Candor (17 page)

“He says he doesn’t remember anything.” Mandi swallows hard. “But he looks dreadful. His face is covered in scratches and he has a black eye. I think some outsider kids must have jumped him.”

That’s what stealing a bottle of my finest hooch will do to you. Kid probably staggered into hibiscus bushes and plastic fences all the way home. I could have smacked him senseless and he never would have remembered. I wish I’d ignored the Messages. I wish I was strong enough to do what I want all the time.

Especially if I wasn’t caught.

“I hope he’s better soon,” I tell her.

“Oh, he
will
be.” She says it like she’s in control of his body.

I’m not the only one who’s used to things going their way.

Then a cold, thin hand grabs mine. Tugs.

It’s Nia, all in black. She stares at me, then tilts her head. Away from school.

The bell rings.

“Aren’t you coming?” Mandi looks at both of us.

“In a minute. Don’t wait,” I say.

She goes.

We stand there, rocks in a stream, kids flowing around us. I can’t get my feet to walk away from school. But I won’t leave her, either.

“Now or never,” Nia says in a flat voice.

It unsticks my feet. I follow her, away from school. With no excuses to make. No way to save us if somebody stops us.

But nobody does. She drops my hand after a minute, giving hers a shake like it’s covered in something disgusting. And then she leads me to the fountain.

The fountain is across from the movie theater, on a special platform overlooking the lake. It’s made to play in. You just walk onto it—it’s a big circle next to the sidewalk—and wait for the water to come. It spurts out of the ground, different jets at different times.

“Maybe we should go to the woods,” I say.

“I don’t care if you’re safe.”

“I care if you are,” I say.

She sits on a bench overlooking the fountain. The only thing behind her is a railing and the lake.

I think through what I practiced last night. Where to start.

“I never made you do anything,” I say.

“You messed with my head.” She won’t look at me. Just watches the water.

“Only to protect you. To stop the Messages from doing things you shouldn’t.”

“Like ratting you out.” A smile twitches her lips back, but it’s gone fast.

“Maybe at first. But then—then I didn’t want you to change.”

The fountain water is receding. The jets die, and all that’s left are low bubbles. But there’s still the sound of water, rushing into the drain.

“I would never rat you out,” she says softly.

“You wouldn’t mean to. But the Messages can make you do anything.”

“Including love you?”

“You still love me?” A swirl of happy and desperate fills my chest.

“I don’t love you.” She shakes her head. “Not anymore. I make my own decisions now.”

Now is the time to tell her:
I love you. I want you. I would never hurt you
.

It might be my only chance.

But I’m angry. She really thinks I made her love me. Like I’m Sherman. The rebel part of her must hate wanting me. So this is her excuse: there was really no choice at all.

“Nobody made you want me,” I tell her.

“I’ll never believe you.” Her voice is low. She still won’t look at me.

This isn’t how I planned things. I don’t know how to get back on track. Stupid words come out of my mouth. “I could have any girl I want. Without the Messages.”

“Not me. Not anymore.” Nia stands up.

So do I. I step close. She wavers. But doesn’t move.

“I’ll do anything,” I say. “Just don’t leave me.” Worse than stupid: pathetic.

Her eyes are a green shield. I can’t see what’s inside. I grab both her wrists.

She tries to pull away, but I won’t let go. I am stronger than that. “You want to be like the rest of them? All SATs and grades and being perfect? You want to become Mandi?”

She rolls her eyes and laughs. It’s a bitter, small sound. “She was good enough for two years, wasn’t she? Or did she not have a say in that, either? Do you rape all your girlfriends’ minds?”

Rape.

I drop her wrists. Since when did I have to force anything with a girl?

“I’m done,” I say. No more chasing and begging and
feeling
.

“So am I.” But she doesn’t go anywhere. Just stands there, staring at me with her mirror eyes and that mouth that said something so ugly, I’ll never forget.

She’s not worth saving.

“Nobody tells me what to do,” she says.

I laugh, louder than the fountain. Loud enough to make people stare.

I don’t care.

“Throw away my CDs,” I tell her. “Then you’ll see who’s controlling you.”

“I will.” She whispers it. Even looks hurt. “I already stopped listening.”

Maybe I’d have a chance, if I said the right thing right now.

But I’m done.

“It’ll only take a few days, and then you’ll be gone,” I tell her.

“You’re wrong,” Nia says. “I’m too strong for that.”

“Maybe it’ll be a week. Even two. But after that”—I snap my fingers—“I’ll be the only real one left.”

“You and your dad,” she says.

“Yeah. Me and my dad.” It hurts, being lumped in with him. But she’s right. Soon we’ll be the only two people in town who think for themselves.

That’s her fault. Not mine.

“See you.” My feet know where to go: back to school. I take a step away from her. Another. I want to go where I can obey the Messages for the rest of the day. Ignore the hurt boiling inside me.

But she’s not done yet. “Good luck with the next girl. Maybe she’ll be a redhead. You can round out the trifecta.”

“Or maybe she’ll be smart.” I know how to hurt her, too.

I just never wanted to before.

Her eyes are shiny with tears, but her mouth is small and hard. And silent.

“I’d say you’ll be sorry, but soon you won’t even remember this,” I say. Then I let the Messages take me where I’m supposed to be. Toward school. Away from her.

Back to how I’m supposed to live my life.

Safe.

And alone.

WHEN THE DOORBELL rings at six A.M., I think it has to be Nia. Sorry for what she said. Wanting me back. She’ll say she understands what I did.

Maybe I’ll listen.

I’m at the door before Dad can set his coffee cup down.

But it’s not Nia. It’s Mandi, wearing a T-shirt that says TAG PATROL. Her perma-perky smile is missing and she’s tapping her toe.

“Get your father,” she says. “He has to come see.”

“See what? The sun isn’t even up.”

She sighs and looks around me. “Where is he? I mean … please.”

“Dad!” I shout it. I’m too tired to be polite. I stayed at the shed until midnight, looking at pictures of paintings and Oding on M&M’s. Forgetting her isn’t as easy as walking away.

Dad’s loafers click on the wood floor. I smell coffee behind me.

“It’s Mandi,” I say unnecessarily.

He steps next to me so we form a solid Banks man-wall. “I thought you two broke up.”

“This goes beyond romance.” Mandi folds her arms. “There’s more graffiti. We found it on patrol.”

“What color?” I ask.

It wasn’t me. But was it her? Really, who else could it have been?

Dad and Mandi both give me surprised looks. I asked the wrong question.

But Mandi answers anyway. “Orange,” she snaps.

“More coffee.” Dad holds out his cup. “In a travel mug.”

I get it. And follow him into her candy-pink NEV, not asking if it’s okay. She drives toward downtown. Dad takes the jump seat and spends the ride calming Mandi down.

“Graffiti is a blight on our town,” he says. “And it will be dealt with as such.”

“I hope you’re right. Because it’s important to keep our town beautiful,” she tells him.

I love when Dad’s Messages bite him in the butt.

But I’m not feeling any joy this morning. It’s more like fear mixed with a touch of déjà vu. Because I know only one person in Candor who likes collecting cans of orange spray paint. Someone who’s pissed. Who thinks she has nothing to lose by spreading a little blight around.

She’s so wrong.

Mandi pulls up in front of the fountain.

The words are in a perfect circle around the center of the fountain.

BETTER COVER YOUR EARS
.

It’s not just graffiti. It’s graffiti that says,
Na-na-na-na-boo-boo, I know the secret
. Why go halfway? Why not royally screw yourself?

The sun isn’t even up, but there’s already a group of about twenty people standing around. They’re in small clumps, murmuring, staring. But nobody comes up to us. They just talk louder so we can hear them.

“It’s just awful,” one old woman says. She’s got a little white dog on a leash.

Her fat bald buddy slurps coffee from a silver Candor mug. “Classic gang activity. I know all the signs.”

Dad lifts his walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Why hasn’t this been taken care of?” he barks.

Static. Then Bart, sounding scared. “Good morning, sir.”

“Hardly,” Dad spits.

“We’re halfway through,” the voice says. “But there’s some kind of shellac on top.”

“Did you take a coffee break? You’re not here.” Dad manages to smile at the crowd. Everyone’s watching him, wanting him to make it better.

Now Bart speaks slowly. “Mr. Banks. Where are you?”

“The fountain.”

“We’re at the welcome sign.”

Mandi’s eyes get big. “Let’s go.”

The welcome sign isn’t your typical “Population 6,230” sign. It’s some ankle biter’s art, blown up to sign size. It’s a drawing of people walking a dog—or maybe a bobcat; it’s hard to say for sure. The sign reads, DRIVE SLOW, CHILDREN AT PLAY.

When we get there, four men in Candor polos are scrubbing the sign. The crowd is even bigger here.

“What’s it say?” Dad growls.

The men stand back.

YOU ARE WHAT YOU HEAR
.

He touches it with his thumb. Shakes his head. “We’ll fix this,” he says.

“When will it be gone?” somebody shouts from the crowd.

Dad looks at the crowd and says it louder. “We’ll fix this.”

I don’t think he’s talking about the spray paint.

The worker guys are arguing about something. Two are shaking their heads. One has his arms crossed, staring at his feet. The brave one looks at Dad.

“Chris just radioed from the flagpole,” he says. “There’s more.”

“Not the bricks.” Dad strides to Mandi’s NEV and waits for us to catch up. His arm snakes up to touch the roof of the NEV. His fingers are drumming against it all the way to the flagpole.

Mandi actually goes three miles over the speed limit.

The crowd is standing in a circle around the flagpole, three people deep. You’d think there wouldn’t be room for us. But when people see it’s Dad, they step back and forward and to the side until we have a prime viewing spot.

The letters are in a precise checkerboard pattern across the bricks.

YOU ARE NOT IN CHARGE
.

Two polo shirt guys are on their knees, scrubbing. Everyone else watches them and whispers.

They stop when Dad’s shiny shoes get close. “Tell me it’s coming off.”

“We tried everything,” one says. “Except sandblasting.”

“Or taking them out,” the other mutters.

Dad stands up tall and puts his hands on his hips. “Whoever did this,” he says loudly, “will pay.”

And then he gets down on his knees. “Get me a crowbar,” he says.

Someone gasps in the crowd.

Crowbar guy double-times it.

Dad sticks the curved end under the brick with the
Y
on it. It’s six years old.
HOLMES FAMILY. FINALLY AT HOME!
it reads.

“Good choice,” I mutter.

Mandi takes time off from grimacing righteously to give me a suspicious look. “What did you say?”

“It’s devastating, et cetera,” I tell her.

“Excuse me, please. I think I know who did this,” Mandi says loudly.

The crowd goes quiet. Dad’s crowbar freezes.

“I know, too,” I say. Because there’s someone else who deserves to be hurt. Someone who ruined more than a few bricks. Someone I need to fix, permanently.

And I still want to protect her.

Mandi stares straight at me when she says it. “It was Nia Silva.”

I answer her fast. “No way. It was Sherman Golub.”

We both look at Dad. He presses his lips together and nods grimly. “Kids,” he says, “I think you’re both right.”