Masterminds (3 page)

Hah. Malik has made an art form out of strong-arming Hector into doing things for him. When it comes to taking
advantage, NYC would have a hard time coming up with someone as good as Malik.

Malik shifts his gaze over to Hector. “You're perfect for this place. Me? I'm going to see the world.”

“
You can waste your whole life wandering only to find that what you're searching for is right in your own backyard,
” I return. I didn't make that up. That's what it says on the gazebo in Serenity Park. It's kind of the town motto. Tori and I are working on a picture book based on it, called
Your Own Backyard.
My mom is a teacher at the school, and she's going to set it up so we can read it to the lower-grade kids when we're done. If it's any good, naturally.

By this time, Randy looks terrified and I feel guilty. Here we are, talking about how the outside world is unlivable, and that's where he's going. But what can we say? That it's just as good as Serenity? That's another thing outsiders do that we don't. They lie.

Malik notices it too. “Trust me, Randy. You're the lucky one. If the rest of the world is so bad, how come so many people live there? There are, like, seven billion of them, and only 185 of us. Case closed.”

Malik is infuriating. But one of the things we learn in school is that anger is the emotion of a lesser person. So I
just smile. “You know it doesn't work that way.”

“How do you know it doesn't?”

Before I can answer, my mom rings the handbell to call us in for math, which is our first afternoon class except on Tuesdays, when we have science, and Thursdays, when we have Contentment. It's a full schedule when you add in social studies, Meditation, and gym. We're in the middle of the water polo unit now, because Serenity Day is coming up. We always cap off the celebration with the big game. It's my favorite holiday of the year.

I lead the group back into the building. When your mother is the teacher, you have to be just a little better than everybody else. It's a lot of pressure to be the best behaved, the most involved, and to get the highest grades. That's why I make lists of everything I need to do. It helps me stay focused—control is key.

Example: When we reach the classroom, there's always a basket of desserts on the teacher's desk—cookies, cupcakes; today it's donuts. We're supposed to take only one, but it's on the honor system. Mom's still outside, so nobody's watching us.

I'm two pounds off my goal weight, so I don't take any. Tori helps herself to one, like most of the kids. Hector takes a donut, and, when nobody's looking, sneaks another half.

Malik? He inhales about four. He's proud of himself too—standing at the basket, grinning smugly, lips smacking, icing staining his fingers, when Mom comes in for the afternoon. He's practically daring her to call him out.

Malik thinks he's so cool because he breaks rules. But he's not as smart as he thinks he is—especially when it comes to the world outside Serenity. In fact, I know a lot more about it than he does.

It happened a few months ago. Tori and I were in the park working on
Your Own Backyard
. She had to go, but I stayed to practice my pliés, since I was twenty minutes short on ballet that day. Control, remember?

Anyway, I was right by the Serenity Cup, which is this huge silver trophy on permanent display on a pedestal in the center of the park. It's our town's pride and joy, presented by President Roosevelt way back when Serenity was founded in 1937. It sits in a Plexiglas case, and nobody ever walks through the park without checking it out, even though we've all seen it a million times.

So that day, I look at it for time number a million and one, and there's something I've never noticed before—a padlock through a little hasp in the corner of the case.

Then I spot the work crew—two men in heavy boots. One is up a ladder, and the second is holding it steady.
They appear to be snipping branches off an overgrown sycamore tree. Here's the thing, though: they're not from here. Everybody in Serenity knows everybody else, except maybe some of the Purple People Eaters. But I've never seen these guys before.

Sure enough, there's a pickup truck parked by the side of the roadway.
Ray's Tree Service, Taos, New Mexico
is stenciled on the door. I have an astounding thought! Did they lock the case because they're afraid one of these strangers might
steal
the Serenity Cup? We've all heard the horror stories about other places, but this is the first time it's ever crossed my mind that outsiders might bring their dishonest ways here.

Even though I'm nervous, I'm also a little intrigued. Meeting new people doesn't happen very often. There are only 184 possible choices, and I already know almost all of them.

I decide to go over and introduce myself. “Hi, I'm Amber.”

One says “Hi” back. The other tells me, “We're working here, kid,” not in a mean way, but the way adults sometimes talk when they're too busy to be bothered with you. I guess I look a little wounded, because he adds, “Watch your head. There are branches coming down. I
wouldn't want you to get hurt.”

“Oh, right. Thanks.” I suppose it's nice of him to look out for my safety.

I retreat a few steps toward the truck, and that's when I notice the newspaper on the driver's seat. It's something called
USA Today.
A newspaper for the whole country? People in Serenity read the
Pax,
which is published right here. This paper must be big in Taos, and maybe other places, since it says
USA
.

Suddenly, I'm staring at the headline:

ACTOR'S DEATH RULED MURDER

I turn to the tree guys. “What's murder?”

They stare at me like I'm some exotic cockroach that just crawled up out of the ground. The ladder holder says, “Seriously?”

“I've never seen that word before,” I explain. “What does it mean?”

The man in the tree snorts a laugh. “Murder is having to prune branches on a hot day.”

“Tell me about it!” his partner chimes in.

I can tell they're laughing at me, and I'm embarrassed although I don't really know why, so I change my tactic.
“Can I have your newspaper?”

“Oh, sure, kid. Knock yourself out. And while you're at it, you'd better get yourself a dictionary.”

I reach in the driver's side window, and pick up the
USA Today.
My eyes are drawn back to the lead story:

           
It began as a grisly mystery: bloodstained walls in a Hollywood hotel suite; a Browning pistol still clutched in the victim's limp hand; a famous face contorted in death . . .

“Heads up!”

A leafy branch hits the ground at my feet, and I scramble out of there, calling, “Thanks for the paper.” I can feel the newsprint crackling in my hands, almost as if there's an electric current running through it. It's clear to me that I'm holding something powerful and important, although I have no idea how I know this.

When I get home, I hide the
USA Today
in the garage between the spare air-conditioner filters. I'm not sure why I don't show it to my parents, especially my mom. We're really close, since I see her all day at school, and then all night at home. I don't even tell Tori, and we're practically
two halves of the same person. I know that keeping secrets is like chiseling at the mortar between bricks in a wall. But this feels different. This is uniquely
mine
. So I have this urge to keep it for myself.

Over the next few days, I read that paper from cover to cover, soaking up every word. Some of the stories are the same as what the
Pax
prints—stuff about the president, and the sports scores. But that's where the similarity ends. Put it this way: I know what murder is now. They also call it
homicide
—another word I never heard before.

Our parents are always reminding us how lucky we are to be spared the kind of problems they have in other places. But that's not the same as seeing it spelled out in black-and-white—reading the descriptions of the crime scenes, hearing about the victims and their poor families, following the police officers who make the arrests, and the court cases where criminals are brought to justice.

And it's not an occasional thing either. I count seven people dying because of murder, just in one
USA Today
! There are even more robberies—and sometimes the murders and the robberies happen together. There are other things we never read about in the
Pax—
things like wars, kidnappings, riots, and acts of terrorism.

Every time I put my
USA Today
back in its hiding
place, my head is spinning with more questions. What kind of people would do such horrible things? There's nobody like that in Serenity. What if murder comes here? Is that why there are so many Purple People Eaters, and why they have their own helicopter—to protect us from all this?

I calm myself down with a little meditation. It's more proof that our parents did the right thing by raising us here, where we're safe.

One thing bothers me, though. Why doesn't the
Pax
print the bad stories that are in
USA Today
? Is it because we don't have to worry about things like murder? Just because we live here doesn't mean we shouldn't know about the outside world. What about someone like poor Randy? When he gets to his grandparents, will he be ready?

I agree that
USA Today
is upsetting, but it feels really honest.

At dinner that night, my mother brings up the subject of Randy moving to Colorado. “How did the kids react?” she asks. “It must be hard to lose a friend you've known for so long.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “It's murder.”

My father drops his fork with a clatter.

Mom stares at me. “Where would you pick up a horrible word like that?”

“From the newspaper.”

Dad frowns. “Don't be dishonest, Amber. The
Pax
would never—”

“It wasn't the
Pax
. It was in
USA Today
.”

“But how—?” For an instant, my mother's voice rises sharply. Then she catches herself, and when she speaks again, she sounds calm. “I'm a little—surprised that you found an outside newspaper. The
Pax
is all we read around here.”

“There were these tree trimmers in the park.” It feels good to get it off my chest after so long. “They gave it to me.”

“When was this?” my father probes.

“A pretty long time ago.”

My parents share a meaningful look. I'm thinking:
Are they mad at me?
I never actually lied, but it's pretty obvious that I didn't go out of my way to tell them about it.

But no. Mom's not angry, just interested. “Well, did you learn anything from it?”

I nod. “I learned how lucky we are to live in Serenity.”

THINGS TO DO TODAY (UNPRIORITIZED)

           
•
  
Piano Practice (1.5 hours)

           
•
  
Ballet Practice (1 hour)

           
•
  
Finish Contentment Essay

           
•
  
Tell Tori about
USA Today

It's funny—once Mom and Dad know about my newspaper, it seems crazy that I never told Tori about it. What could I have been thinking? It just confirms what we learn in Contentment—that the mind has a way of tricking you into thinking you're doing the right thing when you're not.

The truth is, I was keeping a secret. It's a slippery slope.

Mom's still at school, so Tori and I have the house to ourselves. My father's a honcho at the factory, and he's usually not home until dinner.

“Let's go for a swim,” she suggests. “Work on our stamina for the big game.”

“Okay, but first I want to show you something cool.” I lead the way into the garage and duck behind the shelving unit where we keep the spare filters. One by one, I lift them up.

My
USA Today
is gone.

“Well?” Tori prompts.

Weird—for four months I've kept that paper hidden. And now that I'm finally ready to show it to somebody, it turns out I've lost it. How careless can you get?

“Forget it,” I tell her. “Let's put our suits on.”

I can't wait to move to NYC when I'm older. I'm going to live on the sixtieth floor of a skyscraper, eat junk food all day long, and, who knows, maybe even get a motorcycle.

The only thing more depressing than living in Happy Valley is having to celebrate it. In school, we all have to work on special projects for Serenity Day, which is the holiday where we commemorate the founding of this wonderful community. Sarcasm intended.

Ever notice that everything around here is Serenity-something? Serenity Park, Serenity Square, Serenity Cup. I should rename my toilet the Serenity Bowl.

Anyway, Serenity Day is a big deal. The entire population turns out, which reminds me of a medium-sized wedding on a TV show. We drink lemonade and eat hot
dogs, and listen to speeches about how great our town is, and how lucky we are to live here. The activities would be kind of cool if you were about six—three-legged race, beanbag toss, real prime-time stuff. And Happy Valley is so backward they can't even get that right. Last year, in ring toss, they gave me a set of rings as wide as hula hoops. I was wiping up the competition until Amber started complaining it was unfair. Oh, that Laska. When it comes to fun, she's kind of like Kryptonite.

Whatever. The hot dogs aren't bad.

Happy Valley is so small that the town officials are basically just our parents. Mr. Frieden is the mayor. My mother is the comptroller, in charge of all the finances. Hector's mom is the recording secretary. You get the picture. Not only are the speeches lame, but they're delivered by people who are normally reminding you to floss or take out the garbage.