The Smaller Evil Page 2

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Arman had said, compelled to be honest in a situation where he’d normally lie.

  Beau had smiled at him then, an expression as clear and easy to read as a full moon on a cloudless night. And there were no lines on his face. Not one. “Think about it this way. Just as a sneeze or a fever indicates an underlying infection in your body, wanting to please someone who’s done nothing but neglect and abuse you is also a symptom.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of disease. A man-made disease that feeds on your misery. Mark my words, Arman, your immune system has failed you. I can see it. There are cultural forces right now that are sucking the life out of your autonomy and happiness in order to thrive. They’re no different from opportunistic bacteria and viruses that feed on their host. You’re someone else’s host. But you don’t have to be.”

  That’s when things had started to click for Arman. When he’d first felt that flicker-flame of hope. Autonomy and joy were scarce in his daily existence, only he’d never understood why. But now he had the answer: A disease was responsible. Social order sickness, Beau called it, or the hierarchical flu—both were the terms he used interchangeably to describe the sort of cultural syndrome that needed him to be weak in order for it to be strong. Apparently Arman had a pretty bad case of it. That’s what the screening test Beau had given him said. And what he needed, Beau informed him, with those pale river eyes so full of compassion and understanding, was quarantine and recuperation.

  Followed by inoculation.

  Arman scooted sideways as a big wave washed in, shooting froth and bubbles at his feet. His dirty shoes slapped in the wetness and small crabs skittered in and out of holes and over rocks. He peeked at his phone. Five minutes before he had to board the van again. His stomach was still empty, a carved hollow, but his heart felt full, thinking of the days ahead, with all their promise and potential—a whole week spent at a private campground with Beau and other people like him, people who would teach Arman and Dale and Kira and all the other visitors who’d heard about Beau and what he could do, who understood that they needed help, too.

  Who would he become? What could he become? Arman had no idea, but the future shimmered in front of him, so bright and vivid and real.

  Giddy with his thoughts and the fresh ocean air, Arman reached down and picked up the tail end of a giant seaweed bulb that lay half buried in the sand. It had to be at least nine feet long. Cold and slimy, the thick green-brown tail slid around in his palm, but Arman held tight. He didn’t let go. He began to jog, first stretching his legs and testing his muscles. Heavy sand weighted down his wet shoes and the damp cuffs of his jeans, but Arman forced his legs to go faster. He broke into a run, then a sprint, tugging hard on the seaweed tail. Behind him, the bulb head bounced and spun in the surf, like an eager kite that didn’t yet know how to fly.

  • • •

  Back in the van, Dale sat in Arman’s row for the last leg of the trip because Kira wanted to sleep. This meant sprawling her entire leggy body across the front row and Dale moving back, sunglasses, bloodshot eyes, surfer shorts and all. Arman slid in beside him but said nothing. He wasn’t feeling unsocial, exactly, but he didn’t know how to start a conversation and he didn’t want to come off weird the way he always did.So he just slouched down. Held his book in his lap and hoped to God his stomach would stay quiet so Dale wouldn’t ask why he hadn’t eaten lunch with the rest of them.

  The thing was, Arman and Dale weren’t friends. They weren’t anything. They’d only met each other once before, and that had been at the second gathering with Beau. Dale had shown up at the café that day, along with Kira, and that was when Beau invited them to the retreat. All dark hair and sloppy clothes and casual indifference, Dale had been aloof toward Arman then. Chilly, even. But in a way that made Arman long to know him. Or at least, not be dismissed by him.

  That was another symptom, wasn’t it? The longing. The need for acceptance and validation. The need for something other than himself, because he found himself lacking. Or maybe he was lacking and that’s why he was needy? It was hard to tell the difference. Sometimes the symptom could be the cause. Arman leaned his head against the seat back and resisted the urge to slam it. His insecurities and failures were glaringly obvious, but what could Dale need? Dale was good-looking, athletic, emotionally tempered in ways Arman wished he could be. In other words, he was cool.

  And yet he was here for a reason. He had to be.

  Struggling to be sly about it, Arman lifted his head and side-eyed Dale as the van rocked and swayed, hugging the cliff-side curves on the twisting route southward. Interesting. Dale looked anything but aloof or cool now. He looked sick, actually. Sort of whey-faced and clammy, like the way Arman felt when he took too much Adderall. Dale was gripping the front of the van seat so hard the blood vessels in his hands were popping out. Blue ridges on white skin.

  Arman nudged him with his foot. “Hey. You okay?”

  Dale shook his head. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat like a trapped frog. “I don’t like heights.”

  Heights? A wave of sympathy washed over Arman. That was unfortunate, considering. Highway 1 definitely involved heights, lots of them: breathtaking, dizzying, unfathomable heights. It was a treacherous road, one that cut back and forth, inching along narrow drop-off cliffs and spanning stone bridges that floated high above the rocky shoreline and pounding waves. No guardrails stood between the road and oblivion, either. Arman kind of liked it that way: the view, the danger, the sheer sense of nail-biting awe. He’d heard that once a year a marathon ran up this road, and that a man in full tux and tails played a grand piano for the runners from atop one of these sharp-edged cliffs. He wanted to see that someday, a concert at the end of the world. It sent a thrill through him to think about it, to experience something so rare and fleeting. But for Dale there was clearly no upside to this.

  Arman felt bad about that.

  “You want to switch seats?” he offered. That way he’d be on the cliff side and Dale would only have a view of the oncoming traffic.

  “No, I don’t,” Dale replied. “I don’t want that at all.”

  Arman scowled. “Fine. I was just asking.”

  Dale folded his arms and let his heavy-lidded eyes flutter shut. “You know what I do want?”

  “What?”

  “What I want right now is some goddamn Klonopin.”

  “Klonopin?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, sorry. All I’ve got is Paxil.”

  Dale’s eyes popped open. “What did you say?”

  “I said I have Paxil.”

  “What’s Paxil?”

  “It’s an antidepressant. But it works for anxiety, too.”

  A smirk skittered across Dale’s lips. “Seriously? You take that shit?”

  Arman’s shoulders tensed. “Why’s it shit? You just said you wanted Klonopin.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How’s it different?”

  Dale waved a hand. “It just is. Anyway, I heard they don’t allow your kind of medication in this place. So you better watch out. Your Paxil’s about to become a controlled substance.”

  “Why wouldn’t they allow medication?”

  “I don’t know. Supposedly it inhibits your experience of reality or some bullshit. It was in a brochure I saw. Sounds pretty stupid, if you ask me. Reality’s what we make of it, right?”

  Arman felt weak. He had no idea what reality was or wasn’t. He also didn’t care. What he did care about was not breaking rules. He didn’t want to get in trouble. He didn’t want to do anything he wasn’t supposed to.

  But he needed his medication.

  He turned to Dale. “You know, I meant what I said about switching seats.”

  “Hell, sure. Why not.” Dale gestured for Arman to stand up, which he did. Dale scooted toward the
aisle while Arman wriggled toward the window. And even though he still held his book in his lap, he didn’t read or relax. He sat up straight for the rest of the ride.

  • • •

  They pulled into the campground a little before four.

  Their van was one of at least a dozen in the gravel parking area. There were a couple of trucks, too, and an ATV, and even an old dust-covered sailboat that looked like it hadn’t seen water in half a century.

  Stepping out and gazing at the steep-pitched hills around him, Arman realized campground wasn’t the most accurate word. To him it had conjured up images of tents and bug bites and shitting in the woods, which were all things he remembered from the times his dad had taken him camping, usually up near Tahoe. Those were trips that had taken place years ago. They’d also grown less enjoyable over time; the older Arman got, the more comfortable his dad grew with abandoning him while he frequented the South Lake casinos. Arman hated being left alone in those scummy campgrounds, surrounded by bikers and drunks and the constant reek of pot smoke. But this place was different. This place, rooted deep in a desolate section of the central coastal range, wound in on a dirt road, through miles of lost canyons, miles from anywhere, and ringed on every side by some sort of geological barrier, felt more like a compound.

  First off, this was clearly private property. The hand-lettered sign on the wrought-iron scroll gate they’d driven through said as much. There were other signs, as well. One read NO TRESPASSING and another KEEP OUT, but the most curious message was the one carved into the metal archway that ran above the massive barred gate. Arman had had to lean to see it, twisting his head against the van’s window, but what he saw read:

  EVOLVE

  ALIA TENTANDA VIA EST

  Arman knew that was Latin. It sounded familiar, too, only he didn’t know what it meant, other than the evolve part. He couldn’t even look up the rest of the phrase because there was no cell service here. There hadn’t been for the last hour of the drive.

  The van’s other passengers streamed past Arman and up a cobblestone path. Only Beau wasn’t with them. He wasn’t anywhere. Arman’s heart stuttered as he glanced around. Crap. Apparently Arman’s daydreaming had made him miss something important. Again. He gripped his bag and hurried after the rest of the group. He was determined to pay attention from now on. He just had to focus. He just had to be a better person.

  They headed toward a large domed structure that had been built into the hillside. Wood smoke puffed from the dome’s chimney. And that was another thing that made this place a not-campground. Instead of tents, there were buildings, real buildings. Lots of them—from what Arman could make out—all made of wood, red where raw, but weathered silver. Beyond the dome was a large meadow ringed with small cabins and other outbuildings. Even farther, pine and cypress trees dotted the thicketed landscape, and dirt trails twined and vanished into a dark forest that stretched as far as the eye could see.

  Breathing in the sharp scent of eucalyptus leaves and wafting licorice bushes that lined the path he was on, Arman’s heart continued to rattle, not just with nerves, but excitement, too. His allergies had already receded in the few minutes he’d been here, and whatever “alia tentanda via est” meant and whatever kind of place this happened to be, at least it was different. Here he could be someone new. Here he had no history of embarrassing himself or not making friends or being the weird, sickly one-off sheep no one thought was interesting or valuable enough to look for when he inevitably wandered off, lost inside his own head.

  At least, not yet.

  Arman snuck one last peek over his shoulder. He gave a long stare back down the dirt hill drive toward the iron gate, but it was too far away for him to see, and this realization calmed him, dousing whatever was left of the paranoia he’d generated by stealing from his stepfather and running away. Because not being able to see the gate meant he couldn’t see where he’d come from.

  And that meant, for the very first time in his entire seventeen years of life, Arman believed he might actually be safe.

  3

  BEFORE HE COULD STEP INSIDE the domed building to join the others, Beau pulled him aside.

  “C’mere,” he said, appearing from nowhere to place a hand on Arman’s shoulder, steering him away from the flow of foot traffic and out toward the meadow. He’d changed clothes, which confused Arman. When had that happened? No longer dressed in jeans and the thin button-down shirt he’d been wearing during the van ride, Beau was now in all beige—still pants and a shirt, but the style wasn’t one Arman had ever seen before. The clothes he wore were sort of loose and flowy. Like they were built for a different climate.

  “Is everything okay?” Arman asked. Walking in Beau’s longer shadow, he felt lacking. Insufficient. Had he already been judged unworthy of being here? Beau had invited him after only meeting him twice and so it was definitely possible he’d made a mistake. Maybe now he needed to fix that mistake by asking Arman to leave.

  Shut up. That’s the zero effect talking.

  Maybe so, but why was he being singled out? Where was Kira? And Dale?

  Arman started to do the thing he always did when he felt like he’d disappointed somebody.

  He began to sweat, in all sorts of terrible places.

  And he picked at his arm, gouging his skin with his nail.

  Beau stepped down into a garden of some kind. Arman made himself follow. Grass crunched underfoot and the garden was lush, bright, filled with the flowery scent of summer and the sleepy buzz of the dragonflies and the soft burbling of a cool, stone fountain. Beau talked to Arman as they walked, murmuring about self-sufficiency and pointing out things like a knotted grove of apple trees and growing tubs for herbs and a reverse irrigation drip system that could double their crop of heirloom tomatoes and even a whole cluster of white-lidded beehives, but Arman wasn’t catching his words. Not really. His mind wouldn’t focus. He kept picking at his arm, digging deeper. Everything felt fuzzy.

  “. . . very glad you’re here,” he heard faintly. Then: “Arman? Arman?”

  He dropped his hands to his sides. Felt the sticky ooze of blood and prayed Beau didn’t notice. “Yeah?”

  “You okay, son?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little hungry, I think. I feel kind of dizzy.”

  “Did you eat lunch?”

  “No.” Arman blushed more. Harder. Hotter. Whatever. He was too embarrassed to admit he’d forgotten to pack himself food. Who did that?

  “I’ll take you to the kitchen, then,” Beau said firmly. “I’m sure the cook will be able to find something to hold you over until dinner. Can’t have you getting sick or malnourished while you’re out here, okay?”

  Arman nodded. The pounding of his heart slowed and his mind cleared. So he wasn’t being asked to leave before even really arriving? That was good. That was definitely good. He pushed his shaggy hair back and squinted up at Beau.

  With a hint of silver dotting his temple, the older man had a kind face. A normal one, too. He didn’t have a pervy smile like that basketball coach back in middle school who was always trying to give him a ride home, or the pissed-off glare of Arman’s stepfather who never wanted him around. He didn’t even have the canary-eating-cat sneakiness Arman had learned to read in the seemingly placid face of his real father. There was just a presence about Beau. Something intangible. And honest. He exuded warmth without being sappy. Strength without being uncaring.

  “Look,” Beau said. “I wanted to prepare you for some things before we go in there. Before we really get started.” He gestured toward the domed building.

  “Oh, okay,” Arman said, although he wanted to ask, Get started on what?

  “You know, you being here. It’s something special. For me.”

  “It is?”

  “Absolutely. The others who are here, well, they’re paying a lot of money to learn what my program can teach th
em. It’s knowledge we want to share, obviously, but to do that, we have to have a system. Our research must be funded. Maintained. You understand that, right?”

  Arman nodded again, but the shakiness in his legs returned. Research? Maintaining a system? He was only saying he understood because he didn’t want to be perceived as stupid, but that’s pretty much what he was. He was bone clueless about whatever the hell Beau was talking about. He had a sinking feeling Beau knew it, too.

  His eyes widened with sudden awareness. “Wait,” he said. “I can pay you. Is that what this is about? Kira said it was fifteen hundred for the week, and I’ve got that. I’ve got more, if you want it. I never intended not to pay!” With that, he slipped the messenger bag off his shoulder and onto the ground. Dropped to his knees to rifle through it. He’d wrapped the stolen bills in newspaper, then plastic, before stuffing them in the very bottom, beneath his clothes.

  “Arman, stop.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s what I wanted to tell you.” Beau knelt beside him in the grass, the warmth of the late-day sun flooding over them both. The bees hummed louder. A woodpecker hammered at a tree above them. “I don’t want your money, okay?”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  Arman froze, confused. “Why not?”

  “For one, you can’t afford it. However you got that money in your bag, well, I don’t want to know. Two, it’s important to me that you’re here. Critical, actually.”

  Arman opened his mouth. He wanted to say that he could afford to pay. Of course he could. He’d risked so much to come here, it didn’t seem right not to use the money he’d stolen from his stepfather. It didn’t seem right that his sacrifice had been in vain.

  But Beau kept talking, kept using that slow, soporific voice of his. “I need something good this summer, Arman. Something I care about. There’s been discord here, of late, I’m afraid. A certain ugliness. In fact, there’s someone at the compound right now intent on destroying the life I’ve worked so hard to build.”