewhere else?” I ask. A thousand times nicer than what I really want to say.

He shakes his head. “Can’t. I told them we’d eat with you today.”

“Who?”

“The chess club.”

“I don’t play chess. Should I go?” Nia wraps her fingers around the edge of her tray.

“No. Don’t. I mean, not without me.”

“You can’t leave,” the boy says. “I promised them. I could lose my presidency.” He’s so upset he’s talking with food in his mouth. I point. He clamps his lips shut.

Have to be nice. Can’t spook Nia. Can’t blow my cover.

“If you disappear now, I’ll come to your next meeting,” I tell him.

He raises one eyebrow. “Next three meetings.”

“Fine. Just—go, okay?”

He retreats to the next table. Close enough to listen.

I feel claustrophobic, like the most popular monkey at the zoo. Everyone’s watching me eat. They’d follow me to the toilet if they could. “Let’s go outside,” I say. To Founder’s Park, that magical place where they all leave me alone.

“I shouldn’t—I was going to study—there’s a math quiz—” Her mouth makes excuses, but she’s standing up anyway. Still holding her tray.

Some part of her wants to be with me. “Ditch the tray,” I tell her. “Right there on the table.” She obeys. But she can’t stop looking back. “Someone else will clean it up. They always do,” I tell her. Wanting her to let it go. Just be a tiny bit bad. Show me more real Nia.

“Oscar Banks is a superior person. I guess if you do it, then it’s okay,” she says. Quiet and confused.

Chess boy will probably take care of it. Maybe have my fork bronzed.

She follows me across the street to the park. We walk over the grass to the big tree. The place where we sat and she drew me.

It’s not as hot today. The sky is bright blue, without any clouds. The only sound is a plane droning high up in the sky. And the squeak of kids’ highlighters as they study.

“Let’s sit,” I say.

Nia frowns at the grass. “I just washed these pants.”

I swallow a wave of disappointment. Pull a folder out of my backpack.
Paleomagnetism
, the label reads. I think I was supposed to study this stuff last night for a test. But I lost track of time at the shed.

When I drop the folder on the grass, she sits.

I nestle my crazy risk-taking butt in the grass. Unlace one of my shoes.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“The grass feels good between your toes. Someone told me that once.”

Blank stare tinged with fear. Fear of the crazy boy she so trustingly followed out to the park.

“Never mind.” I tie the shoe back up.

“Birds bite.” She tilts her head back and scans the sky. “Biting. Biting.”

She’s crazy, just like Sherman. Ruined.

No. I’m going to change that.

“The birds here are safe,” I tell her. “All their teeth have been removed.”

“Really?” Her smile is still so beautiful, if you don’t look closely at her eyes.

“Nothing can hurt you in Candor.” Except my father.

And me. Me, who lied to her. Should have warned her sooner. If I’d been honest, maybe we would have broken up. Maybe she would have made me help her leave.

But she’d still be safe.

She’d still be special.

I was wrong to be afraid of all the other possibilities.

“I have a present for you.” I pull out the folded paper in my pocket and hand it to her. “Open it when you’re alone.”

Her mouth drops open, slack. She cradles the paper in both hands.

“Why?” A sharp word again. I savor it. But I don’t answer.

The warning bell rings. All around us, kids cram their books into backpacks. Five minutes to class. My feet want to go, too.

The great are never late
.

It’s easy to push that one back, with Nia in front of me. She always made it easy to ignore what I’m supposed to do.

Nia hasn’t moved. She’s staring at her cupped hands. “A present from Oscar,” she breathes. “A present for me.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Oscar Banks is a superior person,” she says. “He is a shining example.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear.”

She picks it up in one hand. Starts unfolding with the other.

“For later. Not now,” I warn her.

But she ignores me. Guess if my orders aren’t buried in classical music, she doesn’t feel obliged to listen.

Just one second of looking and she crumples it in a ball. “Art is a disease! Art is filthy!” she says in a low, shocked voice.

Then she throws it into the bushes. And instantly jumps to her feet to go get it. Must not litter.

It’s the drawing she taped to my window—the one I hung in our museum. I hoped it would make her remember. Make her want to fight. But I haven’t seen someone hate art so much since Mom started to change. It only took a few days before she realized what Dad was doing to her. Stealing my brother’s memory, and her heart.

Then she was gone.

“No littering. I hate art. No littering,” Nia mutters.

Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.

“I hoped you’d like it,” I tell her. “Maybe if you keep looking at it, you’ll like it.”

She gives one tiny shake of her head.

I had hoped for more. Something dramatic. But now I see that was stupid. What did I think was going to happen? She’d look at it and be cured? Muss up her hair, cut class, and take me to the woods?

She’s got the crumpled ball in her hand. Tosses it from one hand to the other, like it’s hot. “Why did you do that?”

“I want to be happy. I mean … I want you to be happy.”

Cheek twitch. Eye twitch. Cheek twitch. “You’re bad.” Her voice is shaky. “Bad like birds. Birds with teeth.”

You used to like that
, I want to tell her. You even liked my teeth on your skin, sometimes.

“Don’t get near me,” she says. “I can’t—don’t—want to talk to you again.”

“That’s not very nice.” But it makes me happy, in a sick way. She’s being rude. And that’s nothing like a good Candor girl.

“I don’t think you deserve nice.”

Nia doesn’t say good-bye. Just walks away, slow, but every step firm. She knows where she’s supposed to be.

She slams the paper into the first trash can she passes.

I should start forgetting. I should get back to my normal life. The one where I was in control of everything. Where I was safe.

But I can’t take my eyes off her as she stumbles away. Broken, brainwashed Nia.

I love her. Still, even like this.

I WANT TO make it happen again.

Nia stopped being perfect, for a few seconds. If I could make it happen more—string those seconds closer, make them longer—I feel like I could get my girl back.

And I
will
make that happen.

I go to the shed. Pry open the wall behind the double stainless-steel sink. The bag is nearly full. I don’t sneak even one into my mouth.

They’re all for Nia now.

The walk home is quiet. I stare up at the stars. They’re farther away than the ones on my ceiling. But they’re more beautiful, because they’re where they belong.

Maybe I should have made Nia go, early on. Helped her get where she would shine. But I was selfish. It makes me mad. At me. At my father. At the Messages.

I walk past a squat green speaker, half-hidden in the bushes. It’s not on at night. But I still hate it. I give it a hard kick.

It doesn’t move. But my toes throb. A sliver of pain reminds me of the bandage I’m still wearing on my foot.

I’m nearly home when I hear the squeak of a sneaker behind me. “There’s a curfew.” The voice is familiar, but wrong somehow. Changed.

I shove the bag deeper in my pants pocket and turn around.

He shines a light straight in my eyes. “TAG patrol.”

“Drop it,” I tell Sherman.

But he keeps it steady. I bat at the light. It swings away. There’s a cracking noise when it hits the sidewalk.

“Gosh darn it all!” Sherman drops to his knees to grab the light. But my foot gets to it first.

Plunk
. Into the storm sewer.

“Better run home and get another one,” I say.

Sherman stands and smoothes the front of his sweatshirt. It has three letters across the chest: TAG. “Why’d you do that?” he asks. “I said I was on patrol.”

“Why, exactly? To blind people with flashlights?”

“Teens Against Graffiti keeps your streets beautiful. Anyone can join us.” He says it so smoothly, I wonder if Dad has made a Message to help Mandi’s pet project. “I’m sorry about the light. We should never harm others.”

What a good boy, spouting Messages. He’s doing better than when I saw him in the ER. No shakes. No crazy talk. He’s a fully functioning product of Candor.

His face has changed the most. The squinty weasel look and smirk are missing. They ironed him out into a smooth Candor boy.

Is his brain missing all the wrinkles, too? Does he remember anything?

Sherman mutters something. His arms flap at his sides like he’s a penguin roaming the streets in Candor. I was wrong. He’s still living in crazy town.

“Are you okay?” I ask. The Messages want me to care. But I don’t, not really. Not much.

“Have you seen my secrets?” he asks.

“Uh—no.” Let’s hope they stay gone, too.

“Slippery shiny silver secrets.” Sherman holds both hands up, with his fingers in a round shape. Like a CD. “I only need one. It’s special. I just don’t … remember….”

Even the Listening Room didn’t make me safe. I should have personally shoved the kid in the back of Frank’s truck. Made sure he was gone forever.

“I have to go,” I tell him. Before seeing me shakes something else loose in his brain.

“No! State—” Sherman clears his throat. “State your business. Or I’ll call you in.”

My fists clench like they’ve got their own memories. I came so close to beating him into the squishy Florida sod that night.

It would still feel good.

A walkie-talkie crackles on his waist. He grabs it and meets my eyes for the first time. “Patrol three, POI,” he says into the radio. “Hostile.”

Maybe I should be scared. But it’s Mandi’s little club. How dangerous could they be? Will they petition me to death?

But they could tell on me. No need for Dad to know I was out tonight. So maybe I need to stick around until I come up with a good excuse.

Then I’ll be free.

A girl’s voice answers. “Maintain position. I’m two blocks away.”

Not just any girl. Mandi. All my special friends are out tonight.

“Bringing in the big boss, huh?” I ask.

When Mandi rounds the corner, his head swivels to watch. Her pink sweatshirt has sparkles that catch the streetlights. Either her jogging shoes are brand-new or she spent an hour scrubbing away every mark.

I slide my hand in my pocket. Make sure my secret is still safe. Yes. My fingers slide over the little bumps, feel the pieces move in the bag.

“There’s a curfew,” Mandi says. Her eyes flick over me.

“So why aren’t you home?” I ask her. “Surely there’s some kind of quiz tomorrow.”

“Our community is in jeopardy,” she says. “Besides, I did my homework in study hall.”

“What a relief. Yale almost slipped between your fingers.”

“Yale likes a well-rounded student.” Her smile is smug.

“They big on running fake police patrols these days?”

Sherman fumbles with his sweatshirt pocket. “We’re not the police. We’re TAG.”

“You mentioned that,” I tell him.

He’s still trying to yank something out. A rabbit? A gun? I can’t help laughing.

“For gosh sake,” Mandi snaps. Then she reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gold badge. Dangles it in front of his nose.

Sherman looks surprised. “Always be courteous,” he reminds her.

Mandi rolls her eyes and sucks in a deep breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

He takes it and licks his lips. Lifts his chin so our eyes meet and holds the badge high. But it shakes in his hand. The boy’s scared of me.

“TAG patrol,” he says loudly.

A dog barks in the house behind us. Sherman jumps and the badge flops to the sidewalk.

Mandi picks it up and puts it in her pocket.

“He seems a little off,” I tell Mandi.

“Yeah.” She looks at Sherman. “Ever since he … went away—things have been different.”

“You love him?” The question pops out of my mouth like it’s a Message that’s been waiting for the perfect moment. I didn’t even know it was in me.

Her face softens into a smile. She looks at him like he’s sculpted from gold. “Sherman Golub is my destiny.”