Candor Read Online Free Page A

all my clients there.
    My father has no idea that he built me an office right in the backyard of his best-selling model. He thinks he controls me. But I know all the loopholes. I even invented some of them.
    The front door opens and the alarm system softly beep-beep-beeps . I jump up, then sit down so fast the bench hurts me.
    Let her come to me. I need to keep control, own the situation.
    A tall fat kid with a stained T-shirt walks in. He takes a long slurp from the jumbo soda cup in his meaty hand.
    “I can’t believe the soda machines only have juice. Since when is apple juice supposed to taste like Coke?” he asks.
    Sherman. My only client, for now. Needy. Nervous. Rich. He’s the last thing I need to deal with right now.
    “Did I say you could come here?” I ask.
    Always be courteous . The Message pokes at me. I run my fingers over my head and grip my hair, as if I can pull the Message out through my scalp. If only it were that easy.
    “Persistence pays off,” Sherman says.
    That’s a Message. Something I shouldn’t be hearing him say, unless he’s trying to be ironic. Which I don’t think he’s capable of.
    “Are you listening to the stuff I gave you?” My booster music should be keeping him strong, but if he’s spouting Messages, it’s not working. He’ll be a goner in a few days.
    “Of course I am. I’m good at following directions. But the saxophone music sucks.” He opens the fridge and looks inside.
    I wonder if I should push his exit date up, but my driver’s hard to reach. And he doesn’t take kindly to change.
    But I can’t worry about Sherman, not right now. I have to be ready for Nia, which means ditching him.
    “Get out,” I tell Sherman. “I’m working.”
    “I gave you all my money. You work for me.” He plants his butt on the counter. Sweaty Sherman pudge pressing against Dad’s favorite Brazilian granite. It would be kind of funny if I didn’t want to kill him.
    Beep-beep-beep . Someone else is here. Not her, please. Not until I’ve de-Shermaned the place.
    A kid in denim overalls streaks past me, headed straight for the bathroom. Not good. Kids always like to throw things in the toilets.
    “Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t touch anything.” I give him a I’m-not-kidding look before I walk to the front hallway.
    There’s a family in the dining room, touching all the china place settings on the table: tired Mommy, flush-faced Daddy, and three short sticky kids, not counting the escapee in the powder room. I look for labels on the brats’ overalls. Nothing. They’re from Wal-Mart, maybe, or some other affordable, durable brand.
    “You must be lost,” I say. “Public restrooms are in the Brighton.”
    The daddy wanders past me into the kitchen. Sherman territory. I follow.
    “Welcome to Candor!” Sherman gives him a cheery wave. “Have you met Oscar? He’s a genius. An evil genius.” He lets out a high-pitched giggle.
    I was worried about his chattiness when I approached him and offered to save him. But I’d seen his bank balance—all the buyers have to give that information to my father, including their kids’ accounts—and I knew he could be worth my time.
    I quoted him the total amount in his account. He didn’t even blink. Things were slow and the kid was throwing major bucks at me. Why not?
    Now I know why not.
    “Who’s Oscar?” the man asks.
    “Nobody.” I hand him a price sheet. “I’m guessing you can’t afford this place.”
    He looks at the sheet. His eyebrows jerk up and down. “Lorna. Where’s Ella?” he barks.
    Mommy shrugs. She’s kid-free. What does she care?
    I hear a toilet flush. “Sounds like a priceless figurine going down the potty,” I say. “You break it, you buy it.”
    “Kids! Don’t touch anything!” Daddy runs off.
    Mommy sighs. “What pretty music.”
    Pretty like a Venus flytrap. The subliminal messages play at a frequency so low that you can’t hear them, but part of your brain does. Stay at the Roxbury long