Candor (2 page)

I reach across her body. Our chests touch for a second. And then I’ve got the paint can.

I sprint down the sidewalk. I’m not sure where I’m going, except that it’s away. Away from my father and the Krebs cycle and being the perfect Oscar Banks.

Just in case someone looks outside, I jam the can under my shirt. Always be ready for just in case.

She’s on her board now, rolling next to me. “Give it back,” she says.

“No way.” I pat the hard metal under my shirt. “It wants to be free.”

The Messages are crowding into my brain, trying to correct me before I’m a bad boy.
Vandalism is wrong. Never deface someone else’s property
.

Just because I hear them doesn’t mean I have to obey. That’s what makes me different from the others.

I don’t know if I’ll win this time. If I’ll get to do something I want and the Messages don’t. But I’m going to try.

There’s a streetlight out on the corner of Persimmon and Longview. Unusual. The street crew will have it fixed before dusk tomorrow—or sooner. A guy with a lightbulb and unquestioning obedience to my father could show up any second.

This will have to be fast. I whip out the paint.

The girl grinds her skateboard to a stop.

“Don’t waste it.” Her voice is loud. “I need that.”

“It’s mine now.” I uncap the paint and survey my options. The streetlight post? A slick section of fence? The grass?

I press down the button and there’s a hissing sound. I’m doing it—making a big orange streak on the post, defacing property. Breaking rules.

My mouth splits into a huge grin. I can taste the tang of the paint.

But the Messages scream in my brain.
Badbadbad
.

I stuff them back. Swing the can wide.

It feels good.

THE NEW MESSAGE is waiting when I walk into school the next morning. That’s very bad news for me.

Music is playing from the round white speakers in the ceilings, as always. Today’s classical piano. The teachers say the music helps us concentrate, but it’s chockful-o’-Messages.

Today the music has a new one.

Tell someone if you know who painted the graffiti
.

It floats on top of all my thoughts, bobbing, reminding, not going away. My feet want to take me to the nearest teacher. My mouth wants to spill out the truth. “I did it,” I’d say.

But I won’t. If Dad found out, he’d send me to the Listening Room, where they take the hard cases and wipe their brains clear. Fill them with nutritious delicious Messages. All my years of fighting would be for nothing.

I picture the steel wall in my brain sliding down like a garage door. The Message is trapped. It can’t get me. I can barely hear it behind all that metal.

The quiet in my brain gives me space to think. I realize I have to find the skateboarding girl—now, before she obeys the new Message.

But my girlfriend finds me first.

“Did you hear the news?” Mandi’s blue eyes are open wide. She’s holding a clipboard. “There’s graffiti everywhere.”

A tall girl turns the corner ahead of us. Swingy ponytail, pink cardigan, white sneakers. No, definitely not her.

It’s a quarter to seven, fifteen minutes before first period. Soon skateboarding girl will be locked behind one door and me behind another. She’ll have forty-five minutes for that Message to sink in.

The halls are full of kids putting their backpacks in lockers with no locks. No worries about theft or secrets here. Kids talk, but it’s quiet, like the boring cocktail parties my parents used to have in Chicago. It smells like oranges—tile cleaner—and whole-grain waffles.
Healthy breakfasts make for smart minds
.

“Oscar Banks, my man.” A short boy wearing a button-down and leather loafers—white socks—claps me on the shoulder. “Care to join us for chess club after school?”

I have never seen this kid in my life.

Or maybe I’ve seen fifty of them, and they all blend together.

Mandi lets out a loud sigh and taps her clipboard with her pen. She thinks she owns me, which is better than chess boy owning me, at least.

“Gosh darn, I have to study. I sure wish I could make it.”

Nobody’s an outcast here. The Messages make sure of that. So there are still cliques—like the science nerds, the super studiers, the nutrition freaks—but they all recruit like they get a prize every time a new person sits at their lunch table.

They all want me. I only say yes to an invite when my reputation needs feeding—just enough to keep the Oscar Banks persona alive.

No need to say yes today.

“Chess makes your brain more agile.” He taps his head and raises his eyebrows like we’re sharing a secret. “And if people see you play, we’ll get more joiners than the debate team.”

“Next time for sure.”

Mandi taps the board with her pen.
Rap-rap-rap
. Pause.
Rap-rap-rap
. “Christopher, would you please excuse us? Oscar and I have something to discuss.”

Chess boy skitters away, but a boy wearing a physics club T-shirt steps in the space he left behind. Mandi gives him a look and he’s gone, too.

“We have to take action,” she says.

“I can’t talk,” I tell her. “There’s an emergency.” Chess boy ate up at least four of my precious minutes to find the girl.

“Of course there’s an emergency. Our beautiful town has been defaced.”

I give her what she wants so she’ll let me go. “It’s shocking. Horrible. Beyond belief.”

“I saved the top spot on the petition for you.” Mandi shoves the clipboard at me. When I don’t take it fast enough, she wraps my fingers around the pen. The only time she touches me is when she wants me to do something.

Mandi asked me out two years ago. “We’re the smartest kids in class,” she said. “We should date. Not that I’m bragging—one should never brag about one’s own accomplishments.”

“Why not?” I said. Having a perfect girlfriend was just another layer for the disguise.

So I take her to dances, and we sit together in study hall. Sometimes we go out for ice cream. She likes to have her own fro-yo sundae. No sharing. We get along fine.

She’s intense, even with her brain soaked in Messages. Usually it’s entertaining, but today she’s in my way.

“Here.” I give the signed petition back and step to the left. I have to find her.

Mandi matches my step, so we’re still facing each other. “Take the board and get it signed. I have plenty.”

“Then can I go?”

She nods. “Fifty signatures by lunch. Um, I mean, please try. Always ask for favors nicely.” Mandi looks frustrated with herself. It must be hard having both the Messages and her bossy self inside one brain. “But I really need fifty.”

I put her out of her misery. “I promise.”

People are moving faster now. Almost time to be where you’re supposed to go. We all know the great are never late.

Mandi slips into the stream without saying good-bye.

“Oscar! Do you want to be my lab partner today?” It’s the girl who sits in front of me in chemistry. Her curly brown ponytail looks highly flammable. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I tilted my burner toward her….

“If you think you can keep up.” I give her a small wink to feed the persona. “No, seriously, it would be my honor.”

She blushes as if I just suggested making out under the lab table. “Okay, um, well, see you there!”

Before another worshipper can approach, I see skateboarding girl at the end of the hall. Black T-shirt and tangled hair, in the middle of smooth-headed clones wearing pastel. Beautiful and dangerous.

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.