by Pam Bachorz
They wouldn’t let me look. I stood by the cupcakes, my back to the pool. Chocolate frosting, with sugar cowboy hats, melting in the sun. Secretly I’d thought they looked babyish. I stuck my finger in one and licked it.
It tasted like sand.
The paramedics rushed him away with a siren and blinking lights. They acted like it was an emergency. Brought him to the hospital. But I heard people talking at the wake. Winston died before they pulled him from the water.
That was before Candor. Mom didn’t leave until after we moved here. She only stayed a few months.
Don’t go looking for me. She wrote it on the back of a grocery store receipt. I found it under my pillow.
She didn’t write I’ll miss you. Or Sorry to be doing this.
But I’ve never left. I’ve always been the good son. And now I’m the only one.
Dad’s all I’ve got, too. He’s the only one I trust. I don’t like what he does. But he’s easy to predict.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I tell him.
“I never do.” He gives me a smile. And for a second I feel like I am good. I am exactly who my father wants me to be. Sometimes I want that.
“I’ll invite her over for flash cards,” I say. “And sit with her at lunch.”
“Good start.” Then his line jerks. “A bite!” He starts reeling.
It’s eighteen or nineteen inches, with beautiful gray-green scales. “You got a big one,” I say.
“Even the fish listen to me.” He grins and holds the line up high.
I watch the gills flap in and out. My stomach clenches. I think, for a second, that I’m going to puke.
“What a beaut.” He turns around and waves. Unbelievable. There’s the tour bus, creeping past us. Some of the tourists cheer.
It was for real. This isn’t a trap. I’m just a prop for the tour bus.
I reach for the fish. “It can’t breathe.”
“I’m done anyway.” He hands me the pole and heads for the bus.
I slide the hook out of the fish’s lip. Then I kneel and set the fish in the water. It stays in place. Waves its tail once, twice.
“Welcome to Candor!” I can hear Dad from here. He’ll climb on the bus next. Invite people to stay a bit. Get some cold water in our stunning model homes.
The fish twists its whole body.
“Go,” I whisper.
One more flex of its tail and it’s gone.
It’s not impossible to escape my father. It just takes a little help.
SHE SHOWS UP that night.
The doorbell rings when I’m scraping the pan clean of burned fish bits. Dad checks his watch. “She’s late. Work on that with her.”
“With who?” I ask. But he’s already gone to the front hall.
At first I think it must be an outsider. Saturday is family night in Candor. Some people go bowling. Others head to a G-rated movie. For most families, it’s just another night of brainwashed bliss, never fighting or wanting to be somewhere else. For me and Dad, it’s the only time we sit in the same room without a meal involved.
All the magic happens at the dining room table. Dad works on his laptop. I sit across the table from him. Either I do my homework or write a scholarship essay.
We don’t talk; it’s family night, not miracle night. But sometimes Dad gets crazy and makes hot-air popcorn. No salt, no butter, but it beats dry toast.
“Oscar, you’ve got a visitor,” Dad says.
I look over my shoulder. There’s Nia, dressed in a gauzy white shirt and tiny khaki shorts. My breathing goes unsteady.
“I know you just love homework.” She drops a huge book bag on the floor. “So I brought you mine.”
Dad chuckles and shakes his head. “Now, Antonia. Oscar can’t do your homework for you.”
She fixes him with a stare. “Everyone has a price.”
“You’re funny, very funny.” He pats her on the head like a dog. She ducks the second pat and steps away from him.
I want her here. Dad wants her here. But the Messages are pushing in. Saturday night is family night. Save your weekends for family time. Make your family a priority.
Can’t fight all of them all of the time. My brain forces out the words. “Why now? It’s family night.”
Something flickers across Nia’s face. Whether it’s hurt or amusement, I can’t tell.
I clench my hands into fists and force them back. I control the Messages.
“Everyone in Candor is our extended family.” Dad lifts his hand as if to pat her head again, then thinks twice. He jams his hand in his pocket instead. “And she needs some focused studying time.”
Nia lets out a big sigh. “No Scrabble for me tonight.”
I can’t tell if she’s sad or not. My eyes drift down to the white gauze of her shirt. Not as see-through as you’d imagine. Or hope.
“Go get your schoolbooks,” Dad says. “I’ll get Nia set up in the dining room.”
This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for Nia. Doing homework with my father watching isn’t going to lead to anything entertaining. But it’s better than a regular Saturday night. So I grab my calc and chem books and hurry back downstairs.
When I get there, Dad’s standing at the front door. He’s holding a small green paper bag with brown handles. The Candor crest is on the side.
“I have a delivery to make,” he says.
Only one thing goes in those bags: custom booster music. Dad never lets anyone else deliver them. He likes to jaw with the parents for a while when he drops them off. Then they play the music together. I think he likes to watch kids change, right in front of him.
He could be gone for hours.
Still, it must be pretty urgent to interrupt family night. I wonder if it’s Sherman. But what do I care? He just gave me a solo Saturday night with Nia.
It’s terrifying. And I can’t wait.
“See you later,” I say.
“Be good, son,” he says. His usual good-bye.
Nia’s got a book open on the table. She’s highlighting it yellow. It makes her look like a Candor girl chasing a perfect GPA. For a second, she reminds me of Mandi.
Then she shows me the book with a twinkly smile. “Look. My new masterpiece.”
There’s a yellow checkerboard pattern across the two pages. I don’t think it has anything to do with the exciting chapter about the nature of savanna climates.
“Never destroy school property,” I say. Or my brain says. Another Message, flying out of my mouth.
Her smile fades. She sets the book down and flips the page. “You missed a good time in the sprinklers,” she says.
An image of her dancing naked in the water pops in my head. But even my imagination refuses to put me there next to her.
“You’re mad.” I worried that she would be. Then I told myself I shouldn’t care.
But I do.
“Not mad, not surprised,” she says.
“Fine. Sorry. I just had to go.”
“I stayed there for an hour,” she says. “The sprinklers never turned off.”
A fresh swell of guilt fills my gut. I could have switched the sprinklers off, at least. Or told Mandi to do it.
“But then I peeked under my boot. It was all gone. Without me even knowing, it washed away.” She streaks her highlighter in a new pattern on the book.
I don’t know what to say. I sit in the chair across from her. Pick up her earth-science book. It’s the easiest science course Candor offers.
“They’re making me repeat a bunch of stuff,” she says. “I pretty much missed the last two years of high school.”
“Where were you?” Although I pretty much know.
“Places you’ve never been.” She tries to smile, like it’s a joke. But her lips tremble. She stares at the table.
“I could help you catch up,” I offer.
“You’d have to keep me awake first.” Her smile makes my mouth go dry.
“I … could try.” Weak, Oscar. Weak.
“Was tonight your idea?” she asks. “Did you make your father do this?”
“No. But he told me we have to hang out.” Great. Make her think you don’t want to be with her, Oscar. Can I say anything right tonight?
Her eyebrows flick up and down. “So you’re the positive influence my mother was talking about.”
“That’s me. Pretty ironic, huh?”
She shrugs. “Not really. Seems like you’re pretty good at being good.”
“I’m only good when it’s useful.” I toss the book on the floor. “Screw this.”
“Okay, then.” She slaps her book shut and leans back in the chair. Crosses her arms and stares at me.
“What?”
“What next, rebel boy?”
“Um.” I can think of a few things I’ve done with plenty of girls. But none of them seem right with her. I don’t know where to start.
“How long until he’s back?” she asks.
“Hours, if we’re lucky.” Twenty minutes if we’re not.
“Then let’s start with the grand tour.” She slides her palm over the glossy table. Her fingers leave streaks. “I want to see opulence.”
“Big word. I bet you’re good at Scrabble.”
“Dad’s an English professor. There’s too much pressure. When I was six, I ate the X tile.” She mimes popping something in her mouth and swallowing.
“I ate the yellow guy from Candyland in kindergarten,” I tell her. I’d forgotten until now. “Well, half of him. Just the head, really.”
She laughs. A real laugh. It makes me think of strawberries and bubbles.
We start in the laundry room. I show her the panel that controls all the lights and music in the house. The digital readout says Dad’s Music Mix 9 is playing. Your basic reinforcement Messages. “Music. Minimum volume,” I say.
The house goes quiet—almost. You can barely hear the music. It’s possible to ignore it, if you want. Though your subconscious will keep listening.
Nia rolls her head back and closes her eyes. Her shoulders sag. “Thank you. I’m so sick of music, all the time.”
“Are you listening to my music?”
She makes a face. “Yeah. My parents took all my good music away. So I’m stuck with yours.”
“Good. Keep listening.”
The jazz is decent. “You have good taste, even if you are a positive influence.”
I show her the oven that refrigerates food until it’s ready to cook. The pantry with shelves that light up when a box gets too light—time to replace it. Upstairs, we stop by the home theater with the massage chairs.
“Where’s your room?” she asks.
“It’s not exciting.” But she insists, so I show her. White walls. Twin bed. A desk with plenty of room for thick textbooks.
She looks for a minute. “It’s basic.” Her voice is too nice, like she feels sorry for me.
“It used to be great,” I tell her. “There were these model train tracks hanging from the ceiling, and a bed shaped like a caboose.”
“What happened?”
“I grew up.” And people weren’t touring our house anymore.
She walks over to my desk. “It’s so empty.”
“It doesn’t matter.” The shed is my real hideout now.
“I could paint something for you. Or draw something on the wall,” she says.
“That’s, um, nice of you,” I say. Surprised, I guess. And wondering what my father would do if a piece of art showed up in our house.
“Or not.” She rolls her eyes.
But then she spots it. A corner of paper showing below the Yale calendar on my wall. Her drawing, where my dad would never notice.
“You kept it.” She yanks down the calendar. “You liked it.”
“You’re a crazy stalker,” I tell her.
“Crazy artist stalker.” She’s got a smile on her face that I bet tastes like champagne.
I pin the calendar back up. “Come on. My dad won’t be gone forever.”
We finish the tour in Dad’s bathroom. It’s bigger than our kitchen back in Chicago, with countertops ripped from some mountain in Brazil. Nia pushes the button to turn on the shower. We watch all thirty jets pulse water against the tiny Italian tiles.
The noise fills my head. Pushes everything else out. Whatever I say belongs to me. I can be the guy with the orange paint can.
“It’s made for two people,” I tell her. “I could show you.”
She gives me a shove. “You talk to your girlfriend that way?”
“She never notices. We’re not … like that.”
“Show me the backyard.” Nia pushes past me. Before I know it, she’s at the sliding-glass doors at the back of the house.
The backyard is the one place I don’t want to be with her. Or anyone.
“Maybe we should study,” I shout.
But she’s already gone outside.
SHE’S STARING AT the pool when I catch up. “Why did you waste my time with the pervy shower? It’s amazing out here.”
I swallow. The spit barely slides down.
Nia looks up at the porch ceiling. “Hey, house. Turn some lights on.” Nothing happens.
“Lighting,” I say. “Backyard. Mid-level ambience. Spots on the trees.”
Her eyes get huge as the lights brighten and fade to their new settings. “It’s like you have a movie set in your backyard.”
Our pool is top-of-the-line. There are two waterfalls, and an island in the middle with a built-in cooler. It’s exactly what you would expect Campbell Banks to have in his backyard. Unless you knew his family history. But nobody knows that here. Nobody but him. And me.
“Are these real?” Nia skips over to the boulders around the edge of the water. I follow. Slowly.
“They’re fake.” I run my finger over the bumpy, cool surface. “It took three men a month to sculpt them.”
She sits on the edge of the water and unlaces her ripped black sneakers. Then she slides her feet in the water, toes pointed. “You must swim here every day.”
“We never use it.” I can see the red ambulance lights, bouncing off another pool’s water. I take one step back. Then another.
“Liar!” She flips her foot back and water spots my shirt.
“Careful!” I jump back another step. But I still don’t feel safe.
“Do you fill it with acid?” She laughs.
“We aren’t big swimmers.” My voice cracks, and I have to look away. I squeeze my eyes shut. Don’t cry. Don’t think about it.
It helps until I open my eyes and see the brick patio. Old Chicago bricks, from our last place. I never understood why Mom made Dad bring them here.
Dad cried the day they were delivered. That was the day he started playing the Messages.
“What’s wrong?” Her voice is gentle.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Let’s talk over here.” I walk over and perch on the edge of a wicker lounge chair. But she doesn’t move.
“You want to talk?” she says. “Then come put your feet in.”
She stirs the water with her feet. Flashes of black-painted toe-nails. Pale skin, almost white under the water.
I shake my head.
“Sit,” she says. “That’s all.”
So I sit next to her. I sit so close, our hips touch.
“My name isn’t Mandi.” She edges away.
“You want me to sit or not?” I meant to sound tough. But my voice cracks.
She comes closer. “Put your feet in.”
“I don’t swim.”
Then she squeezes my hand tight, just once, and lets go. “I’ll keep you safe.”
I’m nervous. So nervous I barely notice the five seconds of hand-holding.
The water doesn’t own me. Nothing will happen. I can take care of myself.
I kick off my sandals. Slide my feet into the pool. It’s warm. Soft. My muscles relax, just a little. “I never knew it was heated.”
“It’s nice,” she says. “Dad
filled my pool with a hose, when I was little. We got it for five bucks at the grocery store.”
I risk a kick. Watch the water fly off my toes.
“So you like my drawing?” she asks. Shy, for once.
“It’s amazing.” I wish I could make something from nothing. But all I do is work the system. I take what’s been dealt and do my best.
“I can teach you,” she says.
“Don’t bother.” It’s not supposed to sound mean.
But she bites her lip and looks away.
I feel like I owe her an explanation. “My mother tried, for years. But my brother was the artistic one.”
“You have a brother? Where do you keep him, under a rock?” She thumps one of the boulders. It makes a hollow thud.
“I don’t have a brother. Not anymore.” Or ever, as far as anyone in Candor knows. I pull one foot out of the water and hug my knee close. I don’t know why I told her that.
“Is that why you hate the water?” she asks.
My legs feel heavy. Like they could pull the rest of me in the pool. And the rest of my body doesn’t care.
I slide my foot back in.
“I mean, I do have a brother.” It feels good to say it. I haven’t told anyone here about Winston. “But he’s dead.”
Nia doesn’t say anything. Nothing about being sorry, or any of those other awkward things people said to me at the funeral. She just looks at me. Patient. Like she knows there’s more I want to say.
There is more. It’s all been protected inside me. Waiting for someone to listen. Someone who won’t say I’m crazy.
So I tell her.
I tell her why we’d never used our diving board or gone in the pool. I tell her how I never got to open my birthday presents that day. We spent the day at the hospital. And then we went home, without him. Mom started crying. She never really stopped.
Not until we moved here.
When I finish, she finally speaks. “Do you hate him?”
“No.” Yes, sometimes. “I miss him.”
“Of course you miss him.” She shrugs. “But your whole life would have been different if he’d just done a cannonball.”
“Or stayed out of the pool.”
