The Smaller Evil (7 page)

Thick and heavy, Arman's nausea had returned to roost. “So what? I'm just supposed to do something I don't want to do because you think I should?”

“
Alia tentanda via est
. That's our motto here.”

“I don't even know what that
means
!”

“It means ‘another way must be tried.'”

Of course it did. And of course Arman understood. This was the moment he was meant to crack. This was the moment that he was meant to see the error of his ways and demonstrate that his disgust and self-loathing were far better off directed at the people in his life who'd actually caused him pain.

The thing was Arman
didn't
see it that way. The truth of who he was and why was so much more complicated than that. The swipe of a sword at a self-appointed father figure couldn't begin to bear that burden.

Besides, what Beau was asking him to do, well, it was
wrong
.

It wasn't right.

So Arman gripped the knife, as tight as he could, and with a snarl, he flung the weapon out of the circle. It arced high in the night air, spinning end over end, before tumbling over the edge of the ravine to vanish into the blackness.

“
No
,” he told Beau again. “I
won't
do that.”

FAILURE WAS A MISERABLE THING.

Whether born of courage or conviction, weakness or ineptitude, it never much mattered. Failure wasn't softened by familiarity or tempered by expectation. It wasn't even gilded by good intentions.

It just sucked.

The way it always did.

The rest of the hike back down the mountain was a quiet affair. After Arman's act of petty defiance, the night's magic was broken, and he limped alongside the rest of the group with his head hung low. As before, he had to leach the light of others to keep from falling on his ass or breaking his neck. Only now, instead of a gift, it felt like stealing. Or freeloading.

Or something.

They marched straight for the domed building. Despite the late hour, what came next was a celebration. A grand one. Full of joy and mirth and revelry.

But the party wasn't for Arman.

Of course it wasn't.

It was, however, for everyone else who'd completed the Quarantine
stage without shutting down or acting like an asshole. They were on their way to success. They were going to defeat their social order sickness and find happiness. And enlightenment. What greeted
them
when they entered the hall was a warm fire and warm drinks and laughter and dancing and hugs from strangers who were becoming far less strange with every passing hour. No one greeted Arman, though. No one even looked at him.

I'm the strange one
, he realized, after settling himself on the floor in a far corner of the room. But he always had been. That was nothing new or revelatory. It was just . . . well, nothing had
changed
. He was still alone and invisible, while across the room Kira, always the popular girl, was still just as popular. Even the two intimidating trainers he'd sat with at dinner—the short man and the dark-haired woman—were talking to her, hanging on her every word with broad smiles on both their faces.

Arman closed his eyes. Let his head fall back against the wall. He tried not to dwell on it, but he didn't understand how he always ended up here. Why he always opted for nothing in the moments when he could have something. Hell, it was only last week that he'd sat at that small café table with a pencil and paper and taken the screening exam Beau had given him.

• Do you ever wake up to find yourself filled with an unexplained feeling of dread?
  
• Do you experience stomach pains on a regular basis?
  
• Skin problems?
  
• Emotional disturbances?
  
• Are there parts of yourself that you keep suppressed, no matter the cost?
  
• Do you feel that you could achieve so much more in life if you just knew how?
  

Yes
, Arman had written.
Yes, yes, yes.
Because filling out that paper, for the first time ever in his life, he'd felt understood. Like a hole inside of him he knew was empty suddenly had a reason to be filled. Yet, even then, in the midst of his own awakening, Arman had hesitated. But Beau had seen through that. He'd leaned across the table, glanced at Arman's answers, then looked him in the eye. “I know you think you can't do it,” he'd whispered in the same hushed tone he'd used up on the mountain tonight. Only there, in the café, it'd kept Dale and Kira from overhearing his words. It also made Arman feel special. “But that thinking isn't you, son. It's a lie. A lie meant to keep you desperate. See, when you're desperate, you're grateful for what you're given. You don't think you deserve more. But you do, Arman. You deserve so much.” And with that it was set. Arman couldn't say no. Not to Beau. He couldn't let down the first person who saw something good in him. Who believed he could be more than he was.

Only now, mere hours after his arrival, Arman was right back where he'd started. With no change in sight.

Maybe that's what he was good at then. Inertia.

Well, there was another thing he was good at, wasn't there?

With that Arman began making plans. The day had been long; the night longer, and when everyone went to sleep, that's when he would slip away. That's when he would take his things and go. He owed no one here anything, and it was clear he wasn't wanted. If Beau felt like helping another charity case or if he just wanted a partner to help stop whoever wanted to ruin this community for him, he'd do better picking
just about anyone else. Dale, included. And with the money he had, Arman figured he could go anywhere. Be anyone. Sort of.

A list of faraway cities cartwheeled through his mind. Intriguing places he'd seen on TV or watched in movies. Los Angeles. Denver. Seattle. Santa Fe. He could get a job. Rent a room. Be nobody where no one knew him.

There could be a peace in that, he thought, albeit an imperfect one.

But who the hell was he to ask for more?

• • •

The party disbanded soon after, but not before Beau stood on a chair again at the front of the room and waved at the crowd amidst rousing applause. He praised everyone for their participation. For their vulnerability and courage. Quarantine had been a sterling success, he said, and not merely as a ritual. No, there was nothing symbolic about the work they'd done. By facing their fears and bringing the source of their mind's disease to the surface, they were now poised to do battle. And win.

Arman's sense of shame flared hotter, higher. He'd battled nothing, of course, and other than that fleeting spark of joy up on Echo Rock, this whole night, everything he'd done, had been a waste.

Beau had two final instructions for the group. “The first,” he implored, “is a commitment from you not to speak with anyone outside of this room about the things we do here or the principles you've learned. Honor the process. Honor yourselves. Do you understand?” There was a murmur of assent. A lot of nodding heads.

“The second is a commitment to not talk about your Before Lives outside of the exercises we'll be doing together. Embrace the chance to be who you are now. The evolution starts with you.”

And with that he sent them off to bed.

Is this all bullshit?
Arman thought as he slunk into the darkness.
Seriously. Is that what this is?

Maybe.

But maybe that wasn't the point.

The cabin was deserted when he got there. Arman switched the overhead light on and sat on the edge of his cot. He waited and waited for Kira and Dale to show up. Only they didn't.

Arman poured himself a cup of water from the pitcher that had been left on the table. He drank it slowly, then changed from his jeans and bloodstained shirt into a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. After turning off the light, he lay in the dark between the scratchy white sheets, set the alarm on his phone, and shoved it under his pillow.

Two hours. He'd let himself sleep for two hours.

Then he'd be up and out of here.

For good.

EXACT PAYMENT.

Money changes everything. That's the reason people don't like to talk about it. That's the reason they build up walls and proprieties, and insist the topic's rude. Or gauche. Or unprofessional. Maybe you believed that once, too.

Money's the last thing the girl wants to talk about, of course, and you know why. It's too close to the truth. It's too close to acknowledging that anything—and everything—can be bought and sold.

Things like faith.

And honesty.

And trust.

Most of all, trust.

But you talk to her about it in very direct terms. You don't use euphemisms or estimates. You say what you mean. You tell her what you're worth. Money is like sex, you say. It's best with the lights on.

This gets a reaction out of her. It gets her to toss her hair and lift her chin, like she has the upper hand for once. Sex is infinitely better with the lights
off
, she tells you. Surprises are good, in bed and in life. So is mystery.

But you stand firm. You always do, because you know, without a doubt, that mystery without trust equals fear and the only surprises anyone ever truly wants are the ones they already expect.

The girl argues with you more, a spirited back-and-forth. But ultimately, your resistance is what draws her in.

It's what breaks her down.

It's exactly what makes her pay.

THE WORLD WAS STILL DARK
when Arman's phone vibrated him awake. His eyes flew open, and he sat straight up in the cabin's grainy blackness. Then groaned. His whole body was stiff and sore. His shoulders. His back. His knees, especially. They
hurt.
Even his head throbbed, and while it was hard to believe a single glass of wine could be the cause, this all-over-everywhere ache was exactly what he imagined a hangover to feel like.

He shut off the alarm. Peered about the room. He could make out the motionless forms of Kira and Dale on the other side of the cabin. They lay huddled beneath a pile of blankets with their arms around each other. Dale snored softly, while Arman stared at them both. When had they come back? And where had they been? Maybe there'd been other events he'd missed, even after the party. Maybe he hadn't been welcome.

Slipping from cot to floor, Arman took care to land on quiet feet. No doubt his roommates would be glad to be rid of him, but that didn't mean he wanted them to know he was leaving. He didn't want to have to explain
why.

After feeling around in the bottom of his bag to make sure his
stepfather's money was where he'd left it, Arman pulled a gray hooded sweatshirt on over the clothes he was already wearing and put on his shoes. Then, when he was ready, he gathered up the rest of his belongings, slung his messenger bag over one shoulder, and pushed his way out of the cabin.

• • •

Once outside, Arman hung close to the tree line as he walked. He was eager to stay in the shadows and not be seen. Although barely four in the morning, a slim gold line already hovered above the eastern mountains. The brass stain of the emerging dawn.

He headed for the iron gate at the entrance to the compound. Even if it was locked, he should be able to scale the fence. Hit the main road. From there he'd head west, traveling until he reached the Pacific Coast Highway. That's where he would catch a ride. Let fate settle the rest. Start life anew.

Again.

“Hey,” a soft voice said. “Don't go.”

Arman spun around, hackles raised. He was filled with a rare surge of righteousness. He had the freedom to go. He had the freedom to do whatever he wanted.

Didn't he?

But as his eyes adjusted to the hazy darkness, Arman's righteousness faded into shock.

The cook stood on the dirt path with her arms folded, and her legs were no longer bare. She had on black leggings and a gray hooded sweatshirt almost identical to the one Arman wore.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

She gave him a funny look. “I came to see you.”

“Me? Why?”

“I didn't want you to leave.”

“How'd you know I was leaving?”

The cook tipped her head to one side. “That's sort of hard to explain.”

“Can you try?”

“How about I show you instead?”

“Huh?”

“Come,” she whispered, and she turned to head back up the hillside, back into the moonlit meadow where the wind rustled the long grass and the air smelled of loam and stars twinkled overhead like dreams.

Something deep inside Arman whispered,
Don't go, don't follow her
and
Leave while you can.
Only he didn't leave. No, he veered straight off his path toward freedom and followed the cook to a destination unknown. Her hips swayed and her voice lured, and he followed her like a snake to the grass or an early bird after its worm, and wasn't that the weakness of his gender? This single-minded pursuit of warmth and release. The chase of a promise, so brief, so mercurial, yet so utterly, utterly irresistible.

TOGETHER THEY WOUND THROUGH GRASS
and garden. Dewdrops clung to closed petals and mice scurried in the shadows. An owl screeched overhead, soaring to rub the night sky, and the cook reached for Arman's hand. She led him past the dining hall and the dome and up into the woods, where a small wood-shingled house sat separate, but not far, from the cluster of cabins where Arman had been staying. That must be how she knew he was leaving. From this vantage point, she would've easily seen him walking away.

If she'd been watching for him, that is.

Approaching the house, the cook turned and put a finger to her lips. Arman nodded, but couldn't help wondering who might hear them. They walked through the front door, but before he could look around, she dragged him down a long hallway and shoved him into a room on his left. When they were both inside, the cook shut the door. And locked it.

Arman stood in the center of the room. A small floor lamp lit the space. They were in a bedroom, it seemed,
her
bedroom. Not the cleanest place: All the surfaces were covered in a thick layer of dust and grime, and the cook's clothes lay scattered about, along with a few
books and dishes and some personal items, like her hairbrush and her toothbrush and what he thought might be a box of tampons. Clean or not, Arman's heart thrummed to see objects so intimate, to bear witness to these small parts of who she was.

Then he looked at her.

She was already looking back.

“What did you want to show me?” he managed to ask, but his voice came out all croaky and weird.

“Shhh,” she told him. “We have to be quiet.”

“Sorry,” he said quietly.

She smiled.

“Tell me your name,” he whispered. “Tell me why we're here.”

“You know why,” she said.

“I do?”

“Of course.” She pulled him closer. “Isn't
that
why you came?”

• • •

It was strange, Arman thought after, how
wanting
could be taking a sort of action. For so long, for so many years, he'd imagined that if a beautiful girl ever wanted him, her wanting would be a gift, infusing him with confidence, happiness, a sense of self-esteem. But it wasn't like that. On the contrary, Arman found that the cook's eager wanting took things from him. His focus. His intent. His sense of all rational thought.

But it was worth it.

Hell, it was worth
more.

“You shouldn't leave,” she told him as they lay together in her rumpled sheets, with a hint of gray-gold dawn seeping through the window.

“I have to,” he said. “I fucked up last night. I can't stay.”

The cook—who still hadn't told him her name and wouldn't—didn't answer. Instead she crawled from the bed, and turned on the hot
water kettle she had in the corner of the room. She was still naked, and he could see the stickiness from what they'd done glistening on the inside of her thighs. It made Arman want to do the whole thing all over again. And again after that. Only he didn't know how to ask. He only knew how to answer.

Whistling softly, she made them both tea with honey, keeping the larger mug for herself. Arman sat up and sipped his gratefully. The heat and sweetness felt good, nourishing.

His head felt drowsy.

His limbs tingled with warmth.

The cook settled beside him on the bed. “You didn't fuck up, you know.”

“Oh, I did. Trust me.”

“No,” she insisted. “Beauregard, he sees something in you. He says you're different. Special. He says you have the potential to understand the things he's trying to teach better than anyone he's ever met.”

“I don't believe that,” Arman said.

“It's true.”

“I mean, maybe he thought that before. But last night . . . I was supposed to be part of something, and I didn't do what he wanted me to. I couldn't.”

The cook shrugged. “Well, I don't know about that. But I heard him talking after the party last night. He spoke very highly of you.”

“
After
the party?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“Sure it makes sense,” she said. “You just don't know how.”

Arman sighed. “I suppose.”

“You're still going to leave, aren't you?”

He nodded.

At this, the cook frowned, then stroked his cheek, an act that made
Arman feel like a child but also made him feel loved. For a moment he thought he might cry, because she was right; he
was
going to leave. It's what he meant to do in the first place, only now it felt less like a choice and more like exile.

So much for freedom.

Arman finished his tea. He relished the warmth in his stomach and the fact that she'd made it for him, and when he'd gotten dressed and was ready to go, he put his hand on the doorknob. Looked back at her. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” she said.

“Maybe more than one thing.”

“Okay.”

“How long have you been here? How long have you known Beau?”

“A long time.”

“Then why do you stay? You've been inoculated. You have immunity to, you know, whatever's out there. Whatever's hurt you. You could leave and you'd be fine, right?”

“Immunity isn't just about changing yourself,” the cook said. “Not to me. To me it means being a part of something greater, part of a system that helps others change, too. That's what's important. That's everything.”

“Everything?”

She nodded. “It fills my needs.”

“What are those?”

“To feel capable. Autonomous. Connected to people I care about.”

“That's all?”

“What else could there be?”

Arman didn't have an answer for that. “Well, has Beau ever wanted you to do something you felt was wrong? Something you weren't comfortable with?”

“No. Never. But . . .”

“But what?” Arman asked.

The cook smiled. “But I think we have a different sense of morality, you and I. I don't think we're the same at all.”

• • •

Back outside. There was sunlight now, sweet quicksilver shards of it, piercing the fog and the night and the thick branches of the trees, and seeing as Arman knew full well where the cook was at the moment, he headed straight for the kitchen. He wasn't worried about being seen.

The building was unlocked, as he imagined everything at the compound was, so maybe he wasn't
really
stealing. Maybe everything here was here for the taking. He moved through the room quickly, though, picking a few items to slip into his bag: fruit and bread and raw almonds and bottled water.

When he had what he needed, he hoisted the bag back onto his shoulder. Then he left the kitchen by way of the sliding glass door and walked down to the iron gate. It turned out he didn't have to do any fence climbing when he got there; the heavy chain hung loose, and Arman simply pulled open the right side of the gate. It made a low creaking sound, but that was all. There were no alarms. No gunshots. No one came shouting at him.

Nothing.

Arman slipped out and quietly shut the gate behind him. He glanced over his shoulder only once as he walked away, looking back at those large words that loomed above him like a warning.

“
Alia tentanda via est
,” he whispered. “I'm still trying.”