She lets her ponytail loose and shakes it free. Then she tugs it back into place. I’m holding my breath, watching her. She pulls the hood back on.
I squat and grab the edge of the platform and swing myself down to the ground. A splinter stabs my finger. The pain surprises me.
She’s running. Running away from me. Running to where she’s supposed to be.
“No!” I risk shouting it, but she doesn’t stop.
We race down the path. She’s fast, too fast. One tree root or stone and I’ll wipe out. Did I scare her? Or is she just in a hurry?
She stops.
We’re here. The last place I wanted to be.
I stop before she can see me. Listen in the shadows.
I don’t think anyone is here yet. But it won’t be long.
“It’s me,” I say in a low voice.
She slowly turns around. I can see her teeth glowing in a smile. It’s not perky. It’s the real Nia, sly, looking like she’s about to do something dirty. “This was your idea?” she asks.
“It was the only way.”
“I remember more now.” She takes fast, broad steps until she’s with me in the dark. “I think I hate you.”
But then she presses her body against mine and lays a kiss on me. Full-on, wet, warm.
It’s all I’ve wanted since we split. I fold her into me. Show her how much I’ve missed her. There’s the smell of lilacs. The taste of mint and raspberries and salt. Everything is how it’s supposed to be.
She talks with her lips still against mine. “We used to do this in the woods, didn’t we?”
“We did.” I pull back. I want more. But not now. “We’re leaving.”
Her eyes go wide. Then they slide to the backpack. “Now I understand.”
“A truck is picking us up.” I push the bag into her hands. “You’ll go first.”
That’s my big plan. Running like hell. It’s not much. But I can’t change where the truck will pick us up. And I can’t stop my father from being there. All we can do is be faster than him.
She holds the backpack out, halfway between us, like she doesn’t want to take it.
“Why should I go?” she asks.
“Because you want to.” I made sure of that with my Messages.
She nods. “I’ll go.”
I knew she would.
“Run like the woods are on fire. Don’t wait for me. I’ll see you on the truck.”
“Promise?” she asks. Her voice wobbles like a little girl’s.
“Promise.”
There’s the sound of a motor. Someone is coming down the road. Five minutes too soon.
“Get down.” I fall to my knees. She hesitates.
I grab her sweatshirt and pull until she’s on the ground, too.
“Why are we hiding? Aren’t we supposed to run?” she asks.
“I have to make sure it’s the right truck.”
Headlights splash the trees at the edge of the road. Brighter. Brighter. And then the truck pulls into view.
The white truck with the Candor crest.
It’s sitting still now. Waiting.
When Frank pulls up, they’ll pounce. We’re done.
Unless … unless they catch someone. They’re not looking for two people.
Only one.
“Can we go?” Nia whispers.
“No.” I hold my finger to my lips, barely breathe the words. “It’s a trap.”
Her eyes narrow. “How do you know?”
“My father got a phone call. They know someone is running,” I say.
“There’s no way—”
“You told them.”
I watch her face. Wait to see guilt, realization, or something.
But she just looks confused. “But I didn’t even know I was running away until now. I didn’t tell anybody.”
“You wrote it down.”
“This place.” Nia’s head drops low. “It was filling my head. But I threw it away. I never put my name on it.”
“Listen to me,” I say. “When I tell you, run. Get in the other truck that’s coming—not the white one. Go in the one with the alligator on the side.”
“But the white one—”
“Is my problem.”
I’ll save her. Because I love her. Because I want to show her she’s worth it.
I love her more than I want to be safe.
She shakes her head. But she lets me put the headphones on her head. “Press play as soon as he pulls away. Don’t stop listening. Ever. Got it?”
“I can survive here,” Nia says. Her long fingertips touch the headphones lightly.
“No. You wouldn’t be you. Which is as good as dead.”
Nia tilts her head up and stares at the sky.
“The only way to survive is to leave,” I tell her.
“I’ll come back if you don’t make it,” she says. “I’ll save you.”
“Don’t. They’ll catch you.” My voice is more certain than I feel. Giving myself up temporarily is one thing. But forever?
I don’t feel ready for forever. But at least I won’t know I’m gone.
“Don’t ever come back,” I tell her. “Promise.”
She drags her backpack onto her shoulders, lifting it like it weighs a hundred pounds. Slow and painful.
“I can’t promise,” she says.
“I love you,” I tell her.
She doesn’t say it back. It’s okay. She’ll remember eventually. After she’s left.
There’s another set of headlights. Driving slow. Stopping fifteen, maybe twenty feet behind the white van.
The white van’s side door slides open, slowly. “Run!” I give her a shove. “Now!”
Then I turn on my flashlight and head the other way, straight to the white van.
Everyone leaves. Everyone except me. I guess I’m meant to stay.
It’s the only way anyone else can escape.
THEY HAVE TO see me before they see Nia. Before they can stop Frank from driving away with her.
I flick my flashlight around. Wild, crazy. Like I’m a shipwrecked sailor signaling the ship offshore. See me. Save me. Take me home.
The light bounces off the jagged palm leaves and shines in their windows.
Nia’s running, flying almost as fast as if she’s on her board. I remember how she raced away from me that first night. How I listened to her wheels rumble, farther and farther away. Then it was quiet.
She was smart to leave me then. She’s even smarter now.
The van has a green circle on the side. The Candor seal. All the windows in the back are up high and dark.
The rear door slides open. I can’t hear it—the only sound in my ears is Nia’s feet, crunching over dead leaves, and her breath, loud, desperate.
She’s almost there. A shadow stands by her van. Frank, waiting for her.
I swing the light straight into their eyes.
“There!” A tall thick man jumps out of the van and heads for me. He doesn’t look over by Nia.
I hear a door slam.
Frank’s van is pulling away.
Arms reach out through the dark. They drag me inside the van. I don’t fight it. But they throw me on the metal floor anyway. It’s dark inside. There’s grit on my cheek. The smell of fertilizer makes me gag.
“Got him!” the man yells.
Someone shoves my wrists together. There’s a zipping sound. Handcuffs? I try to pull free but I’m stuck.
“Who was that?” another voice says. “The other car?”
“Maybe a lost tourist.”
“Maybe not.”
The voices blend together. They all mean the same thing to Nia. Danger.
I can’t let them wonder. They can’t follow. Can’t stop her from getting away.
I make my hands shake. Then my legs, straight, stiff, toes hammering against the floor. Finally my head. I bang my forehead against the metal. Again. Again.
“The ants! The ants!” I scream. “They’re in my ears! Get them
out!”
“Better go. Brat’s seeing things.” A man’s voice. His shoes are next to my face, I think. The door to the van slides shut and now it’s completely dark.
“I’ll make him see things.” A bright ball of light, shining. Someone grabs my hair and drags my head up. The flashlight is in my eyes now, but all I see is pain. I will myself not to blink.
“Do you see them? Get them!” I scream. “They’re biting!”
“There’s nothing there,” a voice says. “So shut up.”
Behind me someone speaks. “Give him the juice. I’ll hold and you stick him.”
“Can’t.” The light goes out and the man drops my head. I let it fall heavy to the floor. “Boss man’s up front, remember?”
My father. Up front. Something surges through my stomach. I don’t know if I’m afraid or excited. What will he do when he sees me?
The van swerves and bumps. The men are quiet now. Waiting, I guess. Saving their energy for where we’re going.
They probably think I’ll fight it.
The van stops. A square of light shows on the wall over my head.
Dad’s face looks in.
Everything is about to change.
“I want to see,” he says. “Which lucky parent gets the call?”
I try to stand up. But I’m dizzy. And there’s something wet running down my cheeks, in my eyes. It’s hard to see.
One of my buddies grabs the cuffs around my wrist and hauls me up. The plastic bites into the soft spot between my wrist and the bones of my hand. The pain clears my head.
“Oscar.” He whispers it. Not like a question. More like an answer.
He stares at me. I stare back.
“My little boy,” he says.
All this time I’ve wondered what I would say if he caught me. I’d beg him to understand. Or I’d tell him how alone I was. Because of him. He tried to push Winston out of my head. And he made Mom leave.
But only one thing comes out. “I got sick of rye toast.”
A sour look twists his face. He turns to face the front. “Take him to the Room. Now.”
The van starts moving again. Away from Nia. It worked.
Nia is safe.
I’m still scared. Not for her, not anymore. But now I see what’s coming for me. And there’s no escape left.
Dad’s loyal henchman yanks me back to the floor of the van. Pushes me with his foot until I’m lying down again, tasting metal and fertilizer grains.
“That hurt, asshole,” I say loudly.
But my father doesn’t turn around.
“You won’t even remember that,” the man hisses in my ear.
I know he’s right. I’ll be lucky if I remember my favorite flavor of Jell-O when they’re done with me.
“It’s wrong, Dad,” I say. “You have to stop. People should think for themselves.”
The little door slides shut and it’s dark again.
A new feeling comes over me. It feels like heat. And cold. I want to scream, cry, even bite something.
It’s rage. Different from anything I’ve felt in Candor. Different, even, from the time I almost pounded Sherman’s face into the ground.
There hasn’t been room for it, and soon it will be gone again.
Now is the only time I can let it rule me.
“I had a brother,” I tell the darkness.
Nobody replies.
I say it louder. “I had a brother!” Nothing.
“Listen to me!” I shout. I know he can hear me, even if the door is shut.
“I never forgot him!” And then I draw in breath to push out the loudest part yet. “His name was Winston Campbell Banks!”
The van is going faster now. It hugs a corner and I slide until my knee hits the side of the van. It hurts enough to drain me. My body tingles all over, blood beating in my ears and drying on my face.
“I wanted to be just like him,” I croak. “Except that he’s dead.”
One of the men finally speaks. “Oscar Banks is an only child.” He says it like a reminder. “Oscar Banks never had any siblings.”
“My father fixed everything except me,” I say. The man doesn’t answer. But I didn’t expect him to. “But now he wins.”
The van stops moving.
When the door slides open, it’s Dad on the other side. I stay on the floor, watching him, waiting to see what he’ll do.
There’s no hurry. Now all my time belongs to him. “I never suspected,” he says.
There’s not much left to say. My tongue slides against the rough metal. It tastes like blood. “I never wanted you to.”
“Cut his handcuffs.”
My hands are free. The man helps me stand up. I see them now. Two men, shorter than I thought, wearing white coveralls. They’re stained with green streaks. Gardeners helping to hunt runaways.
“If he let you decide, would you like your job?” I ask one of them.
He looks at the floor, where he shoved my face into it.
Dad holds out his hand. I take it. Our hands fit together. I remember my first day of school. Winston’s funeral. Times when I trusted him to lead me.
One more time.
The night air feels warmer than it should. No breeze. Just heat and moist air covering my nostrils. It’s hard to breathe.
I straighten my spine and let him lead me inside. I know I won’t remember much when I leave. No Winston. No mother, maybe. Even the shed will be erased.
But Nia will be out there. Getting stronger every day. Becoming real again. Whatever happens, she won’t forget.
As long as she remembers us, I’ll still exist.
“I HAVE A special treat.” Dad is smiling at me. He’s hiding his hands behind his back.
There are only ten pages left in my chemistry chapter. I want to finish, but I mark the page and look up at him. Always strive to please your parents.
“When receiving a gift, it’s the thought that counts,” I tell him.
His smile is wide. “You make me proud, son.”
It makes me feel like a sunny day. “Always strive to be your very best.”
Then he shows me what he’s holding. It’s a clear glass vase filled with purple flowers. “They’re lilacs,” he says. “Smell them.”
The flowers are made up of lots of tiny buds. I touch one with my fingertip before I inhale.
Have I done something wrong? He’s staring at me. I pull back, but then he smiles. I feel better.
He sets them on my desk. “You talked in your sleep last night. You asked for these.”
“I don’t remember.” I take another deep breath. My room usually smells like peaches and cucumbers. Now it smells like perfume.
Dad pulls a small notepad from his back pocket. He flips to a fresh page and writes something in it.
“The fever made me forget things,” I tell him. Dad brought me here, to the hospital, when I got sick. It’s been a few weeks, I think. I’m not sure. I don’t know how to tell how long it’s been.
“You might not ever remember everything,” he says.
“It’s okay,” I say. “You’ll tell me what I need to know.” Parents always know what’s best for their children.
He folds his arms and looks at me. “Do you like the flowers?”
“They’re nice. Thank you for the present.” I know that’s what I’m supposed to say. But I wish he’d take them away. I like it better when my room smells like summer.
“You don’t have to be polite, Oscar. Tell me if you really like the flowers.”
Pain streaks across my forehead. It’s the start of another headache. I get them all the time. Every single one surprises me.
Dad’s face changes to his worried look. “Do you need your medicine?”
My hands are shaking again. I nod.
The fever damaged my nerves. I will always get headaches. But maybe they’ll be better someday.
The pills taste bitter on my tongue. I swallow quickly, but the burning taste stays. “Will you please take t
he flowers away?” I ask. “They make my head hurt. I’m sorry.”
“Of course.” Dad doesn’t look offended. He’s even smiling.
Dad picks up the vase in both hands and looks up at the ceiling. My door opens with a hissing sound.
I don’t follow him. When it’s time to go outside, they’ll tell me. Usually I go in the morning. I like to sit in the sun and watch the lizards race across the courtyard. Sometimes I bring my homework outside, too.
Spring midterms are coming up. I have to catch up with my classmates. When I was very sick, I couldn’t study. Now I’m doing better. I want to get straight As. Academics are the key to success.
The door hisses again. Dad is back. He’s holding a clipboard. “Let’s do your daily questions.”
“I’ll do better today.” When I get all the questions right, it means my brain has healed from the fever. Then I can go home.
Dad sits in the cushy white chair that’s opposite the bed. “Ice cream is …”
“A special treat. One must be careful to maintain a balanced diet.” I always get that one right.
He nods and asks the next question without looking at the clipboard. “When you go on a date, should you hold a girl’s hand?”
I shake my head. “Respectful space in every place.”
“Good job. Let’s skip to a new one.” He runs his finger down the clipboard and stops near the bottom. Then he takes a deep breath. “What would you tell someone who wants to leave Candor?”
“Is there a field trip?”
“This is different. They want to leave for a long time, maybe even forever.”
I can tell he’s rooting for me. Dad wants me to give him the right answer. Parents always work to make their children succeed. I wish I knew what I’m supposed to say. “People don’t leave Candor,” I tell him. “But what if someone wanted to?”
“I guess …” I look around my room. Everything is so clean and soft. Usually it’s easy to think here, but my brain isn’t working right now. “I guess I’d buy them a good-bye present?”
Dad lets out a soft sigh. He writes something on the board.
I know what that means. I’ve failed again. I hate being wrong. “Give me another one, please? I want to try again.”
“You’re not ready.” Dad stands up and tucks the clipboard under his arm.
“Tell me how to study. I want to get better.”