Candor (22 page)

Sometimes I miss it. Not that I’d trade Nia—if I still had her. But Mandi was okay when she wasn’t wound up.

Today I bring my calc book and a bag of celery sticks. It’s stadium-style seating, so I go to the bottom of the balcony, where the rail blocks half the screen and you can prop your feet up. It was our spot. Now it’s all for me.

I put in my earplugs when the previews start. The dark theater feels like sliding under a warm blanket in winter. Cozy and alone.

When Mandi sits in the chair next to me, I’m confused for a split second. Are we still dating? Was it all a dream? Where are her books?

She yanks the earplugs from my ears. I try to grab them back, but she’s too quick.

“Payback time,” she says. “I mean—can we talk? I’m hoping you can do me a favor.”

“I paid you back for the frozen yogurt months ago,” I say. Even though I know what she means.

Somebody shushes us from the back. Mandi swings her head to give them an evil look. It might be dark, but I’ll bet they feel the crazy glare coming from her eyes. I guess that part of her body doesn’t have to listen to the Messages.

“Always be courteous,” I mutter. Just to tweak her a little, like old times.

“I know that.” Mandi turns back around. “I need you to help him.”

“You mean Sherman.”

She looks around. So do I. Just one person—the shusher—sitting in the back. Her head swings back to me. “He’s fine for hours. But then he starts talking about needing his secrets.”

“Sounds crazy to me.”

“He drools and flaps his arms and sometimes … sometimes he even tries to hurt himself.” Mandi looks down in her lap.

I look, too—expecting to see a book or something else productive. But there are just her hands. Squeezed together tight.

“Sherman Golub is my destiny,” she whispers.

“I can’t say I agree,” I tell her.

“You don’t understand. I would do anything to help him.”

She looks so sad and worried. I almost put my hand on top of hers. Then I remember where we are. Who we are.

“He says you have the secret he needs,” she says.

“I have no idea what he’s talking about.”

She lets out a huff of air and settles back into her seat. We both stare at the screen. There’s a dog running around someone’s backyard with a hose in its mouth. Giggling sister and brother chase it. All good clean Candor movie fun.

“You owe me,” she says. “I could have told about the curfew.”

“I know.” But it’s not enough. Sherman messes everything up. If I give him more Messages, he’ll just make things worse.

Her head swivels and she narrows her eyes at me. “I might still do it. I could tell your father about
everything.”

My body freezes. I can only breathe. And blink. Stare at the dog on the screen running through a field. Happy dog. Scared Oscar. Mean Mandi.

What did Sherman tell her? They were together before the Listening Room. There was time for him to spill the beans, just like he did with Nia.

He’s like a stain that just keeps spreading.

“Now you’re listening,” she says.

I search my memory for a Message to remind her of: something to make her back off. Something about loyalty or friendship or … But I can’t think of anything.

If she tells, I’m sunk. My father will believe anything she says. She’s one of his masterpieces.

“Your father thinks you’re perfect. But he’s wrong,” she says.

My lips form the words but I can’t get sound to come out.
You’re wrong. You’re crazy. You don’t know what you’re talking about
.

But she does, at least a little.

“You have to do what I say,” she says.

I finally force my lips open. “I’ll tell him you’re lying.”

“I have proof.”

“What kind … where did you …?” What did Sherman tell her?

“You dropped them in the grass. Duh.”

Candy. She’s still talking about candy. As if that’s the big Oscar shocker. Relief reminds me: I’m in charge. How did I forget?

I grab both her wrists and pull so we’re facing each other. “If you tell, I’ll get even. I promise.”

She lets out a shocked gasp and yanks her hands free. “Respectful space in every place, mister.”

“Sorry.” I mutter.

Why shouldn’t I tell my father something tonight, something that will send her straight to the Listening Room? I already got Sherman put there. It would be best, maybe, if she went, too.

But I don’t know if I can do it again. I watched Nia disappear. Saw Sherman sick, in the emergency room. Mandi was my girlfriend for two years. Don’t I owe her something for putting up with me?

Don’t I owe Sherman something? A small something? Pain relief, maybe. Nothing more.

“I don’t do anything for free,” I tell her.

“I’ll pay.”

“I don’t need money.”

“What do you want?” she asks.

I know what I wanted from her a few months ago. But now? I’m not sure.

“There’s nothing,” I tell her.

“You need my help with Nia,” she says.

She must be able to see my surprised face in the dark, because she laughs. “I see you chasing her. But she’s hiding from you.”

I hate that anyone’s seen it. It means I’ve been sloppy. Out of control.

Maybe I do need her help. “What would you do?” I ask.

“Girls listen to other girls, Oscar. I could tell her how nice you are. What a good boyfriend you are.”

We both snort at the same time. Which turns into laughing. The guy in the back shushes us.

Mandi stops laughing. “Do we have a deal?”

I’d do anything for Nia. Even this.

“It’s a deal,” I tell her.

She holds her hand out. I take it and shake it. I forgot how small her fingers are, how cold they feel.

“So where are they?” she asks.

“You deliver Nia. I’ll deliver the secret.” A few of them: ones that will make my life easier. Like giving me a loyal assistant. And making sure Sherman’s lips stay shut.

“Fine. I’ll go first.” Mandi stands up. Her chair flops shut. “Then it’s your turn. I’ll be waiting.”

And I’ll be paranoid. Waiting every day for her to tell about the candy. Or maybe more. I still wonder what she knows. I always will. She could hand my brain to Dad on a silver platter.

Or maybe she’ll help me. Convince Nia I’m a good guy. Give me the openings I need to keep digging for the real girl.

It’s worth the risk.

Besides, I’m not sure I have any other choice.

MANDI DELIVERS A few days later.

“Come to the crayon swap,” she tells me in the long lunch line for skim milk. “Nia will be there. And she’ll be looking for you.”

“I don’t think she’d turn her art stuff in.” Even if her brain is pickled.

She shakes her head. Her smile is triumphant. “She’ll be working the table. Don’t forget, you owe
me
after that.”

I remember when Nia crumpled up the TAG poster. Now she’s one of them.

“If she’s really there. And
if
she talks with me.”

Mandi rolls her eyes and lowers her voice. “Of course she’ll be there. Nia’s one of my best Tagers.”

When we lived in Chicago, they had a gun-swap program. People brought in guns and got sneakers instead. It didn’t seem to stop people from shooting each other. But at least they had nice shoes.

These days, there are things as dangerous as guns in Candor, if you ask TAG.

Markers. Glitter glue. Pipe cleaners.

There are posters all over town:

CRAYONS FOR CALCULATORS
Bring your art supplies and further your future!

TAG sponsors it.

My next big chance.

Nia has nearly vanished. It’s like she has a new superpower: she can disappear whenever I get within twenty feet. I guess she’s done believing I’m a superior person.

And now she’s joined TAG. I see her at their petition tables. Selling cupcakes. Avoiding me, like always.

I’ve tried reminding her eyes with what she used to be, with the art she drew. Then I tried reminding her mouth with the candy. The crayon swap gives me a new idea.

Scent.

I drop a flamingo postcard to one of my former clients. Clint. He helps me get whatever I need. Nobody’s more creative with their shipping and packaging.

ONE BOX OF SCENTED MARKERS
.
INCLUDE PURPLE ONE. MUST SMELL LIKE LILACS
.

He’ll obey, because he knows he should. Not because my Messages tell him to. I give my people on the outside free will.

The paycheck makes their decisions for them now.

The line is twenty-three people long when I get to the swap in front of the ice-cream parlor. It’s hot outside and the sun is still strong. But the kids stand precisely, one behind the other, exactly in the middle of the sidewalk. They’re holding paper bags jammed with construction paper and half-used crayons. Nobody fans themselves or complains about the heat.

Everyone looks like they’re in line to see Santa Claus. You’d think they’d look sad. Or mad. Or something besides overjoyed.

I tap the shoulder of the kid in front of me. He’s seven, maybe eight. His supplies are in a red bucket on the sidewalk.

“Why are you here?” I ask him.

His smile stretches his cheeks tight. He bounces a little on his sneaker toes. “Art is boring,” he says. “I don’t need this stuff.”

I keep my voice low. “I’ll bet you used to like it.”

He shrugs. “Not anymore. I want a calculator. A silver one.”

“It’s your lucky day.”

“It sure is, mister!”

The line inches ahead and he kicks his bucket forward. Pulls his foot away fast, like it might get burned.

This is Dad’s dream come true. He always said art was useless. The Messages agreed, of course. But it never went this far.

Nia’s graffiti gave him the opening he wanted. I’m sure he’s feeding Messages to all of us saying TAG is right: crayons bad, calculators good.

Nia is at the table. She takes buckets of supplies and dumps them in big black plastic trash bags. It’s sick. This is all about erasing the thing she loves—or loved. Now she’s handing over calculators with a sweet smile.

I grip the box of markers tight in my hand. I once read that smells bring back memories better than any other of the senses. This has to work.

Mandi’s working the line. Thanking people for coming. Handing the excited little rascals bottles of water so they don’t drop before they hand over the goods.

When Mandi gets to me, I give her my best fake smile. “What a great idea. Get rid of those crayons before something bad happens.”

She looks pleased. “Everybody says it’s the best TAG initiative yet.”

I lower my voice and look around before I continue. “I mean, imagine … some stupid kid might actually have made
art.”

Mandi gets quieter, too. “Don’t forget,” she says. “You owe me.”

“I’ve got what you want.”

“Here?” She presses her lips together and her eyes get big.

“Elsewhere.”

I made the CD last night. It’s mostly flutes and only a few Messages. They aim to make Sherman less crazy. And also to forget all my secrets. But I couldn’t resist just one fun one:
You are worthy
. It’s sad he knows Mandi can’t really want him. My parting gift.

“I’ll hide them under your porch swing tonight,” I tell her. “Get them before the morning.”

Her smile comes back, even brighter than before. “Thank you for coming.” Her voice is loud and happy again.

The line moves. I go forward. She walks back. I can focus on Nia again. Nia, with her curls brushed into a high, bouncy ponytail. Pink nails. Pink lips.

When I get to the front, I set the markers on the table in front of her. All except the purple one. I keep that in my hand.

She doesn’t look up at first. Too busy writing important notes about the bucket of crayons she just trashed.

I wait.

Then Nia looks up. Her head jerks back a little, surprised. “It’s you! Mandi said you’d come.”

A big smile settles on my face. She’s talking to me. And she’s beautiful, even if she almost looks like all the others. “You’re not going to run away, are you?”

“No, I’m working. And Mandi said—never mind.” Her cheeks flush red. I’ve never seen her blush before. “Do you have crayons?” she asks.

Looks like Mandi has done her job. Now it’s my turn. I push the box of markers closer. “For you.”

Her eyes stay on me. She licks her lips. Remembering M&M’s? Or another time? Then she takes in a deep breath and tips the markers out onto the table. Her long fingers nudge them across the table as she counts them.

Then I uncap the purple one. “Forgot this one.”

It’s easy to wave it under her nose. She’s busy being busy.

She does exactly what I want her to do. Closes her eyes and moves her face closer to the marker. “It’s lilac,” she says.

The smell that used to whisper from her skin. I’ll never forget it. How could she?

“Do you remember?” I ask.

Nia’s eyes snap open. She shovels my markers into the trash bag without looking at me.

“Keep the purple one,” I tell her.

But she makes a big show of capping it and tossing it into the bag. “Art is a disease,” she mutters.