by Pam Bachorz
“At least it has lots of vitamin D,” I say. An apology, like even fruit is a dangerous indulgence.
Dad shakes his head but he doesn’t say anything. I lead him to the same outside table where we sat on our first day as a family of two. The wicker chairs have been replaced since then. And the trees around Lake Lulu are taller now.
We eat without talking.
I want to know what will happen when I leave. I know some things for sure: he’ll send out people to look for me. And eventually he’ll use the Messages to make people forget I ever existed.
But how will he feel? Will he choose to forget me, too?
“Will you miss me when I go to Yale?” I ask.
Like all those years ago, his eyes are glued to the lake. “You’ll be home for the holidays.”
“It’ll be quiet without me, right?” Maybe as quiet as it was after Winston was gone. The house was silent. All I could hear was my breathing. I hated the sound. I hated me, hogging all the oxygen, when Winston didn’t have any, didn’t need any.
“I’ll manage.” Dad shrugs.
Still, I can’t help pushing. In four more days, I’m gone. I want to know how much it will hurt.
Because part of me thinks I’ll miss him a lot.
“What if I stay away?” I ask. “I could go to a friend’s house for Christmas.”
A small confident smile parts his mouth. His lips are coated in vanilla frozen yogurt, the liquid settling in the lines. “Children always come home to Candor, sooner or later.”
The same words are in my brain, waves reminding me in an even rhythm. A Message that everyone hears and believes.
Pretty soon Candor will have a lot of overambitious kids with fancy degrees, wanting to move back in with Mommy and Daddy.
But the right Message can fix almost anything. He’ll figure it out.
“I’ll miss you,” I say. Trying to keep it casual. But having to say it.
“You’ll be fine,” Dad says. He scrapes his spoon around the bottom of the cup, getting every last bit.
I’ll miss fooling him. Being perfect when I choose it but letting him think he made me that way. But I won’t miss the fear. The wondering: What if he finds out? What will he do? Will my brain survive it?
“I’ll be fine,” I tell Dad. “I know I will be.” We don’t stay long. There’s not much to talk about. He’s got work to do.
And I’ve got an escape to get ready for.
MOST PEOPLE PACK when they’re leaving.
Not me. Everything I’ll need is waiting outside. I have a fat offshore bank account—which wasn’t easy to get. The first kid I asked to set it up stole all my money. But the second kid did his job. Now I have a pile of green security ready for me.
And my clients are in every major city, grateful. Ready to help in any way. They’ll get us fake IDs. Disguises. A place to live.
I don’t have to pack. I have to destroy what I’m leaving behind, so nobody can follow us or find us.
Getting past Dad’s cameras is boring and takes too long. I just tell my new best friend, Sherman, what to do.
The phone rings just as it’s getting dark—exactly the time I told him. “Can you come over and study?” he asks.
Dad is staring. “Sherman doesn’t understand the Krebs Citric Acid Cycle,” I explain.
He takes the phone. “Let me talk to his parents.”
They make the appropriate adult noises and he lets me leave.
When I get to the shed, I pull open the door to my stash. The faint, familiar smell wafts out: chocolate and the oiliness of electronics gear stuffed in close quarters.
First I pull out the magazines. Rip the pages and crumple into balls. Pile in the middle of the floor.
Good tinder.
Next come the electronics. They won’t burn like paper. But if the fire’s hot enough, they should melt. Nobody will know what the plastic blobs used to be.
But I jump on them, just to be sure. Crack them into pieces beneath my feet. DVD players. Games. The blank CDs I used for all my Messages. I’ve made the ones for our escape already.
I don’t need these things anymore.
Even Nia’s museum goes in the pile. I’ll take her to see the real paintings soon.
Then I pull out the one bottle of liquor that’s left. And some gasoline, the real stuff, left from the gardeners who mow the lawn. One of the ribbons hanging from the rafters makes a decent wick.
I jam the stopper back in the bottle and take one last look. My secret place. The one place where I didn’t have to be perfect. I brought clients here. Then I sent them away.
Are they happy? I’ve never wondered before.
I step into the yard and lift the lighter, but then I see a shadow by the pool. A person-shaped shadow, sitting, watching me.
Flick the lighter off. Set the bottle down slowly, slowly, behind a bush. Get ready to run.
The shadow stands up and comes toward me, graceful and tall.
“Nia?” It comes out too quiet for her to hear.
She stops close to me, closer than polite. Lifts a single finger and lays it over my lips. It’s soft and warm.
Sherman really gave her the CDs. I didn’t realize how nervous I was until now. Joy fills me, sudden and hot.
This plan will actually work.
“The TAG patrol is coming back soon,” Nia whispers. Her finger falls off my lip. “You’d better hurry.”
There’s a badge gleaming on her chest. “Aren’t you the patrol?”
“Yes. And I’d better start doing my job soon.”
“Why are you here?” I ask. “To bust me?”
“You told me you would be here when I was ready.”
She was listening. Joy fills me. Makes me brave. “Do you remember?” I ask.
She comes even closer. Her breath brushes my cheek. “Some things.”
My Messages have certain instructions.
Where and when to meet me the night we leave. That she can’t tell anybody. And to meet me here, if she can.
She’s coming back to life, all because of my Messages. The ones she hated me for giving her, before. The reason we broke up.
We have to leave before she realizes what I’ve done. I’ll explain after we’re gone. Maybe in the real world she’ll understand.
Or at least not leave me.
“Will you be there?” I ask.
She nods. I put my hand on her cheek and lean in. This time she won’t throw me in the pool.
But she jumps back. “What are you doing?”
She’s not all changed—not yet.
“I have to finish something. Stay here.” I go back to the bush and pull out the bottle. Walk back to where she’s standing, watching. Her hands are tucked in her back pockets, her elbows sticking out on either side like wings.
She should leave. What if she gets the urge to tell?
“Can I light it?” Nia asks.
“How did you know what I’m doing?” I ask.
“I think I used to do bad things,” she whispers. “A long time ago.”
I never want to tell her no again, but my hand spasms around the bottle. This is something I have to do.
“Next time,” I tell her.
She laughs. Too loud: it echoes off the pool, the brick pavers. Announces we’re here.
“Step back. Go back to the pool and be ready to run.”
“I remember swimming with you,” she says. “But not here. Was it real?”
“Yes.” I smile, remembering that night. “You made me do it.”
“You made me do things, too—didn’t you?”
“I’m sorry.” I’m still controlling her. But I can’t tell her now.
“It wasn’t all bad.” Her voice is low, sexy. I reach out to touch her, but she turns away. Walks to edge of the pool and stands at the edge. Watching.
The pool is my emergency exit. If things go faster than I think, I’ll—we’ll—dive in there. I hate swimming, but I hate bursting into flames even more.
It won’t take long for the fire trucks to come. Dad built Candor its own fire station, just in case. Probably this wasn’t the fire he was worried about.
But Dad’s always ready for anything to happen.
I hold the bottle high and away from my face. Check the wick. It’s wet. Waiting.
One flick of the lighter and the wick is burning. I hurl it into the middle of the shed. It lands right in the middle of my pile. Liquid fire flies in every direction.
It’s done.
I should run. Follow the plan. But now that I’ve done it, I realize it hurts. I’m burning a friend. The place that hid me and let me be real.
And there’s no going back.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
There’s still our place in the woods. I won’t touch that. It’ll stay out there, hidden. Even if someone finds it, they won’t see the memories we made there.
The flames are spreading now, crawling along the liquid gas trails I left behind. Smoke is coming off the shingles. The inside of the shed glows orange, like an oven.
I hear sirens. “Come on!” Nia shouts. The fence slams shut. She’s gone.
Something ugly crawls into me. Anger? Jealousy? She left without me. Shouldn’t we have stayed together?
No. She’s safe. That’s what matters.
Even if it hurts me.
One last look and I finally turn to go.
There’s nothing left now except for running.
I GET HOME without seeing anybody, taking alleys and boardwalks through the woods. The fire trucks zoom down the main streets, their red lights bouncing between houses to light up the pavement I’m walking on.
Lights flick on in houses when the sirens come close. I imagine everyone rushing to their front windows—away from the windows where they could look out and see me.
We don’t get a lot of fires in Candor—brainwashed people tend to be good about fire safety, if they’re told to be. This will be the event of the week—maybe even the month.
Dad’s NEV is gone when I get home. I walk right in the front door. Safe.
Then I remember. There are cameras everywhere. Now I’m on tape, coming in after curfew. Almost an hour past it.
I could try to make excuses. Studying ran late. I stopped to watch the fire trucks. Pretty red lights distract me.
But there’s no room for suspicion. Not now. I want this to be an easy, clean getaway. Don’t need Dad making things hard.
I have to find that video. And destroy it.
It’s not in the wire closet where the rest of the house equipment is. But I know where to look: Dad hides everything in his study.
There’s a new filing cabinet next to his desk. It’s locked. But that’s not a problem. I borrow the nail file from his top desk drawer and I’m in.
The drawer holds a small black box. It’s the same one he showed me the other morning. But that’s all. No wires, no tapes, no central command system. When something is that simple, it’s hard to believe it’s dangerous.
I settle into the giant leather chair in the corner, by the electric fireplace. The cushions feel stiff, like he’s never had time to use it.
“Showtime,” I whisper. Then I flip the screen up and watch.
It’s all on there. Six sections, one for each camera. I check the one labeled FRONT. And there I am, walking in the door with a big stupid grin on my face. I practically skip toward the camera until I’ve escaped its range.
I switch to the KITCHEN section. It picks up where the other left off. I look nervous in the video. It’s easy to tell I’m worried.
There’s a section for my bedroom, my bathroom, and the hallway. But two places don’t have video: Dad’s bedroom and the study. Guess he thinks he doesn’t need monitoring. Besides, who’d watch it?
Nobody ever checks to see if Dad is being naughty.
But I could.
How long do I have? There aren’t any sirens outside anymore. It’s been a while. He could come home soon. And if he catches me here, with his box …
I’d miss my appointment with Frank. Too busy having my brain turned to goo.
Five minutes. I’ll see if I can catch him being bad—or just human—for five minutes. Then I’ll erase my part and be done.
I’ll have to find him somewhere with cameras, alone. I slide my thumb and watch the week slide by. It’s a lot of empty house, and some of me. I find a few shots of Dad reading his paper. Sipping his coffee. Flip the page. Sip. Flip.
“How do you like being spied on?” I ask the screen. But there’s nothing private. Not like me brushing my teeth or being alone in my room. I want something more.
Then I remember: his study is next to the front entry and he leaves his door open sometimes. Talks loud on the phone.
I might be able to hear him.
Slide to last night. I made turkey cutlets. He ate. I washed dishes. He went to his study. I remember I could hear him blabbing about gas prices and lawn mowers on the phone.
The hall is empty in the video. I turn the volume up. Dad got the fancy kind of surveillance: there’s even sound.
“Doubling their rates!” Dad’s fake-o Southern twang echoes a little, but it’s clear. Too loud, even.
“Have to look elsewhere … people don’t want their fees going up …” Boring.
Wonder what he said when they called him about my little fire? I’ll bet that was loud enough to pick up. I jump to the video from tonight. There’s me again. Rewind. An empty hall.
“So it was a routine inspection?” Dad’s voice. Quieter.
Silence, like he’s listening to someone on the phone. Then mumbling. I adjust the volume again.
“You got the little bastard. Er, brat.” Dad’s voice is so loud I think he’s in the room with me. I hit pause.
Who’s he talking about, and what’d they do? The only bad thing in Candor is me. Did Dad find out about the graffiti? Or worse—my CDs?
He could be here any second. How long does it take to put a fire out and tell people not to worry?
Not long enough. It’s dumb to be sitting here, doing this.
But I can’t stop now. I want to know what he’s talking about. And I’m good at making excuses. I can handle him if he catches me.
So I watch some more.
“A dozen? And they all said the same thing?”
My CDs. He found my CDs. My stomach is burning. I gag.
“Must have ripped them out of the notebook and tossed them,” Dad says. “Odd that your staff didn’t catch the kid writing that stuff.”
No. It’s not the CDs. But what?
Dad laughs, so loud the speakers make a metallic buzz. “Handwriting analysis won’t be necessary.”
Silence, every second making me sweat. When you’re the only bad boy in town, it’s a good guess any catching will involve you.
“We’ll just meet them there. They gave us directions.” Laughing again, so hard that he must be crying. “Mile marker two-forty-seven on Thursday morning. It couldn’t be easier.”
Those are my directions. The ones I fed to Nia in the Messages.
She’s the only one who knows them besides me. And I haven’t been writing them down anywhere.
She’s betrayed me.
Dad is still talking. “Don’t worry, Charles. Once we fix this kid, we’ve fixed the town.”
He knows. Not everything—but enough.
“Good job on this,” Dad says. “Now the rest is up to us. We’re going hunting on Thursday.”
The only safe thing to do is to stay. I’ll be alone again. Stuck seeing the shell of the one girl who loved the real me.
Headlights through the window. Dad’s home.
I panic. There’s a reformat command on the player. I make the selection and toss it back in the drawer. Race into the hallway and to the kitchen.
The door opens ten seconds later. He’s home.
And I’m stuck here with him.
TWO DAYS LATER. Midnight.
Everything is ready.
A backpack with two players, loaded with the right Messages. Food. Water. Enough of everything to get us out safely.
But Nia ruined everything.
She probably didn’t mean to do it. I pushed so many Messages in her brain, they had to come out somewhere. So she put them on paper.
Paper they found.
If I leave the house, Dad’s cameras will catch it.
But it’s Thursday. I can’t stay here. She knows where to go, what time to be there. My Messages will get her caught.
I won’t let that happen.
Beep-beep-beep. Slam.
Dad’s left the house. I look out the window. He’s halfway to his NEV, moving fast. He can’t wait to catch his special someone. That kid who’s been messing with his perfect product.
It’s too late to get ahold of our ride, to tell him to come later or sooner or another day. He’ll be there, at 2:15.
Dad will be there, waiting. He and his loyal employees, hunting.
But they won’t catch us. I’ll find a way to get us out.
We’ll go to a safe place where Nia can heal. Eventually she’ll remember who she really is.
There’s only one path to our meeting place. I go quick and quiet. If anyone’s lurking, I’ll hear it.
But there’s nobody except me. They must be doing this the easy way. Just waiting where Nia’s paper told them to go.
I get to the hunting stand. A wood platform is nailed high in the trees, with wood slats leading up to it. Hunters—the real kind—put it there, years before Dad made Candor. They’d sit for hours and watch. Hoping for one clean shot.
It’s cool out tonight. I wish I brought my sweatshirt for Nia.
The woods are quiet. No frogs singing tonight. Too cold for them, I guess. Maybe they’re hibernating. Or maybe they’re dead.
Something streaks past me, so close I could touch it. I duck low. But then I hear a long squeak down on the ground. It was an owl. More hunting. A mouse dying.
At least the owl does it to survive.
Then I see someone’s head, covered, bobbing down the path. The leaves rattle. If it’s Nia, she’s not good at being quiet. Or she doesn’t know how dangerous this is.
The person stops and looks around, then pushes her hood back.
It’s Nia. My breath goes short and unsteady while I watch.
