by Pam Bachorz
“My square.” She jabs at my shoe with her chalk. It leaves a green smudge.
“Hey, freshly polished!” I pull my shoe back.
“In that case …” She leaves another streak of green on my shoes.
I retaliate with a long white mark through the bottom of her square. A straight line over all her thick, curling shapes.
“You violated the masterpiece!” she shrieks.
I feel kids staring. Wondering. But when I look up, their eyes are pointed at their piece of sidewalk. Always do your best.
Another good time to leave.
But I stay. Again. Not doing the smart thing. When I’m around this girl, I lose my brain. I know it and I still can’t help myself.
Nia grabs the chalk from my hand and pounces on my square. She fills it with white and green, laughing, hair swinging, arms smeared with color. I bet she doesn’t care who’s watching. Doesn’t worry about what they think.
She’s beautiful. And dangerous.
When she’s done there’s no hint of sidewalk left. The square is entirely covered in color. “Handle that.” She flings the chalk at me.
I catch it.
Her smile looks tasty and right. I don’t want it to go away. But what can I do? How do I keep up with her? Can I do it and stay safe?
“You’re a chalk criminal,” I tell her.
She holds up both hands, high in the air. “Guilty as charged.”
I want to touch her again. Even if it’s against the rules. Respectful space in every place.
Screw the Message.
Still, I check for Mandi first. Is she around? No.
I get to play some more.
“Give me your hand,” I order.
She holds out one fist. I uncurl her fingers and turn them so the palm is facing up. Then I rub the chalk on her skin. Color each finger, taking my time.
Once she tries to jerk away. “Wait,” I tell her. And she listens. Watches my hand color hers.
When her palm and fingers are entirely green, I stop. Press her hand on the pavement. “Fingerprints,” I tell her.
“Amateur. It’s done like this.” She rolls each finger over the chalk. A pro. Not surprising, given her history.
“Perfect. Now everyone knows who ruined my square,” I tease.
And then Mandi is there. How long was she watching?
Her mouth is pulled tight. She points at our squares. “What’s that?”
“It’s art,” Nia says. “Heard of it?”
“But art is useless.” Mandi crosses her arms.
“You can’t be serious.” Nia stands up. She towers over Mandi.
“It gets your attention,” I say. “So then you read the other stuff.”
Mandi was staring at Nia. But now she’s looking at the sidewalk. “Nobody will miss this.”
“Thank you.” Nia takes a little bow.
Then Mandi looks back up at her. “It’s not like the others.”
“Which is kind of the point,” Nia says.
“It’s really okay,” I tell Mandi.
“Conformity is beauty.” Mandi lets out a single shuddering sob. Then she walks away, toward the closest building.
“You blew her circuits,” Nia says.
Am I supposed to follow her? Apologize? Console her?
I don’t know the answer, so I stay where I want to be. Next to Nia.
Mandi is headed for the bushes. To hide? Or shred them with her perfectly straight teeth in a fit of rage? She twists the spigot behind the bushes. Grabs the hose that’s attached.
“Bad news for the worms,” I say.
“No. I won’t let her.” Nia tosses her hair. Tendrils stick to her cheeks.
“It’s not a big deal. It’s just chalk.” I don’t want a scene. Especially one I’m in the middle of.
She turns a fierce stare at me. “Art is never just chalk.”
Tell it to the hose. But I don’t argue. Instead I look at our squares and try to memorize them. Truth is, I don’t want them gone, either.
Mandi is moving fast, dragging the hose behind her. Water is shooting from the nozzle. But then she stops about fifteen feet away. The hose is too short.
She tries raising it. Points it at us. But the water doesn’t come close.
Nia laughs. “Awesome.”
Mandi looks at the hose. Looks at Nia’s sidewalk. Drops the hose. She doesn’t even bother to turn it off. It squirms in the grass, spewing water.
“Yes!” Nia pumps her fist in the air.
“She never gives up that easily,” I tell her.
Mandi walks to the green metal box that’s poking out from under an oak tree’s mulch. It’s helpfully labeled. Easy to tell what’s inside.
She wouldn’t. It would mess with her whole project.
“Stop! You’ll ruin them all,” I call out.
She shakes her head. No. No, I will not listen. Or no, I don’t care. I’m not sure what she means. But I’m certain of what she’s going to do.
We are all about to get very wet.
The box clangs open. No need for locks in Candor. Nobody touches things they shouldn’t—except in an emergency.
And for Mandi, this must be an emergency.
“What’s she doing?” Nia asks.
A low hiss sounds by our feet. Like a snake. A big one.
“Sprinklers. Run!” I turn tail and head for dry ground.
But when I look back, Nia’s not with me.
The sprinklers are on full blast. Everyone’s chalk is dissolving, running in muddy streams to the storm sewers. Except Nia’s—at least, except a small piece of hers.
She has her feet planted on the sidewalk. Long legs spread wide. One black boot on her square. The other on mine. Her smile is fierce.
“Handle this!” she yells. Then she holds one hand out to me. Come.
I see Mandi a block away, surrounded by her faithful. Staying dry. But watching.
There’s no way I can do what I want. Go to Nia. Jump in the sprinklers. Ignore all the eyes staring at us.
But I feel like I owe her an explanation. I edge closer, so I’m just getting sprayed on my legs. “I have homework,” I shout. “I should go.”
She holds up her other hand. The one I colored. It’s still green. When I don’t move, she makes a fist and jams it in her pocket.
“Have fun being normal,” she says.
“I always do,” I lie.
I leave her to get soaked. I leave our art to get dissolved. When does the water stop? How does she get home, sopping wet?
I don’t know, because I leave the whole mess behind.
Then I take Mandi out for ice cream.
It’s the safe thing to do.
SATURDAY STARTS LIKE it’s supposed to. I get the paper. Toast four slices of rye. Brew coffee.
But nothing feels normal. Sherman was missing from school for the rest of the week. Either he’s hiding, waiting for tonight, or caught. Not knowing is killing me.
I look for him everywhere I go: school, the grocery store. But all I find is Nia. Teasing eyes. Curving lips. I hurry away before I do something else stupid. She doesn’t follow.
When Dad shows at the table, he grabs a thermos from the cabinet, fills it with coffee, and wraps his toast in a paper towel. “Go get the tackle box,” he says. “And the poles.”
“Fishing?” We never go fishing. Not anymore.
I remember when I would have been excited. Now it’s just making me nervous. Everything that’s different is making me nervous, since Sherman left. It could be the beginning of the end. A sign that I’m caught.
He looks at his watch. “Better hurry.”
“But I don’t know where the tackle box—”
“Garage, left of the door. Third shelf from the bottom, behind the hibiscus fertilizer.”
A Message drip-drops on my brain. Always obey your parents.
Asking questions will only make him suspicious. That’s not the kind of thing good Candor kids do. So I go to the garage.
The
box is right where he said it would be. It’s rusty. Fingerprints make polka dots in the thick dust on top. One of the latches is missing.
It’s not how it used to be. Not even close.
The tackle box was my grandfather’s. He gave it to Dad. Then Dad gave it to Winston for his tenth birthday. I was four. I wanted that box. It was smooth and red and shiny. Like a fire truck. But my brother wouldn’t let me touch it. “You won’t keep it nice,” he said.
“I will, I promise,” I told Winston. He didn’t believe me. I guess he was right. But it doesn’t matter. He’s not alive to see it.
I’m not even supposed to remember he existed.
The thermometer on Dad’s rearview mirror reads 90, and it’s only 8:45 A.M. “Great fishing weather,” I say.
He nods. Either he’s ignoring my attitude or he doesn’t believe it’s real.
I try again. “Maybe it’s too hot. We could go tomorrow.” Or never.
Dad gives a quick shake of this head. “Things are set for today.”
What things? I want to ask. But I’m not supposed to be afraid of my father. He’s my idol in my pretend life.
So I stay quiet. Besides, what else can I do? Run away screaming?
We park a block away from the pond. “Don’t want to block the view,” Dad says.
The pond is in the middle of downtown Candor, with cafés and shops across the street from it. They made the pond when Dad built the town. Scooped out dirt to fill people’s lots. Filled it with water.
Insert fish. Instant nature.
Broad cement steps down to the water. There are rocking chairs on each step, with green umbrellas on stands. People are already using them this morning.
“Chip. Phyllis.” Dad nods at some people in the chairs. I look more closely. All but one of the rocking people work at Town Hall. We’re surrounded.
They give me big smiles but look away fast. The way you’d react if you saw a celebrity.
“Did you make them sit here?” I ask.
Dad sets the tackle box in the shade and flips the lid up. “It’s early. I didn’t want the pond looking lonely.”
“For who?”
He pulls out a frog lure and attaches it to his line. Makes the first cast of the day. It’s perfect: long and straight. Lands with barely a splash.
Finally he speaks. “Thought I told you. Big bus coming in today. Brits.”
He paid people to ride their bikes or walk their dogs past the models, in the early days. When it was just him and me and Mom living here.
Maybe he’s telling me the truth. Or maybe not. “We don’t need the business, do we?” The waiting list is years long. Why does he care about a bus full of sunburned British tourists? “No such thing as too much business.”
I don’t know why I asked. He always says that. It’s like he thinks the waiting list is a savings account.
Maybe that really is why I’m here: I’m a prop. It must look nice. Father and son, fishing together. Ah, Candor. Home of the happy family. Or in our case, what’s left of it.
Or maybe it’s a trap.
We used to go fishing for fun. When I was little, Mom and Dad rented a cabin in Wisconsin. Every morning we took the rowboat out. I baited the hook. Winston cast the line. Dad reeled them in. He liked to say we caught dinner before breakfast.
“Remember Mom’s fishcakes?” I ask. The spicy-sweet taste is on my tongue. She put cinnamon in them, and cayenne pepper. They were delicious.
Dad gives me a sharp look. I’ve been stupid. “The past is behind us.”
It’s what he always says when I bring up things like that. And I know what to say back. It slides out so easily. “We must focus on the future.”
“Good man.” Dad’s smile looks satisfied. I feel a little safer.
But it’s not easy to stuff away memories. I remember how the orange life vests pressed against our chins. They smelled like wet dirt. Dad always checked the buckles before he untied the boat.
“Hot today,” Dad says. “They’ll be deep.”
“This is nice,” I say. Because it kind of is. If I forget it’s just for show. Pretend Sherman and Nia and orange graffiti never happened. There’s nothing to be afraid of, if that were true.
“People want something when they see someone else using it. Remember that.” Dad casts his line. It goes so far, it looks like it’s halfway across the pond.
“Everybody wants to be part of the crowd,” I say. Another one of his business theories.
“You’re going to be smarter than your old man before we know it,” he says. “I taught you well.” More than he knows. I learned how to make the Messages by spying on him. Reading manuals, hacking into his computer, listening on the phone. He never bothered to protect things well. He thought the Messages made sure I wasn’t curious.
He’s never understood that I’m different from him. We don’t want all the same things.
Dad gives my line a tug. “It’s loose.”
I whirl the reel and the line slowly shortens.
“Kid tried to run away the other night,” he says.
My hand freezes. I feel the presence of all his loyal workers around me.
“Who was it?” I try to sound shocked. And worried.
“Sherman Golub.” His eyes slide over my face. I stare out at the pond.
“Is he gone?” I ask.
Dad snorts. “Found him ten feet into the woods, behind his own house. He didn’t really want to leave. Candor is his home.”
Guess I won’t have to sneak out tonight for our appointment.
Maybe I should feel sorry. He was my client. He paid me to get him out. And that didn’t happen. I got money for nothing.
But I’m not sorry. I’m pissed. And scared.
Sherman knows things. Without my booster music, he might forget those things are a secret. All it will take is the right question.
“Is he okay?” I ask.
I hope they skipped the questions and took him straight to the Listening Room. I hope they stuffed him with so many Messages, there isn’t room for anything else. If I’m lucky he’s forgotten all about me.
“The boy needed some family time. He’ll be back to school on Monday.”
Does family time mean the Listening Room—good for me, bad for Sherman? Or does it mean snuggling with Mommy and telling her all my secrets?
Dad casts his line out again, straight and strong. The lure drops without a sound. It’s like the water just opened up and swallowed.
My cast stops short, with a splash. So much for casual and in control. I’m probably chasing the fish straight to Dad’s hook.
I thought I’d feel better when I knew what happened to Sherman. But now there are fewer questions, more fear.
I feel like I’m supposed to say something. Should I be happy he’ll be back? Or am I not supposed to care? For once the Messages are silent—just when I need them.
“You ever talk with the Golub boy?” Dad asks.
“Just … derivatives. Math stuff.” Like the hefty chunk of change he deposited in my offshore account.
No refunds. No matter what.
“Things could have been different.” Dad turns his head and looks at me. His hand keeps turning the reel.
Am I supposed to apologize? Agree? I wait for a Message to tell me what to do.
“You’re a leader. A boy like that would follow your example. He’d do what you told him he should,” Dad says.
A laugh fills my mouth. I press my lips shut to keep it silent.
“No need to be modest. We both know you’re my clone.” Dad chuckles and reaches his hand up toward my head. But when I meet his eyes, his arm drops to his side.
I try to transform the hysterical laughter inside into a proud smile. My lips tremble with the effort. “I wish I could help.”
Other than shutting down my highly profitable, intensely annoying-to-my-father business. That won’t happen.
“You will help.” His voice is so certain. “There’s another new one.
Antonia Silva. She’s your age.”
Nia. I feel a drop of sweat roll down my spine. “The name is kind of familiar.”
Did someone tell him about the chalk and the sidewalks? Is this another test?
“Girl’s not adjusting well. Her parents are worried. They came by my office yesterday when they heard about the Golub boy.”
I “mm-hmm” and hold my hand over my eyes to look out at the pond. Like I can see fish leaping in the distance.
“I told them you’d help.”
I look at him. He’s still watching me. I keep my face blank. “Um. How?”
“You’re her new best friend. Wherever you go, she goes. You’ll keep her straight.”
The best thing for him would be to keep Nia far away from me. It would be the best thing for me, too.
“I think Mandi might be upset,” I tell him. “She’s my girlfriend.”
“Give her a few days,” he says. “She’ll get over it.”
I think about the day I found Nia drawing in the park, when Mandi found us. She didn’t seem so happy then. Things haven’t been exactly cozy between us since the sidewalk thing, either.
I love this idea. And hate it. Safer to stick with the hating part. “I have midterms coming up.”
“Find a way to make it work.”
“And college applications. Plus all my chores. I wouldn’t want to stop doing my chores. It’s important to help one’s parents.” I get a perverse pleasure of spitting out his Messages when it’s inconvenient for him.
But it rolls off him. “This girl needs a good example. And it’s going to be you.” He casts his line out again, confident and smooth.
Who’s going to be my good example? Who’s going to show me how to ignore how she makes me feel? How I want to do stupid, dangerous things when it comes to her?
Anger washes over me. That would have been Winston’s job. But he screwed up. Everyone knows safety comes first. Even people who aren’t brainwashed.
I should be happy. I’m safe, at least for today. Sherman didn’t spill. Dad thinks I’m his adoring protégé.
I sigh. Shrug my shoulders. “I guess I can.”
“Just don’t get attached,” he says. “Everyone leaves eventually.”
He says it all the time. But he forgets: I’ve never left. Don’t I count? Even if I’m the only one?
Winston was gone first. He snapped his neck, flipping off the diving board at my tenth birthday party. Dad had told him not to. But he did it anyway. Winston was never good at listening.
