Candor (25 page)

GETTING NIA TO leave with me will be the hardest part. I rushed in. It was stupid. Now she thinks I’m a rude jerk. Not that she’s wrong. It’s just she used to like that jerk.

I’ll have to use the Messages on her, one last time. Just to get her to understand what she has to do.

But I’ll need help. Listening to my new CD will have to be someone else’s idea. Someone trustworthy.

Someone I can control.

Mandi’s not an option. She’ll be away for a while. And dangerous when she comes back.

That leaves Sherman. I fed him a few Messages with his last batch. He should want to help.

I position myself at the start of the lunch line, holding two trays. A few minutes later, Sherman shows up. He’s counting change in his hand like a kid who broke open his piggy bank.

“I’m hungry,” he moans.

For once I’m happy to see him. “Lunch is my treat,” I tell him. “Get whatever you want.”

“Healthy bodies make strong minds.” He sighs and runs a chubby finger over the change in his palm.

“Then I’ll get you a double order of applesauce.”

“No thanks. I have enough money for what I’m supposed to eat. My mother counted it out this morning.” Sherman takes the tray and trudges into line.

Why am I bothering? I don’t have to bribe him. I own him.

“I could use some help,” I tell him.

A smile breaks over his face. “I am Oscar’s helper.”

“But it has to be a secret.”

His face twitches. “Secrets are bad. I’m not supposed to talk about secrets anymore. Never keep secrets from your family. Secrets are—”

“I got it.” Looks like Dad delivered nice new booster Messages to the Golub home after Mandi’s escape attempt. And Sherman did a thorough job listening. Will it block my own Messages? Or twist them the wrong way?

It actually might make me safer. Now I don’t have to worry about Sherman stealing the CD for himself.

Of course, he still might squeal.

Maybe I have to offer him something else to make him do what I want. But what?

“Want to sit with me?” Sherman’s smile is still pathetic. He’s not the full Candor model yet, confident in his specialness.

“For a little bit, maybe—”

“Oh, good. Mandi’s out sick, and everybody else keeps asking me to sit with them, but”—Sherman plops down at a table for two—“I’d rather hang out with you.”

Now I know what I can give him.

Me.

It won’t be easy. But it’s just seven days. And it’s for Nia.

“Maybe we could sit together at study hall, too,” I say.

He stops chewing and stares at me with happy puppy eyes. “Like best friends?”

“Best friends.” For the next seven days, at least.

“Me and Oscar Banks best friends. Wow.” Sherman shakes his head.

“That’s right. And you know what best friends do?” I ask.

Sherman’s eyes slide to his food. Then he slowly looks up at me. “Share food?” he whispers. “I mean … I
am
worthy.”

That Message was a dud. It made Mandi run and Sherman get fatter.

“You’re right. Friends do share food.” I slide over my cardboard tub of carrots.

His fingers hover over them. “They’re good for you,” I tell him.

He shoves two in his mouth. Chomps down. Orange flecks slide out of the corner of his mouth.

“Friends help each other with things, too,” I say. “I am Oscar’s helper,” he repeats.

I slide the envelope out of my notebook. “Can you give this to someone for me?”

This is my biggest risk. Another CD. In Sherman’s hands. He could steal it. Or listen to it—which would demolish my whole plan.

But I can’t think of a better way to do this.

Sherman nods, still chewing. At least the Messages save me from seeing him talk with his mouth full.

“You can’t tell her that it’s from me. And you have to slip it to her in school. No home delivery.”

He moans. “That’s a secret.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not a secret. It’s a surprise. Just make sure she listens.”

“I like surprises.” Sherman takes the envelope and peeks inside. “Who’s it for?”

“Nia Silva.”

He grins and wiggles his eyebrows. “Are they love songs? Can I make a copy for Mandi?”

“Bad idea.” I make a grab, but he’s fast—it’s in his backpack already. “No sharing. It’s just for Nia.”

“Fine.”

“Promise me,” I order.

He rolls his eyes. “I promise. She’ll get it today.”

Things have flipped. Used to be Sherman needed me. Now I’m the one begging. If he screws up, my whole plan is wrecked.

Our escape depends on Sherman. The guy who paid me to get out and got stuck staying instead.

“You sure I can’t buy you something else? An apple or … whatever?” I ask.

“Want to go to the movies with me? It’s a new cartoon.” His hand slides into his backpack, like he’s touching the envelope. Maybe he’s thinking of how I owe him.

“Sure,” I say. “That’s what best buds do, right?”

“We can go to the matinee after school.”

“I can’t wait.” My last movie in Candor.

Sherman stands up and gives me a knowing smile. “I’d better go do my special delivery.”

“Bye.” I watch him walk out of the cafeteria. To find Nia? Or to do something I don’t want him to do?

Trusting him is a bad idea. I know it. It’s always safest to trust yourself.

But I can’t do this alone.

And I don’t have any better options.

SAVING NIA MEANS breaking the first promise I ever made.

After Mom left and Dad smashed all her art, he took me to the new ice-cream parlor.

Ice cream was for celebrations, not sad things. But I wasn’t turning it down. I remember standing in front of the case at Dairymen’s. Forty flavors were lined up in a double row.

“I want pistachio chip,” I told the tall woman behind the counter. It wasn’t what I was supposed to order. The full-fat, full-of-sugar flavors at Dairymen’s are for the tourists. The Candor people are supposed to slide to the right and pick from the healthy flavors at the end of the case.

Her eyes flicked to Dad. I looked, too. He frowned, but then he gave her a tiny nod. “Give me the coffee frozen yogurt,” he said.

We took our cones outside. It was hot. My legs stuck to the wicker chair, and I peeled them up, slow, my skin glued to the grid of the seat.

My pistachio chip didn’t taste like much. But it was cold and I wanted to pretend everything was okay. Good, even. So I ate it. I bit off pieces. Licking it would take too long.

“Everyone leaves,” Dad told me then. It was the first time he ever said it.

“I won’t,” I told him.

No reply. He stared across the street at the pond he’d named after my mother. Lake Lulu. His nickname for her.

I took a big crunchy bite of the cone. The sharp edges scraped the inside of my lip.

Dad held his cone high and near his face. It looked like he was about to lick it. But he didn’t. Just let it melt. It ran over his fingers and dropped to the ground.

“I promise I’ll never leave,” I said.

He didn’t say anything. But I’d promised out loud.

He warned me a lot after that: everyone leaves. I always made the same promise that I’d stay. At first I said it out loud. Sometimes he’d smile and say something vague, like, “That’s nice.” But mostly he didn’t reply.

After a while I made the promise in my head instead.

I wanted to show him he was wrong, maybe. That I could be trusted—I was different from Winston, from Mom.

But now I’m going to prove he was right. Everyone leaves. Even me.

Maybe I’m supposed to feel sad, or guilty. But I don’t. Nia changed me, and then he changed Nia. I’m not the boy who made those promises.

I don’t owe him anything.

Still, I need to say good-bye. He’s still my father. No matter how much I hate what he’d built Candor—and himself—into.

But he can’t know it’s good-bye until after I’m gone.

So I ask him out for ice cream one more time, after dinner.

“Why?” he asks.

“Because I want to.”

Simple truth. It surprises him. He shifts his jaw from side to side. Then he picks up his NEV keys. “Fine.”

This time I order the fat-free sugar-free cup of good-boy blah. But I get strawberries on mine. Sugary limp strawberries with red juice that pools in the bottom of the clear plastic cup.

“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.