Candor (6 page)

“Cheers.” I tip my cup to the hardworking ladies in my magazine collection and take a seat. There are two Adirondack chairs tucked in a corner by the door. Like gardening is so exhausting, there’s no way you could make it back to the house. There’s a pair of orange rubber shoes sitting at the base of one of the chairs. It feels like they belong to someone.

I take a gulp. Hit the button.

“Nia Silva is …”

Boring? The opposite. I wonder what would happen if she were here, sitting in the chair next to me. No, in my chair. Ready and willing. Straddling me. Leaning close. Flowery silky hair touching my face …

The memory of my father’s warning cracks the fantasy open like a hammer on an egg. Everyone leaves.

He’s right. Either I help her escape or the Messages get her. She’s gone, either way.

Nia Silva is a profit opportunity. Or a risk, if she talks about the graffiti. And she’s a dangerous distraction. How long did I blather about her to Mandi? And I didn’t pay attention in chem today. Almost burned the lab down, watching out the window, wondering if she’d walk out of the woods and come back to school.

I can’t let things slip. My father might notice even small changes. And that would be the end of everything. He’d take me to the Listening Room.

You sit in a padded hotel room for as long as it takes. There are speakers in the walls, the ceilings, the floor. The music never stops. And the Messages are custom-made just for you.

It’s not uncomfortable, unless you count the sensation of being erased. The sheets are Egyptian cotton and the food is catered. I’ve heard Dad tell people it’s like going to a spa. “It’s refreshing. Restorative,” he says. “It empties your mind of all its worries.”

But there are side effects after you leave. Migraines. Intolerance of bright light. And for some, obsessive behavior. Touching a light switch twenty times. Staying up until dawn vacuuming.

The side effects fade over time. For most people.

Thinking about the Listening Room makes it easy. I think of the words again and this time they rush out.

Now I just have to hide my Message in music. I press open another panel and reach for the burlap bag between the wall studs. My laptop, hidden.

It takes just one special computer program, stolen by me. Two minutes later it’s done. I have a CD with my instructions. I slide it into the hidden pocket inside my jacket. Tonight I’ll play it. My brain will listen while I sleep.

I hear a thud. I freeze. Look and listen.

A sprinkler’s hitting the shed every ten seconds as it rotates across the lawn. Frogs hum in the preserve behind the fence. All normal.

Another thud. No. Not normal. And now there’s a scratching noise near the door. The doorknob is wiggling, just a little.

Someone’s breaking in. Or they’ve got a key. I do a quick check: incriminating evidence in the cup, recorder on the chair, stash door wide open.

I slam the stash door shut, but the latch doesn’t work. It pops open again. Another slam. It opens wider this time, showing even more of the goodies inside.

The Adirondack chairs. One of those beasts will keep the stash door shut. They’re next to the door, but I risk it—check the knob, still wiggling—and throw my body against one. It barely moves. No way can I get it to the wall in time.

The doorknob goes still. Then the whole door shudders. Someone’s throwing themselves against it.

I grab the cup. At least I can fix that. With one long swallow, I dispose of its contents. It’s so strong it gives me a coughing fit. I stagger to my stash and lean against the door. Naughtiness concealed. If I stay where I am.

Hopefully whoever it is won’t notice the recorder. Or make me move.

If I do, it’s over.

The door crashes open. “Oscar! Oscar! Are you in here?”

Guess who.

I’m not caught. Just supremely annoyed.

“Shut the door. And stop yelling my name,” I say. The words come out all shaky.

Sherman obeys. “I’m sorry. It’s just—I’m—” He stops, panting.

He’s wearing a huge backpack on his shoulders. Sweat has soaked through his polo shirt in patches: rings under his arms, and a big wet oval over his stomach.

“Taking your homework for a walk?” My hands are shaking. I pick up my cup like there’s still something in it that’s going to help.

“I waited for hours.” He collapses into the chair I tried to move.

“Maybe you should go wait some more,” I say. “For whatever.”

Sherman grabs both arms of the chair. “I was waiting for you,” he bellows.

“Shut up! You want to get us caught?”

“Why didn’t you meet me?” Sherman pulls a wad of paper out of his pocket. Uncrumples it. “I did what you said. Enter the woods at the ninth hole of the golf course. Walk a quarter mile east—”

“Give me that.” I grab the paper. “I
told
you not to write the directions down.”

“But I can’t remember anything.”

“No kidding. What’s today, Sherman?” I ball the paper up and shove it in my pocket. To be destroyed later.

“Today’s Wednesday.” He says it slow, like I’m the idiot.

“Right. Wednesday. Not Saturday.”

“I know.” He frowns. Blink. Blink. Then I see it coming. “You mean … I’m not supposed to leave tonight?”

“It’s not happening tonight, Sherm. You leave
Saturday
. It was always Saturday.”

He’s breathing faster. He clutches at his sweaty polo shirt. “But I’m all packed. And I left a note.”

“What kind of note? For who?”

My rules are very clear about good-byes. It’s too risky—to them, but especially to me.

“It was to my mother.” His lips are trembling. “And I don’t care what you say.”

“You think she loves you?” I laugh. “If she did, you wouldn’t be stuck here.”

“I’ll miss her.”

“Did you say anything about where you’re going or how you’ll get there?”

“I didn’t say anything about you.” His look is too superior, knowing. Like he’s got something on me.

“You’ve really been waiting in the woods for two hours?”

“Maybe three. I wanted to get there in plenty of time.”

“You’re an unbelievable screwup, Sherman.”

He nods. “I know.”

“Why did I agree to take you on?”

“Because I gave you all my money.”

“I can find other rich kids.” Letting Sherman stay would be a liability. He might talk, even though I’ve fed him plenty of Messages telling him not to. But getting him out could be a bigger risk, since he’s screwing up every single step. Maybe I just need to let the Messages take care of him—find a way to get him to the Listening Room. He’ll never remember me after that. I’ve never tried to get a client erased before.

“Just call your guy and I’ll get out of here,” Sherman says. “I won’t bug you anymore.”

“I can’t just call my guy.” I don’t even know Frank’s phone number. “We have a system. There are certain protections. It takes days to get things set up.”

It starts with a postcard. I write the time and date of pickup on the back. Nothing else. I mail it to a PO box fifty miles from here. Then Frank confirms the date. His business brings him to Candor almost every day, so he can leave me a note. We have three different hiding places.

Sherman moans. “What am I going to do? I can’t go back. What if they already read the note?”

“Tell them it was a joke.” But it won’t work. If his parents found the note, they’ve probably already called my dad, and he’s got the search parties out. Dad takes runaways very personally.

Search parties. I grab the lantern and turn it off, leaving the room pitch-black.

“What was that for?” Sherman’s voice sounds even whinier in the dark.

“People might be looking for you.” And I don’t want them to find me.

“But—no! They’ll send me to that place you told me about. Where they play the music until your ears bleed.”

“That’s an unusual side effect.”

There’s a sobbing sound. I relish it. He deserves to be afraid.

“You have to help me, Oscar. I paid you a lot of money.”

If I had the cash, I’d throw it back in his face. I picture the green wad slapping him in the mouth. Nice.

But it’s already squirreled away in one of my offshore accounts. “You didn’t pay me for tonight,” I tell him. “You paid me for Saturday. And I don’t give freebies.”

“Then … then I’ll tell.”

“You won’t tell. You can’t.” My booster music would stop him. I’ve got plenty of safeguards in there:
Never tell anyone about Oscar’s secret. Never tell anyone you know about the Messages
.

But what if? He’s ignored everything else. Maybe those boosters aren’t sinking in.

“I’ll tell them everything,” he says. “I’ll say how you offered to help me escape, and I paid you all that money, and you showed me this shack—”

“Shed.”

“Shed. And then you were mean to me, and then—”

It’s too risky. I need him out, now. With him and Nia around, I’ve got too much to deal with.

“Take some supplies.” I flick on the lantern and walk over to my stash. There’s a box of chocolate protein bars. I give him half. He can live off his fat for the rest of the time.

Then I climb on the top of the potting table and reach into the rafters. There’s a blanket hidden there. Sometimes I take the most interesting girls on a field trip to the golf course. The sixth hole has a nice, soft patch of grass that nobody can see from the road.

Sherman’s already crammed a bar in his mouth by the time my feet hit the floor.

“Better make those last,” I tell him. “You’ve got three days.”

He stops chewing and his mouth drops open. There’s a huge ball of chewed granola in there. “I thought I was leaving,” he mumbles.

“I told you. I can’t get you out. You’ll have to hide until then.”

Sherman clutches the blanket to his chest. Shakes his head.

“If they find you, they’ll send you to the Listening Room.”

“No. No. I don’t want to change. I want to leave.”

I flick off the lantern so it’s dark again. The peanut smell of the bars fills the shed. “You have two choices. Hide or go home.”

“I don’t know where to hide.” His voice is muffled, like he’s got his mouth pressed into the blanket.

“There are places in the woods. An old orange grower’s shack. And some platforms in the trees, from the days when people hunted here.”

“I don’t …
camp
. And who would make my dinner?”

“Maybe you’ll find a private chef hiding under a palm tree,” I tell him.

“I know!” His voice squeaks. “I could stay
here!”

I picture people touring the shed. Finding blubbering, blathering Sherman playing with the silk flowers. “No,” I tell him. “People will see you. We can’t lock the shed for three days.”

“Do you have any more of those bars?”

I hand over the rest. They were getting old anyway.

“See you Saturday.” I go to the door and open it a crack. But he hasn’t moved his fat butt.

“I’ll go in a little bit,” he says. “We could watch a movie or something.”

I shut the door again. But I keep my hand on the knob. “You need to go before somebody finds you here. Besides, you’ll want to find a place to sleep before the boars are out.”

“Boars? Who are they?”

“Giant pissed-off wild pigs. They could lift you off the ground with their tusks.”

“You’re making that up.” But he stands up, a lumbering mass in the dark.

“I’m not making it up. They’ll chase you through half the woods.” It’s true. I know their favorite hangouts by now. And I never go near them after dark.

“Okay. Open the door.” He’s standing right next to me now. He smells sour, metallic. By Saturday he should be nice and ripe. Lucky Frank.

“Don’t screw up,” I tell him. “Saturday, nine o’clock, at the same place. If you’re late, I’m not waiting.”

“I’ll be there.” But he doesn’t sound sure.

I’m not sure, either. Those boars can be nasty. But that would solve my Sherman problem, too.

I stand outside and watch him walk to the garden gate. It creaks a little when he opens it. He looks around nervously before stepping into the street. The gate slams shut behind him. Loud.

It makes me jump. But I don’t hear anything: no hum of an electric car, no shouts of people looking for Sherman. Maybe he’s got a head start. Maybe he’ll make it through the next three days.

Whether he makes it out will be up to him.

And the boars.

THE LIBRARY CLOSES in five minutes. Can’t make Dad suspicious.

I put my goodies back in their hiding spots and lock up.

Walking home, I keep my hand in my coat pocket. My fingers are wrapped around the CD. It’ll fix everything. After one, maybe two nights. No more obsessing over flowery hair and long fingers. Fingers touching my lips, my skin, everything bare.

Dad’s waiting on the porch. Guess Sherman’s parents haven’t found out their darling is missing. Dad would be at his office downtown fixing things—or trying to.

“Get lots of work done?” he asks.

“More than I planned.” I wonder where Sherman will sleep tonight. Will he remember to listen to my Messages?

The woods don’t have speakers. Dad’s Messages don’t reach the squirrels and the snakes. If Sherman goes nighty-night without his headphones, he’ll lose it. Major withdrawal. Nobody’s brain survives a whole night away.