Brightside (6 page)

I hated how easily Sharon sifted through my thoughts. I tried not to think about Rachel, Lily, this whole fucked up place.

You don’t have to say anything,
Sharon thought.
We can just do this silently if it makes it easier.

I backed into the couch. “Don’t you have to want to share for therapy?”

“Therapy can work in many ways.”

“Just stay out of my head.”

Sharon smoothed out her white slacks, her short blonde hair plastered down. Sharon had the longest range of anyone in Brightside. She could hear your thoughts from fifty feet on a clear day. I never understood how she stayed so calm. She heard thoughts wherever she went. I guess the meditation helped. She said it did. I heard that soft humming mantra flowing from her skull.

Silent therapy made sense. Just cut through the crap and spill out every thought. Even with the waterfall’s soothing sounds and these yellow walls to make us feel comfortable, people never say what’s really on their mind. It’s how society works. We glance off the truth, avoid conflict. We’re trained to keep it pleasant, hold back. Silent therapy allowed Sharon to get past all that, but I didn’t want her digging, not that I could do anything to block her.

“Where’s Rachel?” I asked.

“Safe.”

Right.

Sharon smiled, even as I imagined strangling her.

“It’s perfectly natural to be angry, Joe. Brightside takes getting used to. We’re all on different timelines. But if you’re willing to open up, you’ll see how wonderful it can be.”

I pictured Rachel, catatonic, staring at nothing in The Cabin, the place rule-breakers were sent to drool.

“Carlos says you’re doing well. Your sales are up.”

Carlos was my boss. He wore American flag pins on his tie.

“How long do I have to be here?” I asked.

“Not long.” Sharon studied me, staring, probing my head. “You know, I have a good feeling about you.”

“You’re going to be disappointed.”

“I don’t know. We’ll see.”

I’d only been forced to see Sharon twice. The first time was the hardest: Day 1 in Brightside.

There wasn’t a trial after the raid. They held a group of us in a cell for the night. They woke us by yelling. My right ear was still out from the
flashbang
, my left muffled with a light ringing. They brought us to the helicopter outside and took us up into the sky. Some thought it was beautiful, the rising sun over the cute mountain town. I never saw it, kept my eyes shut, too afraid to look down, see the drop. Someone was telling us about Brightside, gave us a quick history. I only heard every fifth word, focused on my clenched fists cuffed behind my back, my pounding heart. Seemed like we’d been rising for hours, but it was probably only minutes. My eyelids didn’t open until the helicopter landed. I took
a deep breath. The air burned my lungs, so cold, thin. I thought I might pass out.

They finally unlocked the cuffs, told us we were going to be processed. Brightside loved paperwork. We had to sign forms stating we were here voluntarily. They told us we had no choice, that if we didn’t sign, our stay would be unpleasant. If we just scratched our names down, things would get a lot easier. I don’t remember signing, but I must have, because they took me to human resources, helped me land a job. They liked I had a background in sales. People were smiling, nodding. They said this was going to be fun. They loved that word.

“The ice cream parlor is fun.”

“Karaoke nights are super fun.”

“Summer is the most fun. We have intramural kickball games.”

Next, I was sent to Sharon. All of us new residents were sitting in her pleasant waiting room. “Know Thyself, Love Thyself” painted in pink flowery sweeps across the yellow wall.

I recognized one of the guys,
Phuc
Li, the world famous poker player. He’d won every major tournament, collected eleven bracelets, racked up millions. He even had his own late night poker show on TV. Some called him “Lucky Li.” Others used his first name. Turned out he wasn’t lucky at all. I realized I’d been in the wrong business. He’d made more money playing poker in a single night than I made in the year at BMW.

Phuc
stared at me from behind his sunglasses and smiled.

Everyone else stared at their laps or the floor. I heard one guy thinking about his wife, the bitch who’d turned him in. Another woman thought about her kids stuck with their alcoholic father.

Brightsiders
weren’t allowed to keep their kids. There were petitions, but they wouldn’t change anything,
normals
couldn’t stay on the mountain. After some time, we could have visitors, not that I expected anyone to ever show.

Someone mumbled, “Cut that shit out.”

The guy beside me thought,
Yeah, who brought the retard?

I wondered what I was doing and checked my feet to make sure I wasn’t tapping.

Not you.
My neighbor nudged his hand to the right, his last three fingers purple and swollen.
Einstein over there.

The guy reading the comic book in the corner looked old enough for college, but his extra tight Donald Duck t-shirt and white name tag with big
blocky
letters said it was more likely he’d been hijacked from preschool. The tag was scrunched up and falling off, but his bright blue hat with red embroidered letters spelled out DANNY for everyone to see.

I turned my head so I could hear what was pissing people off. The rustle of paper and squeak of the comic book’s battered cover as Danny rubbed it back and forth in his right hand.

Even though I hadn’t met many Thought Thieves before Brightside, I’d assumed they were all masterminds, or at least
intelligent, definitely brighter than me. There were two guys between us, but I did my best to block them out and focused on Danny. I listened to him silently sound out each word in his head.

It wasn’t right to listen in, but I needed an escape from reality and I’d never heard GI Joe in slow motion. There were more “BOOMs!” and “BLAMs!” than I was expecting, but never any death. All that noise, all those bullets. I guessed there was no friendly fire.

The clack of heels stopped the story. Sharon stood in the doorway, cool and collected in her white pantsuit, hands folded in front of her. She was over fifty, but could have passed for thirty-five. All that age-defying meditation. Sharon retreated into her office, her short blonde hair sprayed into place. She called me by my first name like I was a friend and told me to step inside. She got behind her mahogany desk and waved me over like I was a puppy. “Come on.”

She had me sit. Waited for me to speak first. When I wouldn’t, she told me about Brightside, how it wasn’t so bad, that I just had to settle in.

I later learned that things hadn’t always been so cheery. The place had changed. In the beginning, people like us were kept in The Cabin or behind steel bars in the basements. Too many took their own lives.

Then the politicians and lawyers arrived. Phillip, the ex-Senator. Grace, the New York D.A. with her perfect conviction rate. Phillip and Grace formed the Brightside Council. They turned things around, got us more funding, lessened the security, even put
a stop to the sterilization.
Brightsiders
could have babies and families. We could live normal lives.

“Things could be worse,” Sharon said.

I didn’t see how, even after I was shown my new apartment and taken on a tour of the town. We were given free meals for the first two days. After that, we had to pay for everything with the money we earned. Outside contact was forbidden the first week. No calls, no letters back home. Once Sharon and the Council deemed us safe, we could make contact. Monitored contact. We could also receive gifts. Not that I expected anything. After they dragged me from my place, Michelle thought I was a piece of shit. And my parents…right. They’d forgotten half of my birthdays as a kid.

The only gift I received was from the Council. A hundred dollar gift card I could use anywhere in Brightside. Day 7 I bought an iPod to block out all the thoughts. Danny bought comic books and a postcard to send to his sister, Sara. A bright blue pencil so he could sign his name.

Danny stood by the rack, the sharpened pencil clenched in his fist, his thumb sliding down then up to the eraser. He kept doing it as he stared at the comic books, his thumb going back and forth, his hat down low to hide most of his face.

Sara was there when they took him. Danny had been listening to a store clerk’s thoughts. Two black guys were standing by the rack of CDs. Danny said he’d watch them to make sure they weren’t stealing. Sara told him to be quiet, but the black guys had heard him, started shoving Danny. The clerk thought about going for his pistol. Danny told him no guns.

Suddenly, the guys and the clerk were on the same side. Sara begged for them to just let her and Danny go, but the Boots arrived. Danny was cuffed, taken.

I felt bad for listening and moved to the sketchpads. I used to sketch when I was a kid. Hadn’t done it in years, but something about the pad and colored pencils made me want to pick it up. From the end of the aisle, Danny asked if I was a drawer. He sounded like a six-year-old cowboy with a speech impediment.

Thanks to the cowards too scared to knock, my right ear was still next to useless. I turned my head and Danny repeated the question. He used his finger to draw on the air because I was the one being slow.

I pulled down my sleeves to cover the purple bruises ringing both wrists and said, “I used to.”

Danny tugged on his hat and walked over real slow, his custom-order Dino-shoes flashing red.

When Danny got to where the average person would stop, I said, “Cool shoes, man.”

He surprised me and took another step, came in close enough for me to tell two of his favorite foods were peanut butter and pickles. Danny didn’t say a word about my wrists, just pointed at his feet. “T-Rex is my favorite.”

I nodded. “Mine, too.”

He backed up a bit to give me some room, but stayed well within my six-foot range. Like he wasn’t so sure he was saying it right, he said, “I’m Danny.” His right hand was busy with the pencil so he stuck out his left with a rolled-up comic book in it. He raised his head and showed me his hazel eyes that were too close together.

Having someone look me in the eyes has never been easy, but Dad taught me to watch them when someone’s talking.

He said if you want to know what people look like when they lie, just look them in the eyes and ask how they’re doing.

Dad said the eyes show everything. They show the real you. And that was something I didn’t want anyone seeing. Especially some stranger.

But Danny didn’t have the eyes of a stranger. They were the kindest shade of hazel, the softest brown I’d ever seen. There was a whole lot of hurt filling those eyes, but the flecks of gold said he’d be alright.

I gave the comic book a shake like that’s how everyone did it. “Nice to meet you, Danny.”

Danny turned his neck like he was trying to get out the kink then pointed at the sketchpad and asked, “You a pro?”

“No, just for fun.” That word “fun” making me want to puke.

Danny picked up the sketchpad and the box of colored pencils. He said, “You need these.”

I still had money left on the gift card, but thought I should save it. I followed Danny to the register and told him, “I’m not sure I want to buy them.”

Danny unzipped his blue fanny pack and paid with his own card. Then he handed over the pad and pencils and said, “Happy new home.”

“Danny… I can’t accept this.”

“You have to. I want to see you draw.”

“I haven’t done it since I was a kid.”

“Need practice. Come on.”

Danny ran out the door, over to a bench, plopped down. Reluctantly, I sat and opened the pad to the very first page. “What would you like me to draw?”

Danny said he didn’t know, but I knew he was being shy. I turned and listened for his thoughts.

I got nothing, the first time that’d ever happened to me.

I’d been around people who didn’t think much or were always distracted, caught up in the moment. But this was different. With Danny there was nothing. Not one thought, just that smile.

Danny’s kind eyes got worried.

I took out the charcoal pencil, finally heard Danny’s thoughts. “You didn’t ruin it.” I gave him a smile and said, “It’s cool. It’ll be a surprise.”

I turned off my mind and looked across the park. Rachel was sitting by a tree. I’d met her at work, but we’d barely spoken, both of us too scared, knowing we were being watched. My pencil got moving. In less than a minute, I had an outline.

* * *

It was a half-day, Mom another no-show. But this time I was six, old enough to use the under-the-mat key. I hoped I’d have the house to myself, even though that meant Mom would be at someone else’s. But she was home, laughing so loud she didn’t hear me open the back door.

I walked past the dryer’s low rumble, my Ghostbusters backpack in one hand, my drawing in the other. I heard a man’s voice, the aerobics instructor, the one with the big dick.