by Pam Bachorz
“Take some supplies.” I flick on the lantern and walk over to my stash. There’s a box of chocolate protein bars. I give him half. He can live off his fat for the rest of the time.
Then I climb on the top of the potting table and reach into the rafters. There’s a blanket hidden there. Sometimes I take the most interesting girls on a field trip to the golf course. The sixth hole has a nice, soft patch of grass that nobody can see from the road.
Sherman’s already crammed a bar in his mouth by the time my feet hit the floor.
“Better make those last,” I tell him. “You’ve got three days.”
He stops chewing and his mouth drops open. There’s a huge ball of chewed granola in there. “I thought I was leaving,” he mumbles.
“I told you. I can’t get you out. You’ll have to hide until then.”
Sherman clutches the blanket to his chest. Shakes his head.
“If they find you, they’ll send you to the Listening Room.”
“No. No. I don’t want to change. I want to leave.”
I flick off the lantern so it’s dark again. The peanut smell of the bars fills the shed. “You have two choices. Hide or go home.”
“I don’t know where to hide.” His voice is muffled, like he’s got his mouth pressed into the blanket.
“There are places in the woods. An old orange grower’s shack. And some platforms in the trees, from the days when people hunted here.”
“I don’t … camp. And who would make my dinner?”
“Maybe you’ll find a private chef hiding under a palm tree,” I tell him.
“I know!” His voice squeaks. “I could stay here!”
I picture people touring the shed. Finding blubbering, blathering Sherman playing with the silk flowers. “No,” I tell him. “People will see you. We can’t lock the shed for three days.”
“Do you have any more of those bars?”
I hand over the rest. They were getting old anyway.
“See you Saturday.” I go to the door and open it a crack. But he hasn’t moved his fat butt.
“I’ll go in a little bit,” he says. “We could watch a movie or something.”
I shut the door again. But I keep my hand on the knob. “You need to go before somebody finds you here. Besides, you’ll want to find a place to sleep before the boars are out.”
“Boars? Who are they?”
“Giant pissed-off wild pigs. They could lift you off the ground with their tusks.”
“You’re making that up.” But he stands up, a lumbering mass in the dark.
“I’m not making it up. They’ll chase you through half the woods.” It’s true. I know their favorite hangouts by now. And I never go near them after dark.
“Okay. Open the door.” He’s standing right next to me now. He smells sour, metallic. By Saturday he should be nice and ripe. Lucky Frank.
“Don’t screw up,” I tell him. “Saturday, nine o’clock, at the same place. If you’re late, I’m not waiting.”
“I’ll be there.” But he doesn’t sound sure.
I’m not sure, either. Those boars can be nasty. But that would solve my Sherman problem, too.
I stand outside and watch him walk to the garden gate. It creaks a little when he opens it. He looks around nervously before stepping into the street. The gate slams shut behind him. Loud.
It makes me jump. But I don’t hear anything: no hum of an electric car, no shouts of people looking for Sherman. Maybe he’s got a head start. Maybe he’ll make it through the next three days.
Whether he makes it out will be up to him.
And the boars.
THE LIBRARY CLOSES in five minutes. Can’t make Dad suspicious.
I put my goodies back in their hiding spots and lock up.
Walking home, I keep my hand in my coat pocket. My fingers are wrapped around the CD. It’ll fix everything. After one, maybe two nights. No more obsessing over flowery hair and long fingers. Fingers touching my lips, my skin, everything bare.
Dad’s waiting on the porch. Guess Sherman’s parents haven’t found out their darling is missing. Dad would be at his office downtown fixing things—or trying to.
“Get lots of work done?” he asks.
“More than I planned.” I wonder where Sherman will sleep tonight. Will he remember to listen to my Messages?
The woods don’t have speakers. Dad’s Messages don’t reach the squirrels and the snakes. If Sherman goes nighty-night without his headphones, he’ll lose it. Major withdrawal. Nobody’s brain survives a whole night away.
I remember what happened to the Lockharts. They were one of the first families to move to Candor. And the first funeral.
They were driving to a funeral in Atlanta. But they never made it out of Florida. On their first—and last—night away, they checked into a motel by the interstate. And then their brains unraveled.
I wonder when they realized they’d forgotten their maintenance music. Who decided they could get it later, or maybe skip it altogether?
It was a fatal choice.
People in town think there was a car crash. But I saw the police pictures and news clippings hidden in Dad’s desk.
It would have started with migraines and dizziness. Next come hallucinations. That could explain why Mrs. Lockhart hung herself. Or maybe that didn’t happen until the psychosis set in. Which is probably when the kids attacked themselves with nail scissors and splintered DVDs.
At some point Mr. Lockhart left the room and jumped off an overpass.
Dad let himself into their house after the funeral. I was with him. There, on the front hall table, was a set of CDs. They were in a travel case.
Someone just forgot to bring them. And they all died.
That day, Dad cried. But it didn’t change anything.
I warned Sherman. I told him what would happen without Messages. But he ignored all my other warnings.
“Get to bed.” Dad stands up. The porch swing thumps against the windowsill. He forgets he’s skinny, I think. He does everything with too much force.
I don’t hug him good night. That stopped a long time ago.
I do all the things I’m supposed to. Floss. Wash behind my ears. Turn off the lights before eleven.
Sometimes it’s nice to do what the Messages say. It’s like sinking into a warm bath, eyes shut, arms floating, and letting the water cover my face. I don’t have to breathe until someone tells me to.
There’s just one last thing before I fall asleep.
The CD.
I’m not tired. It can wait. I’ll just lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Remind myself why she’s a bad idea.
The dots are still on my ceiling. Random blobs of glow-in-the-dark paint that my mother put there. “It’s our secret,” she said. “Your father will never notice.”
She was right. The dots are invisible in the day. And even if Dad came in my room at night, he wouldn’t look up. He’s strictly a forward-motion, eyes-on-the-prize guy. Goal oriented, he calls it.
He doesn’t have time to look up or down or all around. Maybe that’s why he never noticed my other invisible secrets.
When I couldn’t sleep, Mom would lie on my bed with me, pointing at our dots. “I see a whale,” she’d say. Or, “Look! It’s Teddy Roosevelt!”
“I don’t see that,” I’d say, but hoping she’d find even more things. It was different every night.
She made me find things, too. At first it looked like a ceiling splattered with paint. But then lines would appear—a river, a school bus, a hippopotamus.
“I see it!” she’d say. “You found something spectacular.” After she left, I slept on my stomach. My side. But never on my back. I was afraid I’d see her dinosaur, her plate of cookies, the whale. Or worse, everything she showed me would be gone.
Tonight I look. But there’s nothing—just dots. Mom used to call it a ceiling of infinite possibilities. Now I just don’t believe in it. I was right not to look all those years.
To
survive, I have to be heads-down. Like Dad. One goal. One direction.
I slide my fingers over the music player’s buttons. I feel strong enough to hit play now and start erasing the potential of Nia.
The music is classical piano, soothing, perfect for bedtime. Six hours from now, things will be back to normal. But my eyes won’t close and my legs want to run. I give up on lying down. My feet take me to the window over my desk—the one I saw her through.
The blinds are closed. I flick them open.
And jump back. Someone’s staring in at me. I try to swear, but my brain won’t let it happen. My mouth is too busy hanging open like a fish.
But then I see he’s black and white. A man on paper.
Someone taped a drawing to my window.
I slide it open.
Loud sirens sound from the hallway. “Intruder alert! Intruder alert!”
The house alarm. Dad arms it every night, just in case someone comes from the outside and breaks his perfect bubble. If the county would let him, he’d put a big gate around the entire town to keep the wrong people out and the right people in.
Someone bangs on my door. “Safety word!” Dad barks.
“Hot dog!” I shout. Our old just-in-case word. “But Dad—”
“Stay there and lock your door!”
I should follow him down the hall and tell him it’s all right—that there’s nobody dangerous in the house.
I pull the paper off the glass and shut the window. Lock my door.
It’s not a man—it’s a kid my age. His eyes are wide—scared? Or shocked? But his lips are set and tense. He holds up one finger to his mouth. A warning to be quiet.
It’s good. Really good.
A note is on the bottom: Thanks for the tunes.
As if I needed her to tell me she made this.
The alarm shuts off. I can hear the piano music again. It’s too loud. I can’t stand it another second and I shut it off.
There’s only the regular house music left: the closest to silence it gets here. Dad knocks on the door. “Open up.”
My hand is on the knob when I feel the paper between my fingers. I ball it up and stick it under my pillow, then I let him in.
“Everything okay?” I throw in a yawn for effect.
Dad shakes his head. “Alarms don’t go off by themselves. First graffiti. Now attempted break-ins.”
“Candor is our safe haven.” The Message bubbles over my lips, easy, the perfect thing to say.
“That’s right, son.” Dad claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I’ll make sure of it.”
I flinch, not meaning to—just surprised he touched me.
He jerks away like I’m a hot stove. Danger. Don’t touch the child. “Get some sleep.”
I lie down. The paper crinkles under the pillow. I wait five minutes, just in case.
Then I pull it out. Hold it up high, so it’s outlined by glowing blobs. In the dark I can see who it is.
She drew me. But not who I see in the mirror. Nia saw the Oscar I keep hidden. And she put him on paper.
Nobody sees the real me. Not since I stopped looking for pictures on my ceiling.
Finally I’m sleepy. I pull up my usual playlist. Hit play.
Nia’s making it hard to want to forget her. I should hate her for it.
But I crumple the drawing again. Hold the ball tight against my chest.
I stay on my back when I close my eyes. Even with my eyes shut, I see dots and lines and glowing giraffes. And a girl, drawing.
Seeing the lines between my dots.
NIA IS ALL I can think about.
But that doesn’t mean I have to act stupid.
I’ll be the same person I was before she skateboarded down my sidewalk. Charming, studious, obedient Oscar Banks.
Safe Oscar Banks.
So I serve Dad’s rye toast with a smile. Raise my hand in every class. The chess club gets the pleasure of my company at lunch.
And when the president of the school’s newest club asks for my help, I say yes. That’s the kind of thing Oscar Banks does. He’s an exceptional person.
Especially when he’s going out with the president of that club. Good Oscar wants to make Mandi Able happy. Which means taking orders from a blonde with a clipboard.
“Come to the four-way stop by the flagpole after last period,” she tells me. “TAG will supply the chalk. Don’t be late. I mean, please.”
TAG. I think she was babbling about it yesterday. Probably I should act like I know what she’s talking about.
But she knows me too well. “Remember TAG? Teens Against Graffiti? I told you all about it yesterday after study group.” She gives me a blue-eyed laser stare. “It’s my top priority. This town is facing a crisis.”
“Right. Graffiti crisis. How could I forget?”
“And today we’re putting pride Messages on our sidewalks,” she says. Like she’s told me this part before, too. Not that I remember. That might have been when I was wondering what it looks like when a girl skateboards naked. What’s the better view? Front or back?
Whoops. There I go again.
Pull it together, Oscar.
“You’re writing on the sidewalks?” I ask.
“I have eighty catchy phrases right here.” She taps on her clipboard.
It’s too funny to be real. “Isn’t that graffiti?”
She pulls the clipboard tight to her chest, which is regrettably shrouded in a loose shirt. “It’s a statement. It’s anti-graffiti.”
“I guess if we cover the sidewalks, there’s no room for graffiti,” I tease.
But she takes me seriously. Acts like I just came up with the cure for cancer. “Good point, Oscar! I never thought of that. We’ll need to think about how we can protect the lamp poles, too.”
She hurries off without a good-bye, or even a reminder to be there.
But I will be there. Because I’m being good. Or at least I’m trying.
When I get to the intersection after school, TAG’s fearless leader is waiting for me. “You’re late,” Mandi says.
“School ended fifteen minutes ago.”
She sweeps her hand around the intersection. Every sidewalk square has a kid working on it. “Some people made this a priority.”
Sometimes even the Messages can’t stop the real Mandi from popping out. “I love it when you’re mean,” I tell her.
“I’m not mean! Always be kind to others!” Her eyes are wide and hurt. I feel a little bad for tweaking her.
“Just kidding. You’re not mean.” Not nearly often enough.
“We’re doing twenty squares in each direction. Let’s find one for you. Come.” She starts walking. I follow.
We pass kids writing things on their assigned patches of concrete. PUT DOWN THE PAINT AND PICK UP A BOOK! And UGLY PEOPLE MAKE UGLY GRAFFITI!
Catchy. If Dad ever needs someone to write Messages, he should put Mandi on the payroll.
Every square is taken. “There must be a blank area somewhere.” Mandi shades her eyes and looks around.
If I leave now, I’ll have the whole afternoon free. Time to think about Nia. To look for her. To … no. I’m not going to do that.
“I can just go to the end,” I tell her, pointing down one sidewalk.
Then I see the square at the end. It’s different from the rest. Swirling colors and black jagged lettering, like real graffiti. Nia is kneeling next to it.
There’s no escape.
My heart double-times it. I take a deep breath. Got to stay in control.
“Maybe I don’t need you,” Mandi says. She’s still looking around. I don’t think she’s noticed Nia’s square. “Let me help.”
“It’s symmetrical. We can’t just add on to the end. You can go.”
Now is my chance to get away. To do the smart thing.
But I don’t. I look straight into my girlfriend’s eyes and say, “I’ll figure out some way to help you.”
“That’s sweet, even if it’s unnecessary.” S
he gives me a twinkly little smile. Then a kid asks her for help on his square.
I am dismissed.
My feet take me to Nia faster than they should.
She looks up from her drawing. “You again?”
“Our town is facing a crisis,” I tell her. “A graffiti crisis.”
“You’d know all about that, Picasso.”
“Quiet,” I whisper. Look around. Is there anyone listening? “Don’t—”
“I won’t.” She waves her hand dismissively, still holding chalk.
I sit on the grass next to her. Not too close. “I like your square.”
“Thanks. Better get started on yours.” Nia pushes the box of chalk toward me. “If you think you can handle the competition.”
It’s not the competition I’m worried about. It’s the company. Maybe I should go.
But it’s possible to be good around her. Has to be.
I’ll prove it.
“I can handle anything you dish out.” I pick out a white piece.
The stick is powdery and fragile. It’s been years since I touched chalk. Did we even bring some when we moved? I can’t remember.
Nia is watching me. “Are you going to smoke it or draw with it?”
“Watch the master at work.” I scrape the white stick over the sidewalk. It barely leaves a mark.
“That was pathetic.”
“I’m out of practice.”
“You have to press harder,” she says, putting her hand over mine. Her fingers feel surprisingly strong.
Together we make a thick, wobbly line. Then her fingers are gone, fast. Pushed away by Messages, I bet. They’re pulsing in my brain. Warning me.
Respectful space in every place.
Avoid physical contact.
“It’s a worm.” I put my hands on my cheeks in mock horror. “A really ugly one. You ruined my square.”
“You needed my help, Picasso.”
“See all the other squares? No worms.”
“Now the worm gets an apple.” Before I can stop her, she sketches one.
“Stay in your own square.” But I put my foot in the corner of hers.
Is it her? Or the chalk? I want to play. I want to remember when that was okay. Like I’m six again.