I let myself imagine. One lucky hand, set loose. No boundaries. I shiver. “Where do you want me to start?” I say.
A Candor girl would spew a few Messages at me if I tried that. Probably walk away as fast as she could, once she was done reminding me how good she was. But Nia just pokes my hand off the paper with her pencil eraser and goes back to drawing.
Then I remember: I have to make this fast and convincing. So I start at the end of my usual speech. “They’re brainwashing you,” I say. “Soon there won’t be anything special left.”
She snorts and glances up. “And here I thought you were all robots. Robots can do all kinds of interesting things, you know.”
“It’s not a joke. People are perfect here because of the Messages.”
“You have points on the tips of your ears.” She tilts her head and stares at me. “Like a big, tall elf.”
“You have to listen to me.” I hear my voice getting loud, like it’s some other guy talking. Some guy who can’t control himself. “Or you won’t be drawing anymore. You’ll be just like them.”
“Now that’s scary.” But she’s still smiling as she sketches.
The bell rings. Four minutes. I feel the urge to hurry. “You don’t have long,” I tell her. “Usually it only takes a week, maybe two. Unless you let me help you.”
“The great are never late! We must go inside quickly!” A familiar voice. Familiar spotless white sneakers. Socks with white lace around the ankles. I look up. Yes. It’s Mandi.
“Oscar?” She looks at Nia, then back at me. “You never come to Founder’s Park.”
Mandi is a Founder’s Park regular, especially when there’s a test coming up. And there’s almost always a test coming up.
“It was a nice day out,” I lie. It’s hot, like always. I feel the sweat running down my back, but I feel like I owe her a lie.
Nia shades her eyes and looks up. “Are you his nanny?”
It doesn’t dent Mandi’s smile. “You must be new here. I’m Mandi Able. President of the Welcome Club. Did you like your basket?”
“I hate bananas. They’re so yellow and cheerful.” Nia leans back on her hands, like she’s settling in. Not like she’s got a class in two minutes.
“Well, but there was a lot more than … fruit….” Mandi bites her lip and looks at the school.
“Maybe you’d better get to class, Mandi.” Nia gives me a wink. As if I’m going to stay sitting here with her, which I won’t. I can’t. People would see. And I never, ever, blow my cover.
I stand up.
Mandi holds her hand out to me. “Come on, honey. We have to hurry.”
Honey. She hardly ever calls me that. It’s sentimental and Mandi’s too busy for that. Why did she have to pull it out today? I feel like a kindergartner whose mother just showed up at the playground with spare underpants.
I don’t take her hand. I reach in my backpack and turn off the music. Then I feel the CDs. I can’t go without giving them to Nia.
“Take these.” I drop them by her feet. She meets my eyes. For a second, it feels like we’re alone again.
“A present? For me?” Nia bats her eyes at Mandi. “How sweet. Sweet like honey.”
Mandi balls her fists up, just for a second. When they relax, her back gets even straighter.
Before Mandi moved here, she was the queen of the teen beauty pageant circuit. She wasn’t just pretty, she was … determined. She’d do anything, say anything, to win. None of the adults knew how bad it was until something went wrong. Miss Hidalgo County killed herself and left a note blaming Mandi. It’s embarrassing for a preacher’s daughter to tease a kid to death. Her parents decided she needed a change of attitude.
And now she’s just the queen nerd. She’s forgotten how to be mean, at least most of the time.
Mandi folds her arms. “Oscar didn’t mention he was working on a class project with you, either.”
“He isn’t.” Nia slaps her notebook shut and stands up.
It looks like Mandi wants to say something, but it’s stuck inside her mouth. So she just flicks her bangs back and looks at me. “Ready to go?”
They’re both staring at me. I lean down, slowly, to pick up my backpack. The CDs are on the grass.
I hold them out, breaking my own rule. Never talk to a client about business in public. And definitely not in front of a witness. Especially a curious, slightly unstable one.
“Promise me you’ll listen,” I say.
Because I need to protect her.
Because some of my Messages will make sure she stays this interesting.
Nia takes them.
“See you later, honey.” Nia gives me a fake smile, almost as bright as Mandi’s. “Thanks for the gifties.”
She takes off, fast, almost jogging. Not headed for school.
“You’re going the wrong way,” Mandi shouts.
Nia flips us the bird and keeps on going.
“I guess she already knew that,” I say.
The second bell rings. We are officially late.
“We’re late,” she whispers. “We’re in trouble.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll tell Ms. Russo it was my fault.” I start toward school.
But she grabs my elbow to stop me. “This is the part where you say nice things to make me feel better.”
I’m not the best boyfriend, seeing as how Mandi bores me to death. But she’s been useful. I owe her something, I think. “It was nothing,” I say. “We were just talking. The CDs are a thing for my psych class. It’s not like she’s pretty. Or smart, like you.”
She gives me a funny look. “I mean about getting detention.”
“Oh. Right.” So I spend the rest of the walk to class telling her how great detention is. It’s like study hall. It doesn’t go on your permanent record. And it’s really, really quiet so you can concentrate on flash cards and writing brilliant admissions essays.
Not that I would know. I’ve never been there, either.
I only look over my shoulder once, maybe twice. Wondering where Nia went.
Wishing I’d had the guts to go with her.
Wishing I’d been invited.
I CAN’T STOP thinking about Nia. Her hand swooping, drawing. The lilac smell of her hair. How she walked away from school without even looking back.
It’s like she’s become a Message, stuck in my brain. I hate it. But I want it. Just by existing, she’s controlling me.
This has to be fixed.
After dinner, I give Dad the usual lie. “I’m going to the library.”
“Be home by ten,” he says.
It’s that easy to sneak out. Sometimes being brainwashed is useful. Dad is sure that I would never lie to him or do anything naughty.
When I get to the Roxbury, I go in through the backyard. There are still lights on in the house: kitchen, dining nook, and one of the bedrooms upstairs. Nobody’s inside. Dad just likes to make it look that way. The lights are programmed to change every two hours.
But the shed is dark. I guess nobody in Dad’s fantasy world gardens in the dark.
The key is under the ladybug doormat, like always. I only use one electric lantern, and I keep the blinds shut. From the outside you can’t tell someone is here.
The shed feels like a real place, where somebody actually gardens and arranges flowers and hangs them to dry from the rafters.
It’s bigger than anything called a shed deserves to be. There’s room for a tall wood table in the middle, twice the length of our dining room table. There are two sinks: one for mixing fertilizer, or washing your shovels, or whatever gardeners do. The other is supposed to be for arranging flowers. There are pots and a pair of scissors sitting by that one and some fake half-arranged flowers. I keep two sets of earphones in that vase, beneath the wire stems.
Below the counters are bins and buckets of all sizes and colors. Handy for hiding things, like my portable DVD player.
Tonight I pull out a metal bin. The recorder is inside. My thumb rests easily on the button
. I know exactly what I’m going to tell myself to do.
Why waste time? I press the button down, but my lips are glued shut. They won’t let the words through.
Nia Silva is boring. Ignore her. Six short words. Smart ones.
I’ve made plenty of Messages for myself. Why does this one have to be so hard?
My first was about Winston. Winston was your big brother. I knew Dad wanted me to forget. But I wouldn’t let him do that to me—or Winston. I still listen to that Message sometimes. Just to be sure.
I try again. “Nia is—” But that’s all I can get out.
Maybe I need something to make me less jittery. I walk to the back wall and tug on a seam in the glossy white paneling.
The panel swings open to reveal my stash. Devil Dogs and Pop-Tarts, stored in plastic containers so the ants can’t get them. Gum—strictly forbidden in Candor. There’s a pile of tasty movies and magazines, and some video games with buxom chicks. Then I run my finger over the bottle collection. Pick my favorite and uncap. Pour liberally.
“Cheers.” I tip my cup to the hardworking ladies in my magazine collection and take a seat. There are two Adirondack chairs tucked in a corner by the door. Like gardening is so exhausting, there’s no way you could make it back to the house. There’s a pair of orange rubber shoes sitting at the base of one of the chairs. It feels like they belong to someone.
I take a gulp. Hit the button.
“Nia Silva is …”
Boring? The opposite. I wonder what would happen if she were here, sitting in the chair next to me. No, in my chair. Ready and willing. Straddling me. Leaning close. Flowery silky hair touching my face …
The memory of my father’s warning cracks the fantasy open like a hammer on an egg. Everyone leaves.
He’s right. Either I help her escape or the Messages get her. She’s gone, either way.
Nia Silva is a profit opportunity. Or a risk, if she talks about the graffiti. And she’s a dangerous distraction. How long did I blather about her to Mandi? And I didn’t pay attention in chem today. Almost burned the lab down, watching out the window, wondering if she’d walk out of the woods and come back to school.
I can’t let things slip. My father might notice even small changes. And that would be the end of everything. He’d take me to the Listening Room.
You sit in a padded hotel room for as long as it takes. There are speakers in the walls, the ceilings, the floor. The music never stops. And the Messages are custom-made just for you.
It’s not uncomfortable, unless you count the sensation of being erased. The sheets are Egyptian cotton and the food is catered. I’ve heard Dad tell people it’s like going to a spa. “It’s refreshing. Restorative,” he says. “It empties your mind of all its worries.”
But there are side effects after you leave. Migraines. Intolerance of bright light. And for some, obsessive behavior. Touching a light switch twenty times. Staying up until dawn vacuuming.
The side effects fade over time. For most people.
Thinking about the Listening Room makes it easy. I think of the words again and this time they rush out.
Now I just have to hide my Message in music. I press open another panel and reach for the burlap bag between the wall studs. My laptop, hidden.
It takes just one special computer program, stolen by me. Two minutes later it’s done. I have a CD with my instructions. I slide it into the hidden pocket inside my jacket. Tonight I’ll play it. My brain will listen while I sleep.
I hear a thud. I freeze. Look and listen.
A sprinkler’s hitting the shed every ten seconds as it rotates across the lawn. Frogs hum in the preserve behind the fence. All normal.
Another thud. No. Not normal. And now there’s a scratching noise near the door. The doorknob is wiggling, just a little.
Someone’s breaking in. Or they’ve got a key. I do a quick check: incriminating evidence in the cup, recorder on the chair, stash door wide open.
I slam the stash door shut, but the latch doesn’t work. It pops open again. Another slam. It opens wider this time, showing even more of the goodies inside.
The Adirondack chairs. One of those beasts will keep the stash door shut. They’re next to the door, but I risk it—check the knob, still wiggling—and throw my body against one. It barely moves. No way can I get it to the wall in time.
The doorknob goes still. Then the whole door shudders. Someone’s throwing themselves against it.
I grab the cup. At least I can fix that. With one long swallow, I dispose of its contents. It’s so strong it gives me a coughing fit. I stagger to my stash and lean against the door. Naughtiness concealed. If I stay where I am.
Hopefully whoever it is won’t notice the recorder. Or make me move.
If I do, it’s over.
The door crashes open. “Oscar! Oscar! Are you in here?”
Guess who.
I’m not caught. Just supremely annoyed.
“Shut the door. And stop yelling my name,” I say. The words come out all shaky.
Sherman obeys. “I’m sorry. It’s just—I’m—” He stops, panting.
He’s wearing a huge backpack on his shoulders. Sweat has soaked through his polo shirt in patches: rings under his arms, and a big wet oval over his stomach.
“Taking your homework for a walk?” My hands are shaking. I pick up my cup like there’s still something in it that’s going to help.
“I waited for hours.” He collapses into the chair I tried to move.
“Maybe you should go wait some more,” I say. “For whatever.”
Sherman grabs both arms of the chair. “I was waiting for you,” he bellows.
“Shut up! You want to get us caught?”
“Why didn’t you meet me?” Sherman pulls a wad of paper out of his pocket. Uncrumples it. “I did what you said. Enter the woods at the ninth hole of the golf course. Walk a quarter mile east—”
“Give me that.” I grab the paper. “I told you not to write the directions down.”
“But I can’t remember anything.”
“No kidding. What’s today, Sherman?” I ball the paper up and shove it in my pocket. To be destroyed later.
“Today’s Wednesday.” He says it slow, like I’m the idiot.
“Right. Wednesday. Not Saturday.”
“I know.” He frowns. Blink. Blink. Then I see it coming. “You mean … I’m not supposed to leave tonight?”
“It’s not happening tonight, Sherm. You leave Saturday. It was always Saturday.”
He’s breathing faster. He clutches at his sweaty polo shirt. “But I’m all packed. And I left a note.”
“What kind of note? For who?”
My rules are very clear about good-byes. It’s too risky—to them, but especially to me.
“It was to my mother.” His lips are trembling. “And I don’t care what you say.”
“You think she loves you?” I laugh. “If she did, you wouldn’t be stuck here.”
“I’ll miss her.”
“Did you say anything about where you’re going or how you’ll get there?”
“I didn’t say anything about you.” His look is too superior, knowing. Like he’s got something on me.
“You’ve really been waiting in the woods for two hours?”
“Maybe three. I wanted to get there in plenty of time.”
“You’re an unbelievable screwup, Sherman.”
He nods. “I know.”
“Why did I agree to take you on?”
“Because I gave you all my money.”
“I can find other rich kids.” Letting Sherman stay would be a liability. He might talk, even though I’ve fed him plenty of Messages telling him not to. But getting him out could be a bigger risk, since he’s screwing up every single step. Maybe I just need to let the Messages take care of him—find a way to get him to the Listening Room. He’ll never remember me after that. I’ve never tried to get a client erased before.
“Just call your guy an
d I’ll get out of here,” Sherman says. “I won’t bug you anymore.”
“I can’t just call my guy.” I don’t even know Frank’s phone number. “We have a system. There are certain protections. It takes days to get things set up.”
It starts with a postcard. I write the time and date of pickup on the back. Nothing else. I mail it to a PO box fifty miles from here. Then Frank confirms the date. His business brings him to Candor almost every day, so he can leave me a note. We have three different hiding places.
Sherman moans. “What am I going to do? I can’t go back. What if they already read the note?”
“Tell them it was a joke.” But it won’t work. If his parents found the note, they’ve probably already called my dad, and he’s got the search parties out. Dad takes runaways very personally.
Search parties. I grab the lantern and turn it off, leaving the room pitch-black.
“What was that for?” Sherman’s voice sounds even whinier in the dark.
“People might be looking for you.” And I don’t want them to find me.
“But—no! They’ll send me to that place you told me about. Where they play the music until your ears bleed.”
“That’s an unusual side effect.”
There’s a sobbing sound. I relish it. He deserves to be afraid.
“You have to help me, Oscar. I paid you a lot of money.”
If I had the cash, I’d throw it back in his face. I picture the green wad slapping him in the mouth. Nice.
But it’s already squirreled away in one of my offshore accounts. “You didn’t pay me for tonight,” I tell him. “You paid me for Saturday. And I don’t give freebies.”
“Then … then I’ll tell.”
“You won’t tell. You can’t.” My booster music would stop him. I’ve got plenty of safeguards in there: Never tell anyone about Oscar’s secret. Never tell anyone you know about the Messages.
But what if? He’s ignored everything else. Maybe those boosters aren’t sinking in.
“I’ll tell them everything,” he says. “I’ll say how you offered to help me escape, and I paid you all that money, and you showed me this shack—”
“Shed.”
“Shed. And then you were mean to me, and then—”
It’s too risky. I need him out, now. With him and Nia around, I’ve got too much to deal with.