Candor (24 page)

Her father answers. Tense smile. But he shakes my hand like we’re two old farts meeting on the golf course. “Oscar Banks,” he says. “Nia’s out back, skimming the pool.”

He leaves me alone to walk through the house to the back doors. It’s that easy. All this time I was watching her, waiting for an opportunity. I could have just knocked on her door.

But she still might kick me out.

Nia’s dad is washing dishes in the kitchen.
Go slow
, I remind myself.
Act like you don’t care
. I force myself to look around. They bought a Rockdale model. One of Dad’s most popular houses. He designed it for our old family: four beds, three baths, a study for him, and a sunroom for Mom’s art.

Their furniture looks old—not antique, just worn out. Nia told me once that they only bought new stuff for the front porch, because that’s where people would see it.

I get to the sliding doors and stop to look out.

Nia is skimming the pool and dumping out bugs in the bushes. Her head is covered in an old-lady flowered hat.

It’s not a huge pool like ours. But it’s deep, with no shallow end, like it was made just for jumping in.

I open the doors. Shut them. We’re alone together.

I didn’t plan any of this. There was no time to decide what to say. Now I don’t know where to start. I need her. I want her. I’m sick of waiting.

But all those things will scare her.

“How are you?” I ask.

“Oscar! Why are you—what—I’m, um, wonderful,” she says. Her voice is girly and high-pitched.

“Mandi is sick,” I say. It’s not why I’m here. But it pops out. I have to tell someone. “She tried to run away and now she’s in the hospital.”

Now Nia takes off her sunglasses. She furrows her brow. “That’s so sad. Why would anyone want to leave Candor?”

“Are you pretending?”

Her eyes look so blank. She shakes her head.

I should have planned before I came over. Figured out the right words and brought more things to help her remember. I don’t have anything to bring back the real Nia.

Except for me.

Nobody’s watching. I look up at the windows that overlook the pool. The white blinds are drawn against the sun. Check again through the glass doors. Nobody.

I’m so sick of being careful.

So I step close to her and take her face between both my hands.

She freezes, her eyes big. But she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

I kiss her. Soft, slow, like our first kiss. For a second I feel her muscles give in. Everything relaxes. But she doesn’t respond. Just sits, passive. Letting me do it.

It doesn’t feel right. I’m not kissing my girl. She’s a rubbery nothing.

Nia rips her lips away, turning her head to the side. “Stop that,” she says, her voice shaking.

“You have to remember.” I pull her head close with one hand, gentle, careful. And I kiss her again.

This time she takes a step back. “Respectful space in every place!”

She’s really gone. All those tricks—the art, the chocolate, the lilacs—didn’t really work. I only imagined something was left inside.

“Why don’t you want me?” I ask. My face is wet. I’m crying, without even knowing. As soon as I notice, a sob rips through my gut. I grip my stomach.

“Are you sick?” She reaches out a hand, then pulls back. Touches her lips with the tips of her fingers.

“I love you,” I tell her. “I have to save you.”

“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.