Candor by Pam Bachorz Read Free Book Online

obsessive behavior. Touching a light switch twenty times. Staying up until dawn vacuuming.
    The side effects fade over time. For most people.
    Thinking about the Listening Room makes it easy. I think of the words again and this time they rush out.
    Now I just have to hide my Message in music. I press open another panel and reach for the burlap bag between the wall studs. My laptop, hidden.
    It takes just one special computer program, stolen by me. Two minutes later it’s done. I have a CD with my instructions. I slide it into the hidden pocket inside my jacket. Tonight I’ll play it. My brain will listen while I sleep.
    I hear a thud. I freeze. Look and listen.
    A sprinkler’s hitting the shed every ten seconds as it rotates across the lawn. Frogs hum in the preserve behind the fence. All normal.
    Another thud. No. Not normal. And now there’s a scratching noise near the door. The doorknob is wiggling, just a little.
    Someone’s breaking in. Or they’ve got a key. I do a quick check: incriminating evidence in the cup, recorder on the chair, stash door wide open.
    I slam the stash door shut, but the latch doesn’t work. It pops open again. Another slam. It opens wider this time, showing even more of the goodies inside.
    The Adirondack chairs. One of those beasts will keep the stash door shut. They’re next to the door, but I risk it—check the knob, still wiggling—and throw my body against one. It barely moves. No way can I get it to the wall in time.
    The doorknob goes still. Then the whole door shudders. Someone’s throwing themselves against it.
    I grab the cup. At least I can fix that. With one long swallow, I dispose of its contents. It’s so strong it gives me a coughing fit. I stagger to my stash and lean against the door. Naughtiness concealed. If I stay where I am.
    Hopefully whoever it is won’t notice the recorder. Or make me move.
    If I do, it’s over.
    The door crashes open. “Oscar! Oscar! Are you in here?”
    Guess who.
    I’m not caught. Just supremely annoyed.
    “Shut the door. And stop yelling my name,” I say. The words come out all shaky.
    Sherman obeys. “I’m sorry. It’s just—I’m—” He stops, panting.
    He’s wearing a huge backpack on his shoulders. Sweat has soaked through his polo shirt in patches: rings under his arms, and a big wet oval over his stomach.
    “Taking your homework for a walk?” My hands are shaking. I pick up my cup like there’s still something in it that’s going to help.
    “I waited for hours.” He collapses into the chair I tried to move.
    “Maybe you should go wait some more,” I say. “For whatever.”
    Sherman grabs both arms of the chair. “I was waiting for you,” he bellows.
    “Shut up! You want to get us caught?”
    “Why didn’t you meet me?” Sherman pulls a wad of paper out of his pocket. Uncrumples it. “I did what you said. Enter the woods at the ninth hole of the golf course. Walk a quarter mile east—”
    “Give me that.” I grab the paper. “I told you not to write the directions down.”
    “But I can’t remember anything.”
    “No kidding. What’s today, Sherman?” I ball the paper up and shove it in my pocket. To be destroyed later.
    “Today’s Wednesday.” He says it slow, like I’m the idiot.
    “Right. Wednesday. Not Saturday.”
    “I know.” He frowns. Blink. Blink. Then I see it coming. “You mean … I’m not supposed to leave tonight?”
    “It’s not happening tonight, Sherm. You leave Saturday . It was always Saturday.”
    He’s breathing faster. He clutches at his sweaty polo shirt. “But I’m all packed. And I left a note.”
    “What kind of note? For who?”
    My rules are very clear about good-byes. It’s too risky—to them, but especially to me.
    “It was to my mother.” His lips are trembling. “And I don’t care what you say.”
    “You think she loves you?” I laugh. “If she did, you wouldn’t be stuck here.”
    “I’ll miss her.”
    “Did you say anything about where