I push through the crowd.
“Oscar! I’m having an SAT review party Saturday—”
“Can’t.” I push past.
Black T-shirt, straight ahead but moving fast. I up my pace.
Some interchangeable girl steps in front of me. “Is that a petition? May I sign it?”
I toss it to the beggar. “Keep it and get fifty more.”
I almost lose her. For a second, it’s only pastel and blank faces, but then she turns a corner and I catch a glimpse. A black cloud in a blue sky.
“Oscar, heads up!” Some idiot tosses me a baseball, like I’m his hallway shortstop. I bat it aside.
I’ve almost caught up. Now I totally ignore the kids talking, begging, kissing my butt. Rude is okay right now. My disguise doesn’t matter.
Talking to her matters.
Finally I get close. When she sees me, a slow smile stretches her mouth open. “Good morning, Picasso.”
“Don’t call me that. Don’t even think it.” I step so close, her nose almost touches my chin. My lips buzz with possibility.
Her smile fades and she tilts up her face. For a crazy second I think we’ll kiss, but then she takes a step back. “Scared I’ll tell?”
“We’d both be screwed.” The kids around us slow and stare.
I glance at my watch. “The great are never late.” The classic makes them nod and get moving again, away from hearing something that could get me in trouble.
“I have geology.” She tries to step back again, but the hall is too full and she stumbles.
I grab her before she can fall. I don’t let go. “I know it’s in your head. You think you have to tell. It’s like an itch, right?”
“Nobody knows what’s in my head.” Her eyes are wet. “Nobody’s invited.”
“Invite me.” I don’t mean it to sound cheesy, but it does.
“Spare me.” When she pulls her arm away, I don’t stop her. “That line can’t even work on the baby dolls here.”
“You’re not like them. That’s a good thing.” I’m late. Worried.
But she still tempts me.
She laughs. “Unlike you. It’s like you were made to match them.”
“Matching is boring.” I find my eyes on her lips again. No. Focus. Those lips could tell the truth. Get me in trouble.
I look at the lockers over her head. Cold. Metal. Like my brain should be right now. “You shouldn’t tell.”
“You shouldn’t have stolen the paint.” She arches an eyebrow.
“Don’t act like it’s all my fault. You practically dared me.”
“I told you to give it back. But you had to pretend you were a big bad boy.” A grin transforms her mouth to new lusciousness—then it’s gone. “Maybe you should be punished.”
How can I stop her? I close my eyes for a second. The Message is there, waiting. Then I see the loophole. “You don’t have to tell today.”
“Why not?”
“Because girls like you don’t rat. You’re better than that.” I don’t know if I’m right. But I hope I am. I want her to be that girl.
She gives a tiny shrug, bounces a little on her toes, and wraps her arms around herself. “You might be a little bit right.”
“Just wait until we can talk more. Please.” If I can get some time, I can make my own Message, something that will make sure she’ll keep my secret. Something that will keep her interesting, too. Until I can get her out of here, far away from anyone she can tell my secret to.
“Are you going to charm me like all the other acolytes?” she asks.
“Nice SAT word.” My cute-boy smile hits my face. A reflex. “Just come to the model homes on Sunday. I’ll be working in the Roxbury from ten until four. We’ll talk.”
“Fine. Okay.” She shakes her head like she’s disagreeing with herself. “If it’s not raining or anything.”
The bell rings. We’re both late. I walk one way. She goes the other. At least I know why I’m hurrying. She has no idea.
Two days of holding my breath. I wish it were sooner. But I need somewhere safe to talk to her, a place where nobody who matters will see us.
I’ll have to risk it. I’ll have to hope she’s rebel enough—or that some part of her wants to pick me instead of the words in her head.
The smart thing would be to run away.
But I’ve got promises to keep here. And I’ve always beat the Messages before.
But will she?
CANDOR IS MY dad’s dream come true. He bought a chunk of Florida swamp, far away from highways and cities. Planned a town with big houses on tiny lots. It would be old fashioned, a place where you left the door unlocked and knew all your neighbors. Potlucks and lemonade stands galore.
For years, my mother said he was crazy. Nobody would buy. We’d go broke. But after Winston’s funeral, she lost all her fight. Dad broke ground and we left Chicago.
Now it costs a million dollars to live here. There’s a two-year waiting list just to buy one of those tiny lots. It takes another year to get a house built—if you’re lucky.
Mom’s gone now, but everyone else wants to live here.
On Sundays, I work in the model homes, handing out brochures. Smile bright. Casually mention the Ivy League recruiters that show up every fall.
I don’t mind helping. Potential clients are always walking through the door. There’s no way I can mine from the kids born here: there’s no room for bad in their brains. It was never even invented for them.
You never see a tantrum here. Not unless the kid’s new.
Without new families, my business would dry up. Rich parents drag in a pissed-off kid with fancy electronics hanging from his designer jeans pockets. I make nice. See if he’s got access to his own funds—or if Mommy and Daddy have it locked up.
If the kid can offer something interesting, it helps their odds. I like gadgets. Goodies. Girls with a major hotness quotient. My clients also have to be old enough to survive on their own. Once they’re gone there’s no phoning home for help.
Today won’t be about finding new clients, though. I’ll be waiting for skateboarding girl to show up. I burnt her a special CD with my own Messages—ones to keep me safe.
I just have to find a way to get her to listen. I did some research after our beloved town founder went to bed in his monogrammed linen pajamas. Nia Silva, 17, from Boston. She hates school and loves running away. Her last time, she vanished for a week and came home with habits and a nasty disease. That’s when her parents got the lucky call: they were off the waiting list. In two days they had bought their four-bedroom Victorian on Magnolia Court. Now that I know about her, I’m in control again. But first I have my chores, like every Candor kid. “Be sure not to burn the rye.” Dad pulls the business section out of the Sunday paper, all the way from Chicago. It’s been seven years since we left the city but he still likes to keep up.
“I thought I’d make waffles instead.” It’s my Sunday fantasy: brunch. With cinnamon rolls and crispy bacon that leaves shiny strips of grease on the plates. There would be eggs, too, cooked in lots of butter.
“Very funny.” He slurps up a mouthful of coffee.
I’m never late. The Messages make sure of that. But today I want to be early to work. I don’t want to miss her.
I jam the bread in the toaster. Two pieces for him, two pieces for me. Nothing more is allowed. Nothing more, Dad would say, is needed.
Dad brags that his son cooks and does the laundry and vacuums twice a week. People don’t need cleaning ladies in Candor—they have their kids.
It happens fast. One day kids are blasting their music, ignoring their parents, smoking or drinking or doing whatever they’re not supposed to.
And then, they’re dusting. Cooking dinner. Making their beds every morning. As long as it doesn’t interfere with homework.
I’ve watched 1,381 families move in. Thousands of kids, all changing to fit the same ideal.
But it’s not just the kids. Candor fixes everythin
g.
Do you smoke? We’ll fix it. Got marital problems? Prepare for bliss. Undermotivated? Overeating? Can’t get it up? It will all go away in just a few weeks.
Everyone is saturated with Messages from the day they move in. Speakers are installed in bushes downtown, at the parks, in the stores—not just school. And then parents play special custom “boosters” at home. Even send them off in care packages to their darlings at college. Candor kids only go to certain colleges, with certain accommodations: special dorms and classes. Music and speakers everywhere they go. Anything is possible with enough money.
You can’t hear the Messages—or at least, you don’t realize you’re listening. They’re subliminal. That means your subconscious hears them. And it obeys.
I hear all the same Messages. But I know how to make new ones. I make my own playlists with jazz music—Coltrane, Bird—and hidden commands. I play them when I’m sleeping:
Remember the Messages.
Control the Messages; don’t let them control you. Think independently.
It helps. My brain tells me what I’m supposed to do, but I can fight it, usually. I pick my battles, conserve my energy.
“What do you know about this graffiti?”
Dad’s voice is even. His eyes are steady on me. I have to be careful.
What I’m supposed to do pulses in my brain. Tell, tell, tell.
“I heard it was orange.” I think about nothing. Empty brain. Empty eyes. Keep them on him. Not staring. Just unknowing.
Unafraid.
“Speaking of orange, how about some juice?” Dad asks.
Turning away is a relief, even though I feel him watching and thinking. I’ve developed a sense for it.
I get out two glasses and a bottle of orange juice. The fridge is hidden behind cherry cabinet panels. Before the models were built, people toured our house. Everything is top-of-the-line.
“Careful,” he warns. “Just six ounces.”
After you lose ninety-three pounds, you watch what you eat. And if you’re Campbell Banks, you watch what everyone else eats, too. This town runs on dry toast and egg whites. And they like it.
He’s making me nervous, quizzing and watching. But it’s good news. It means she didn’t talk. I’m safe, if I can keep him in the dark. I’m good at that.
“Better hurry. Models open in ten minutes.” Dad’s eyes slide to my empty chair. A command I obey.
Two bites and my toast is gone. I gulp down my juice. It’s not enough. Not even close.
“Reverend Able says some boys from Okeechobee must have left the graffiti,” he says.
I blink once. Twice. “Why would anyone want to do that? Our community should stay beautiful.” That’s another phrase I’ve been noticing a lot since that night, lapping at the edge of my thoughts.
“Not everyone gets the message.” Dad snaps off a tiny piece of toast.
Message. Every time he says it, I get nervous. I look into my empty glass before he can notice. “I hope you find out soon,” I say.
The Messages rush in right away. Never lie to your parents. Always be truthful. But those are old ones, and it’s not hard to push them back.
Dad stands up. He rinses the rye seeds off his plate and opens the dishwasher. “Keep your ears open.”
“I hear everything,” I say. He likes to think I’m his little spy.
The scary part is over. My stomach rumbles. I reach for the juice and hope he won’t notice.
“No more today.” Dad picks up a pencil from the pad by the phone. Then he marks the juice line on the bottle. There’s a stack of lines above it.
It’s nothing new, but today it makes me angry just when I should keep my mouth shut. “I’m still thirsty.”
“You got enough.” He taps the side of the bottle. “One serving. Have some water.”
“Yes, sir.” Everything is just-enough in our house. He weighs the meat before I cook it. Our beds have one blanket and one pillow.
Luxury is for other people. Weak people who pay Dad money for it.
He points at the door with the eraser end of the pencil. “You’ll be late.”
The great are never late. The Message washes across my mind and my fear rides on top of them. I let it push my feet out the door.
I GET TO the Roxbury two minutes late. Put my key in the door. Then I look at my watch and wait.
Every day I test myself a different way. I know what I’m supposed to do. It’s fed to my brain 24/7. But I resist. I have to make sure I can do it. I have to know, for when it really matters.
Three minutes late. Four.
The Message pounds in my head: The great are never late. The great are never late. It’s a tough one to fight: It plays every day. Everywhere. One of Dad’s classics.
“You don’t own me,” I mutter. I do what I want.
Sweat rolls off my nose and drops on the toe of my fresh-shined dress shoes. My teeth are clenched. I force my jaw to relax and look at my watch again. There. Five minutes late. That’s enough.
Before I go in, I look down the street. Is she coming? But I don’t see her. No ca-chunk, ca-chunk skateboard sound, either.
“Relax,” I tell myself. Nobody breaks a date with Oscar Banks.
I go inside and check the fridge. Sometimes there’s oatmeal cookie dough to bake. It makes the house smell good and it’s a lot tastier than rye toast. But not today. Just miniature bottles of spring water with the Candor seal stamped on the caps.
I crack one open and sit on the edge of the bench in the breakfast nook. My legs won’t stop bouncing, twitching. I hate this girl for making me wait.
My mother made the cushions and curtains for the first model homes. This one had red cushions and gold curtains. But when she was gone, those vanished overnight, too. Now the cushion has little palm trees and monkeys on it. Just like the curtains and the pillow shams in the master bedroom. Very tropical.
But if you look outside, you’d never know it was Florida. Palm trees are outlawed in Candor, unless they grow in a nature preserve. Instead there are oaks and pines. Makes everyone feel at home, Dad says. It’s like we could be anywhere.
Instead of the middle of nowhere.
Candor boasts six stunning model homes, with designer upgrades and don’t-miss landscaping. That’s what the brochure says. The Roxbury is my favorite. It features double porches, granite countertops, and a potting shed out back. The old people go crazy for the potting shed.
I like it, too. The door has a lock on the inside. There are shades that blot out light at night. And it’s got an electric outlet for my laptop.
I meet with all my clients there.
My father has no idea that he built me an office right in the backyard of his best-selling model. He thinks he controls me. But I know all the loopholes. I even invented some of them.
The front door opens and the alarm system softly beep-beep-beeps. I jump up, then sit down so fast the bench hurts me.
Let her come to me. I need to keep control, own the situation.
A tall fat kid with a stained T-shirt walks in. He takes a long slurp from the jumbo soda cup in his meaty hand.
“I can’t believe the soda machines only have juice. Since when is apple juice supposed to taste like Coke?” he asks.
Sherman. My only client, for now. Needy. Nervous. Rich. He’s the last thing I need to deal with right now.
“Did I say you could come here?” I ask.
Always be courteous. The Message pokes at me. I run my fingers over my head and grip my hair, as if I can pull the Message out through my scalp. If only it were that easy.
“Persistence pays off,” Sherman says.
That’s a Message. Something I shouldn’t be hearing him say, unless he’s trying to be ironic. Which I don’t think he’s capable of.
“Are you listening to the stuff I gave you?” My booster music should be keeping him strong, but if he’s spouting Messages, it’s not working. He’ll be a goner in a few days.
“Of course I am.
I’m good at following directions. But the saxophone music sucks.” He opens the fridge and looks inside.
I wonder if I should push his exit date up, but my driver’s hard to reach. And he doesn’t take kindly to change.
But I can’t worry about Sherman, not right now. I have to be ready for Nia, which means ditching him.
“Get out,” I tell Sherman. “I’m working.”
“I gave you all my money. You work for me.” He plants his butt on the counter. Sweaty Sherman pudge pressing against Dad’s favorite Brazilian granite. It would be kind of funny if I didn’t want to kill him.
Beep-beep-beep. Someone else is here. Not her, please. Not until I’ve de-Shermaned the place.
A kid in denim overalls streaks past me, headed straight for the bathroom. Not good. Kids always like to throw things in the toilets.
“Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t touch anything.” I give him a I’m-not-kidding look before I walk to the front hallway.
There’s a family in the dining room, touching all the china place settings on the table: tired Mommy, flush-faced Daddy, and three short sticky kids, not counting the escapee in the powder room. I look for labels on the brats’ overalls. Nothing. They’re from Wal-Mart, maybe, or some other affordable, durable brand.
“You must be lost,” I say. “Public restrooms are in the Brighton.”
The daddy wanders past me into the kitchen. Sherman territory. I follow.
“Welcome to Candor!” Sherman gives him a cheery wave. “Have you met Oscar? He’s a genius. An evil genius.” He lets out a high-pitched giggle.
I was worried about his chattiness when I approached him and offered to save him. But I’d seen his bank balance—all the buyers have to give that information to my father, including their kids’ accounts—and I knew he could be worth my time.
I quoted him the total amount in his account. He didn’t even blink. Things were slow and the kid was throwing major bucks at me. Why not?
Now I know why not.
“Who’s Oscar?” the man asks.
“Nobody.” I hand him a price sheet. “I’m guessing you can’t afford this place.”