Candor

by Pam Bachorz

  He looks at the sheet. His eyebrows jerk up and down. “Lorna. Where’s Ella?” he barks.

  Mommy shrugs. She’s kid-free. What does she care?

  I hear a toilet flush. “Sounds like a priceless figurine going down the potty,” I say. “You break it, you buy it.”

  “Kids! Don’t touch anything!” Daddy runs off.

  Mommy sighs. “What pretty music.”

  Pretty like a Venus flytrap. The subliminal messages play at a frequency so low that you can’t hear them, but part of your brain does. Stay at the Roxbury long enough and you’ll be convinced that the houses are worth every penny.

  Sherman pipes up again. “If you’re smart, you’ll plug your ears.” He jams his fingers in his ears and crosses his eyes.

  I walk over to him and stand so the woman can’t see what I’m doing. Then I pinch his knee, right above the kneecap. “Shut up or leave,” I whisper.

  When I turn around, the woman’s stuffing brochures in her purse.

  “We don’t supply arts-and-crafts paper for the kids.” I hold out my hand. She gives me a dirty look and hands back half.

  “Let’s go, kids,” she shouts. “We’re not wanted here.”

  “Took you a long time to figure that out.” I give her my sweetest smile.

  And they go.

  I turn to Sherman. “What’s wrong with you? Do you remember what I said?”

  He rolls his eyes. “No talking about secret stuff. Listen to the music you gave me. Never talk to you in front of witnesses.”

  “Don’t even make eye contact. Didn’t I say that?” My voice is loud, but it doesn’t matter. There’s nobody to hear except Sherman.

  “But I have questions. And I’m bored.” He swings his legs and his heels bounce off the cherry cabinets.

  “Stop. Scuffs.” I grab a paper towel and rub at the white marks his sneakers left behind.

  “For someone who’s fighting the system, you sure care a lot about this place.”

  I feel a surge of irritation. I can’t wait for this kid to be gone from this house. And my town. “My dad needs to think I’m perfect.”

  And the Messages have a few things to say about keeping houses clean and not destroying property. But I don’t admit I’m listening to those.

  “So what should I pack?” he asks. “What will I need?”

  Things I don’t usually discuss too far ahead. I tell them the night before. But I’d do almost anything to get rid of him.

  “If I answer your questions, will you leave?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Maybe.”

  I stare until he lets out a gusty sigh. “Fine. Definitely,” he says.

  “Pack light,” I tell him. “It’s a long walk through the woods to the edge of town. You only need a change of clothes and your iPod. Make sure it’s loaded with the music I gave you.”

  I give my clients Messages to listen to when they leave. I have to. Once you start listening to the Messages, you can never stop. Not when you go to college, or on a business trip, or even an overnight to visit Grandma Bee in Sarasota.

  Dad didn’t just build the first brainwashing community—he invented a new kind of addiction: aural addiction, he calls it. Everybody in Candor is hooked on the Messages, including the parents who paid big money to be here. Nobody leaves town without headphones and their special music.

  Without them, the withdrawal will kill you.

  “Who’s meeting me?” Sherman asks.

  “A white truck will pull up. You’ll get in.”

  My driver, Frank, runs a critter-trapping service. Dad’s people call him all the time about gators, water moccasins, anything that scares our hardy citizens. I like to think he removes all kinds of pests from town.

  My clients sit in the back with the cages. It’s not luxury, but Frank is rock-solid reliable. He’d never turn me in. I pay 50 percent more than Dad. In cash.

  “Where will the truck take me?”

  “The truck takes you far, far away from me. So we like the truck,” I tell him. “We like it a lot.”

  His cheeks tremble. “Why are you so mean to me? I see you at school. You’re all smiling and talking to other people.”

  “I’m—not.” But he’s right. I am mean to him. And I’m fake with everyone else. For a minute, I feel bad for him. Poor slob. He doesn’t deserve being here. All he did was be his nasty, farting, burping self—someone his sleek parents couldn’t live with.

  But then he opens his mouth and talks again. “The customer is always right. You should be nice. You should be kissing my butt.”

  Sherman makes it impossible to be nice. “You’re my customer?” I snarl it. Step close. “You think I owe you?”

  He crosses his arms and leans back. “Don’t be mad.”

  The Messages fill my brain, like boulders sliding down a chute. Never threaten someone’s safety. Respectful space in every place. I feel my fists relaxing. I draw in a deep breath.

  The door beeps again.

  “Get out.” I point at the back door. “I answered all your questions.”

  He wipes the back of his hand over his eyes. Sniffles. I rush to the front hall.

  A bald man wearing a golf visor is standing with his hands on his hips, staring up at the thousand-dollar light in the entryway.

  “My kid’s shrink said we should come here,” he says.

  Which makes him what Dad calls a qualified candidate. Candor’s big secret is marketed quietly: discreet chatter at rich people’s cocktail parties, referrals from happy customers. And suggestions from well-paid psychiatrists.

  If his financials check out, Dad will tell him what he’d really be buying.

  “How much?” the man asks.

  I hand him the price sheet from the dining room table. “Starting at one-point-two. Before upgrades.”

  “Not bad,” he says. Like he’s debating whether to supersize his lunch.

  I slide open a drawer in the table and pull out one of the DVDs. “Watch this. You’ll learn all about the benefits that Candor has to offer.”

  I used to feel bad, helping to sell the houses. But I was stuck. I knew Dad was using the Messages to make me work there, so I smiled and handed out floor plans. Told everyone how great the schools are.

  I’d look at kids walking in. Poor suckers, I’d think. You have no idea what’s about to hit you.

  House sales started breaking records. The waiting list grew: six months. A year. Two years. Every house sold for more money. Nobody leaves here, so the only option is to buy from my dad. I realized I couldn’t stop what was happening. All I could do was protect myself. Maybe help a few others. That was all.

  “Thanks for your help, son.” The man shakes my hand. His grip is firm.

  Now comes the part where I show him the house. Point out the vaulted ceilings and voice-activated bedroom lights. But then I hear something through the open front door.

  Ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk.

  “Be sure to check out the home theater.” I point upstairs.

  His eyebrows twitch up and down. Rich dudes aren’t used to the blowoff. “Granite come standard?” he asks.

  “It’s all on the price sheet.” Dad would be furious.

  The sound stops. And now I hear something in the kitchen. A voice. Two voices. Sherman is talking to her. Not what should be happening.

  Baldy is saying something about financing terms and contingencies. Why am I being nice to him? He’s not important.

  Always be courteous. The Message is familiar and calm. My brain has been bathing in it for a long time. This morning, it thinks it owns me.

  No, I tell it. My brain is mine.

  “We’re closed.” I point at the door.

  Baldy just stares.

  “Fire drill. State law. Sorry.” I force my feet closer to him, ready to push him out, even if my body fights me.

  But he goes. I slam the door shut and run back to the kitchen. It’s empty.

  Sherman is gone. But so is whoever he was talking to. />
  Then I hear it again. The sound of a skateboard. I run to the front and onto the sidewalk. The sound is quieter … quieter …

  And then she’s gone.

  I FIND HER the next day at lunch. She’s sitting alone at Founder’s Park, across from the school. It’s not hard to spot her. Black jeans, black tank top. Probably not even her panties are pastel.

  I wave, but she doesn’t see me. She’s staring at the notebook in her lap, like every other kid at the park. Has she changed since we talked?

  Founder’s Park is like the library, only with ants and ninety-degree heat. It’s where all the super-duper-achievers come at lunch. They chew carrot sticks and memorize theorems at the same time.

  They all sit alone. The broad triangle of grass is dotted with them, surrounded with piles of books and binders and highlighters. The ones who didn’t score a shady spot wear hats with big brims. Always protect yourself from the sun.

  Nobody stops me as I walk by. Sure, a few look up and give me a wave like we’re best friends. But that’s easy to deal with. I smile. Wave back. Give them a thumbs-up.

  I should come here more often. It’s the only public place I get left alone.

  More nods. More waves. I smile and keep moving toward my target.

  It’s good I missed her yesterday. I was desperate. Stupid. But I’m prepared now.

  Dad taught me that good salespeople customize their message. I plan on listening to his advice.

  I reach in my backpack and turn my player on. Music filters through the canvas. I thumb the volume lower. It’ll be easier if she doesn’t notice it. This music is only for her subconscious—and my safety.

  The only way to protect myself is to tell her the truth. Then she won’t turn down my special music—she’ll beg for it. I’ll make sure she never tells about the graffiti. Maybe even get her to pay for the privilege before I give her a nudge out of town.

  She’ll be like any other client.

  Everyone reacts differently when I tell them. Some kids don’t believe me, not right away. Others—the ones that I caught too late—just don’t care. Then there are the believers. They tend to freak out. Let’s call the New York Times, they say. Or, they tell me they have an uncle/sister/old teacher back home who will help. Usually there’s talk of yelling at Mommy and Daddy.

  When I tell the potentials, the believers are the dangerous ones. If they squeal, my father would find out someone’s been spreading the news. One phone call from a reporter or a relative or the believer’s mommy would expose everything I’ve been hiding. Dad might pay off a reporter, but he’d still find the source: me.

  Then he’d know the truth: I’m not his dream son. I’m the opposite. He’d send me to the Listening Room. That’d fix me, for good.

  I’ve survived too long. I won’t let some random kid mess it up for me.

  So I always bring my insurance. Maybe it sounds like elevator music, but it’s got special Messages, too. Instructions that stop people from telling. Instructions that keep them calm.

  I threw in a little something about graffiti and secrets, too. Just for her.

  “I hope you’re not studying.” I sit down without being asked and nudge the backpack close to her.

  She looks up for a second. “You again. Go away.”

  “You wanted to talk to me yesterday.”

  She shrugs. “I was weak.”

  “Why’d you leave without talking to me?”

  “Something more interesting came up.” A smile flickers over her face. She licks her lips. A revolting picture involving Sherman’s blubber and her tongue pops into my head.

  “Did Sherman tell you to leave?”

  “Sherman. Is that his name? It fits.” Another flick of her tongue. My cheeks feel hot.

  “Don’t bother with Sherman. He’s nobody.”

  “You and me—we’re not buddies now,” she says.

  “I wasn’t—I’m not—” But part of me wants something besides fixing things. She’s interesting. Someone real.

  “You’re just the jerk who stole my paint,” she says.

  “You mean the paint you stole?”

  She rolls her head around her shoulders, like she’s loosening up for a fight. “It was mine when you took it, and you wasted it. Now you’re stalking me.”

  “I don’t stalk.” People come to me.

  “I haven’t decided when I’ll tell,” she says.

  “How about never?” Is the music in my backpack loud enough? I need her to listen to it as long as possible and then I need her to take my CDs.

  “You can go now. In fact, you’d better. What if blondie finds you?”

  “You mean Mandi?” So she’s been doing some research, too. “I don’t care if she sees me.”

  Nia makes a shooing motion. But me and my backpack are staying. I point at the notebook in her lap. It’s so big it covers both her knees. There aren’t any lines on the paper. “What’s that for?”

  She snorts. “Please tell me you’ve seen a sketch pad before.”

  I feel stupid. Why? Why do I care what she thinks? She’s the one who should worry about what I think. I’m her ticket out of town.

  “There aren’t many sketch pads around here,” I say.

  Dad’s hated art since Mom left. Art is a waste of time, he says. And he makes sure that’s what everyone else thinks, too. But I try not to. I remember how beautiful Mom’s pottery was.

  “Another thing to hate about this place.” Nia balls up both fists and rubs them into her eyes. “There’s not one lousy art class.”

  The morning after Mom left, Dad gathered up all her pots and plates and the little zoo of animals she had made for my fifth birthday. Took them outside. And chucked them at the fence, one by one. Mom leaving must have hurt more than ignoring the Messages that he should have heard, telling him to stop.

  I didn’t stop him. I was angry, too. This was what she deserved, I thought. She’d come back and see how much she hurt us.

  But she didn’t come back.

  When he was done, he made me clean up. I saved a piece, yellow with brown spots. I think it was part of a giraffe. I put it in my desk drawer. Sometimes the sharp edges scrape me when I reach for a pencil or my calculator.

  They remind me not to trust anyone. It’s like Dad says. Everyone leaves.

  So I might as well profit from it.

  I launch the usual speech. “I have a proposal,” I say. “Well—you know. Not that kind of proposal. Not going to Vegas or anything. A deal. I want to make a deal with you.”

  It’s coming out all wrong. How does she do that? How does she make my mouth open and let out words that don’t make sense? I’ve given this speech a million times. That’s not how it’s supposed to start.

  But she doesn’t seem to hear me. She’s running one finger over her sketch pad. The other hand reaches up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. She glances up at me. Looks back at the pad.

  “To start, I have to tell you something shocking,” I say. Good. Back on track.

  “Shh.” She circles a pencil over the pad. But it doesn’t touch the paper. Just circles. Floats down, almost touches. Flies up. Circles again. It looks like a bird that doesn’t know how to stop flying.

  “You might not believe me at first. But I promise it’s true.”

  More pencil circling. More ignoring me.

  I check my watch. Just twelve minutes before the bell. Sixteen minutes before physics. “Listen to me,” I tell her.

  “Dammit!” Now she balls her hand into a fist and slams it on the pad. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

  I bet it wasn’t always this hard for her. “You’re forgetting how to do it, aren’t you?” I ask.

  “I’m just having a hard time getting started. It happens.”

  Sure. It wouldn’t be those Messages that are seeping in, telling her there are more important things to be doing. “It happens to all the arty kids who move to Candor,” I tell her. “Eventually they give up.”

  Her ey
es dart to meet mine then go back to her empty pad. “That doesn’t really happen, does it?”

  “It’s true. In a week, you won’t even care about drawing or painting. Unless …”

  “Stop. Just stop talking.” Now her voice is loud and certain again. She jabs her pencil toward me. “And don’t move.”

  “But I can help you.” I have to.

  “Shut up. Sit still. Or go.” She jerks her head back toward the school.

  The breeze shifts. Her hair blows around her face. I smell something sweet. Lilacs. They used to grow outside our kitchen door in Chicago. But it’s too hot for them here. I breathe in deep.

  “You get three minutes,” I tell her. “Then I talk, and you listen.”

  “I’ve got it now,” she mutters. Her hand swoops over her sketch pad. It’s not a lost bird anymore. Now it’s graceful. Certain. The pencil leaves dark arcs and lines behind. They don’t look like anything yet. But I can tell she has a plan.

  She looks up at me. Squints.

  “Like what you see?” I wiggle my eyebrows.

  “Silence.” But a corner of her mouth twitches up just for a second. Then she’s back to drawing.

  Not many people order me around. There’s my dad—and I guess my teachers, if you count assignments as orders. But the kids at school respect me. Vote for me when I run for elections. Sometimes even when I don’t. Last year I won Class President on a write-in.

  The church bell bongs noon. Just seven minutes until the bell. I have to tell her. The music I’m playing now won’t be enough—she needs lots more.

  “It’s my turn,” I tell her.

  “One more minute. Don’t talk.” She picks her pencil off the paper and moves it toward my face. I watch it come closer until I’m cross-eyed.

  Then she touches the eraser to the bottom of my lip. Drags it slowly around the edge of my mouth. It feels gritty, but soft. Gentle.

  “There,” she whispers. “Now I’ve got the shape.”

  She pulls it away fast and starts drawing again. My lips tingle. I want her to do it again.

  No. She’s running the show. That has to stop.

  “My turn.” I slap my hand over the drawing.

  She looks up. “There are better places to put that hand.”