Candor

by Pam Bachorz

  “I shouldn’t—I was going to study—there’s a math quiz—” Her mouth makes excuses, but she’s standing up anyway. Still holding her tray.

  Some part of her wants to be with me. “Ditch the tray,” I tell her. “Right there on the table.” She obeys. But she can’t stop looking back. “Someone else will clean it up. They always do,” I tell her. Wanting her to let it go. Just be a tiny bit bad. Show me more real Nia.

  “Oscar Banks is a superior person. I guess if you do it, then it’s okay,” she says. Quiet and confused.

  Chess boy will probably take care of it. Maybe have my fork bronzed.

  She follows me across the street to the park. We walk over the grass to the big tree. The place where we sat and she drew me.

  It’s not as hot today. The sky is bright blue, without any clouds. The only sound is a plane droning high up in the sky. And the squeak of kids’ highlighters as they study.

  “Let’s sit,” I say.

  Nia frowns at the grass. “I just washed these pants.”

  I swallow a wave of disappointment. Pull a folder out of my backpack. Paleomagnetism, the label reads. I think I was supposed to study this stuff last night for a test. But I lost track of time at the shed.

  When I drop the folder on the grass, she sits.

  I nestle my crazy risk-taking butt in the grass. Unlace one of my shoes.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “The grass feels good between your toes. Someone told me that once.”

  Blank stare tinged with fear. Fear of the crazy boy she so trustingly followed out to the park.

  “Never mind.” I tie the shoe back up.

  “Birds bite.” She tilts her head back and scans the sky. “Biting. Biting.”

  She’s crazy, just like Sherman. Ruined.

  No. I’m going to change that.

  “The birds here are safe,” I tell her. “All their teeth have been removed.”

  “Really?” Her smile is still so beautiful, if you don’t look closely at her eyes.

  “Nothing can hurt you in Candor.” Except my father.

  And me. Me, who lied to her. Should have warned her sooner. If I’d been honest, maybe we would have broken up. Maybe she would have made me help her leave.

  But she’d still be safe.

  She’d still be special.

  I was wrong to be afraid of all the other possibilities.

  “I have a present for you.” I pull out the folded paper in my pocket and hand it to her. “Open it when you’re alone.”

  Her mouth drops open, slack. She cradles the paper in both hands.

  “Why?” A sharp word again. I savor it. But I don’t answer.

  The warning bell rings. All around us, kids cram their books into backpacks. Five minutes to class. My feet want to go, too.

  The great are never late.

  It’s easy to push that one back, with Nia in front of me. She always made it easy to ignore what I’m supposed to do.

  Nia hasn’t moved. She’s staring at her cupped hands. “A present from Oscar,” she breathes. “A present for me.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Oscar Banks is a superior person,” she says. “He is a shining example.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

  She picks it up in one hand. Starts unfolding with the other.

  “For later. Not now,” I warn her.

  But she ignores me. Guess if my orders aren’t buried in classical music, she doesn’t feel obliged to listen.

  Just one second of looking and she crumples it in a ball. “Art is a disease! Art is filthy!” she says in a low, shocked voice.

  Then she throws it into the bushes. And instantly jumps to her feet to go get it. Must not litter.

  It’s the drawing she taped to my window—the one I hung in our museum. I hoped it would make her remember. Make her want to fight. But I haven’t seen someone hate art so much since Mom started to change. It only took a few days before she realized what Dad was doing to her. Stealing my brother’s memory, and her heart.

  Then she was gone.

  “No littering. I hate art. No littering,” Nia mutters.

  Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.

  “I hoped you’d like it,” I tell her. “Maybe if you keep looking at it, you’ll like it.”

  She gives one tiny shake of her head.

  I had hoped for more. Something dramatic. But now I see that was stupid. What did I think was going to happen? She’d look at it and be cured? Muss up her hair, cut class, and take me to the woods?

  She’s got the crumpled ball in her hand. Tosses it from one hand to the other, like it’s hot. “Why did you do that?”

  “I want to be happy. I mean … I want you to be happy.”

  Cheek twitch. Eye twitch. Cheek twitch. “You’re bad.” Her voice is shaky. “Bad like birds. Birds with teeth.”

  You used to like that, I want to tell her. You even liked my teeth on your skin, sometimes.

  “Don’t get near me,” she says. “I can’t—don’t—want to talk to you again.”

  “That’s not very nice.” But it makes me happy, in a sick way. She’s being rude. And that’s nothing like a good Candor girl.

  “I don’t think you deserve nice.”

  Nia doesn’t say good-bye. Just walks away, slow, but every step firm. She knows where she’s supposed to be.

  She slams the paper into the first trash can she passes.

  I should start forgetting. I should get back to my normal life. The one where I was in control of everything. Where I was safe.

  But I can’t take my eyes off her as she stumbles away. Broken, brainwashed Nia.

  I love her. Still, even like this.

  I WANT TO make it happen again.

  Nia stopped being perfect, for a few seconds. If I could make it happen more—string those seconds closer, make them longer—I feel like I could get my girl back.

  And I will make that happen.

  I go to the shed. Pry open the wall behind the double stainless-steel sink. The bag is nearly full. I don’t sneak even one into my mouth.

  They’re all for Nia now.

  The walk home is quiet. I stare up at the stars. They’re farther away than the ones on my ceiling. But they’re more beautiful, because they’re where they belong.

  Maybe I should have made Nia go, early on. Helped her get where she would shine. But I was selfish. It makes me mad. At me. At my father. At the Messages.

  I walk past a squat green speaker, half-hidden in the bushes. It’s not on at night. But I still hate it. I give it a hard kick.

  It doesn’t move. But my toes throb. A sliver of pain reminds me of the bandage I’m still wearing on my foot.

  I’m nearly home when I hear the squeak of a sneaker behind me. “There’s a curfew.” The voice is familiar, but wrong somehow. Changed.

  I shove the bag deeper in my pants pocket and turn around.

  He shines a light straight in my eyes. “TAG patrol.”

  “Drop it,” I tell Sherman.

  But he keeps it steady. I bat at the light. It swings away. There’s a cracking noise when it hits the sidewalk.

  “Gosh darn it all!” Sherman drops to his knees to grab the light. But my foot gets to it first.

  Plunk. Into the storm sewer.

  “Better run home and get another one,” I say.

  Sherman stands and smoothes the front of his sweatshirt. It has three letters across the chest: TAG. “Why’d you do that?” he asks. “I said I was on patrol.”

  “Why, exactly? To blind people with flashlights?”

  “Teens Against Graffiti keeps your streets beautiful. Anyone can join us.” He says it so smoothly, I wonder if Dad has made a Message to help Mandi’s pet project. “I’m sorry about the light. We should never harm others.”

  What a good boy, spouting Messages. He’s doing better than when I saw him in the ER. No shakes. No crazy talk. He’s a fully functioning produc
t of Candor.

  His face has changed the most. The squinty weasel look and smirk are missing. They ironed him out into a smooth Candor boy.

  Is his brain missing all the wrinkles, too? Does he remember anything?

  Sherman mutters something. His arms flap at his sides like he’s a penguin roaming the streets in Candor. I was wrong. He’s still living in crazy town.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. The Messages want me to care. But I don’t, not really. Not much.

  “Have you seen my secrets?” he asks.

  “Uh—no.” Let’s hope they stay gone, too.

  “Slippery shiny silver secrets.” Sherman holds both hands up, with his fingers in a round shape. Like a CD. “I only need one. It’s special. I just don’t … remember….”

  Even the Listening Room didn’t make me safe. I should have personally shoved the kid in the back of Frank’s truck. Made sure he was gone forever.

  “I have to go,” I tell him. Before seeing me shakes something else loose in his brain.

  “No! State—” Sherman clears his throat. “State your business. Or I’ll call you in.”

  My fists clench like they’ve got their own memories. I came so close to beating him into the squishy Florida sod that night.

  It would still feel good.

  A walkie-talkie crackles on his waist. He grabs it and meets my eyes for the first time. “Patrol three, POI,” he says into the radio. “Hostile.”

  Maybe I should be scared. But it’s Mandi’s little club. How dangerous could they be? Will they petition me to death?

  But they could tell on me. No need for Dad to know I was out tonight. So maybe I need to stick around until I come up with a good excuse.

  Then I’ll be free.

  A girl’s voice answers. “Maintain position. I’m two blocks away.”

  Not just any girl. Mandi. All my special friends are out tonight.

  “Bringing in the big boss, huh?” I ask.

  When Mandi rounds the corner, his head swivels to watch. Her pink sweatshirt has sparkles that catch the streetlights. Either her jogging shoes are brand-new or she spent an hour scrubbing away every mark.

  I slide my hand in my pocket. Make sure my secret is still safe. Yes. My fingers slide over the little bumps, feel the pieces move in the bag.

  “There’s a curfew,” Mandi says. Her eyes flick over me.

  “So why aren’t you home?” I ask her. “Surely there’s some kind of quiz tomorrow.”

  “Our community is in jeopardy,” she says. “Besides, I did my homework in study hall.”

  “What a relief. Yale almost slipped between your fingers.”

  “Yale likes a well-rounded student.” Her smile is smug.

  “They big on running fake police patrols these days?”

  Sherman fumbles with his sweatshirt pocket. “We’re not the police. We’re TAG.”

  “You mentioned that,” I tell him.

  He’s still trying to yank something out. A rabbit? A gun? I can’t help laughing.

  “For gosh sake,” Mandi snaps. Then she reaches into his pocket and pulls out a gold badge. Dangles it in front of his nose.

  Sherman looks surprised. “Always be courteous,” he reminds her.

  Mandi rolls her eyes and sucks in a deep breath. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  He takes it and licks his lips. Lifts his chin so our eyes meet and holds the badge high. But it shakes in his hand. The boy’s scared of me.

  “TAG patrol,” he says loudly.

  A dog barks in the house behind us. Sherman jumps and the badge flops to the sidewalk.

  Mandi picks it up and puts it in her pocket.

  “He seems a little off,” I tell Mandi.

  “Yeah.” She looks at Sherman. “Ever since he … went away—things have been different.”

  “You love him?” The question pops out of my mouth like it’s a Message that’s been waiting for the perfect moment. I didn’t even know it was in me.

  Her face softens into a smile. She looks at him like he’s sculpted from gold. “Sherman Golub is my destiny.”

  “I don’t know why you like me,” Sherman says. He’s smiling back, all melty. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”

  The Listening Room gave him what he wanted. Sherman has no idea why Mandi wants him. But he knows it can’t be for real, still. I feel a little sorry for him.

  Mandi’s radio beeps. Snookums staring time is over. She steps away to talk into the radio. The only person left for Sherman to stare at is me.

  And he looks a little too hard. “What’s that?” Sherman points at my pocket.

  At the corner of the brown bag sticking out. Leave it to Sherman to sniff out food.

  “Nothing.” I jam it back in.

  But sweet little Mandi drops her radio and shoves her hand in my pocket.

  I yank her arm away. But she’s got the bag. It slips out of her hand and smacks onto the sidewalk. The rubber band holding it closed snaps.

  All my precious M&M’s go rolling for the sewer.

  “No!” I’m on my knees, saving them, all of them, for her.

  But Mandi is there, too. Pushing them away. Shoving them into the drain. They rain into the water below. The sound is too loud for such tiny little things.

  “Chocolate is bad for you,” she says. Firm, like she’s my mother. “It makes you fat, and it gives you zits, and it’s not nutritious.”

  Combine a former beauty queen with the Messages and you have an anti-chocolate crusader. I’m surprised there hasn’t been a petition.

  “I need them.” I scrabble away from her on the sidewalk, but she pushes forward on her hands and knees. Like a tiger hunting.

  She slaps at my hand and it opens. Traitor. All of them gone, in the grass.

  Sherman joins on the fun, stomping on them. Smashing my hope into multicolored bits on the grass.

  “Bad treats! No good!” he says.

  My face feels wet. Cold. Tears? Who put them there? Who let them come out, now?

  I never cry.

  Mandi’s voice is gentle. “It’s for the best.”

  “You don’t know how much I needed those,” I tell her.

  We’re sitting on the grass. Me flat on my wimp ass, breathing like I ran a race. Her on her knees. This time I’m the one who’s beat.

  She leans forward and places one cold hand on my cheek. “Addiction is an ugly thing,” she whispers.

  Our eyes meet and something tugs at me. I want to tell her.

  You don’t even know you’re hooked, Mandi Able.

  But her radio squawks again, something about litter in sector two. “Go home,” she says.

  My fingers find one lump in the grass. Two.

  A little dirty, maybe. But I can brush them off.

  “I’m going.” I wrap my fingers around the candy that melts in your mouth, not in your hands.

  Safe.

  “We won’t tell,” she says.

  I forgot to be afraid of that. As soon as I saw the candy rolling away, I knew what I was really afraid of. Losing my shot at making Nia remember.

  “But you always tell,” I say.

  “Let’s call it a favor.” Mandi looks at Sherman. “You can pay us back later.”

  “Secrets!” Sherman shouts.

  Mandi and I shush him at the same time.

  “Yes,” she says, her voice low. “Oscar will help us with the secrets.”

  That sounds like a bad idea. But she’s giving me an out and I need to take it.

  “Thanks,” I tell Mandi. “I’ll go home now.”

  I walk that way. They go the other way, together.

  I keep my fist tight around the two M&M’s I have left. All the way home.

  I FOLLOW NIA after school. She’s not riding her board anymore. Now she has a shiny pink NEV with white pinstripes and a license plate that reads SWEET.

  She said she doesn’t want to talk to me. That will make things harder. But I’ll find a way. Today.

&nbs
p; She’s alone. No friends to drop off. Just her, and me, going somewhere. Hopefully somewhere alone.

  Nia swings into a place right behind the post office. Then she’s out, holding a brown-wrapped package. Moving fast.

  Maybe nobody else will be near her. I have to try.

  I block in two big SUVs and follow. But not too close.

  The post office is a tall cylinder, painted blue with white metal awnings jutting over the doors and windows. Some famous architect designed it. Dad brags about it in all the brochures. Everything comes here: mail and boxes. No risky outsiders coming by our houses every day. No ugly mailboxes, either.

  People think they love picking up their mail. They say it’s old-fashioned community building.

  I say Dad thinks of everything. Almost.

  Nia heaves open one of the heavy doors and bounces inside. I check my pocket to make sure I still have what I need.

  It’s just Nia and me in the little lobby. The doors to the inside part are shut tight. This is my chance.

  “I miss you,” I say.

  Not what I planned. Not even on the top fifty opening lines. More like the bottom three.

  “Oscar?” Her hand shoots into her bag. I hear the crackle of paper. “I don’t want …”

  Can’t scare her. I rewind into normal. “Do you have change for a stamp?” I ask.

  It actually works. Candor kids can’t not be helpful. She sets down her box and rummages through the monogrammed tote. Pink letters and ribbons ring the edge.

  Can’t waste time. Someone could walk in any second.

  Closer. Closer. Soon I’m just a foot away. “Want to try something?” I ask.

  Great. First I sound pathetic. Now I sound like a pervy old man.

  “No more presents, please. Even if—” Her eyes move over my face. “Even if you’re Oscar Banks.”

  She holds the change out. I open my hand to accept it. The coins feel warm, as if they’ve been riding along in her pocket. I close my fingers around them slowly.

  Our eyes meet. Something shifts in her face. The sweetness drops for a second. She remembers something, I can tell.

  “Close your eyes,” I whisper.

  She obeys. Then her eyes pop open. “You do bad things.”

  What does she remember? Is this about the art I gave her at lunch? Or does she know something about our past? “Oscar Banks is a superior person,” I remind her.