Masterminds: Chapters 1–6

“But haven’t you ever passed that stupid sign—the one that says: Now Leaving Serenity—America’s Ideal Community?”

Can it really be this easy? You just jump on a bicycle and ride out of town? It seems like cheating somehow, breaking some overarching Law of the Way Things Are Supposed to Be.

It’s kind of exhilarating—at least, I’ve never been so aware of the beating of my heart and the blood pumping through my veins.

I glance over my shoulder at Serenity—the perfect rows of immaculate white homes, the swimming pools positioned on the lots like aquamarine postage stamps, the basketball hoops lined up like sentries, all lovingly set down amid the striking southwestern landscape.

When it comes to fun or comfort, we’ve got it all. We’ve got the stuff adults want too—a great school and great jobs. We’ve got the three Essential Qualities of Serenity citizens—honesty, harmony, and contentment.

We’ve heard about the bigger towns and—even worse—cities. They stink of garbage and everything’s crumbling, and crime is so bad that nobody can trust anybody else. People spend their time in fear, hunkered down behind locked doors and alarm systems.

After a bend in the road, a tall butte obscures the town altogether.

After a bend in the road, a tall butte obscures the town altogether. It completes the feeling of being out there.

It’s the sign Randy mentioned—the one about leaving town. In contrast to spotless and impeccable Serenity, it’s surprisingly faded and weather-beaten.

What happens next is so shocking, so bizarre, that I’m sure I’m imagining it, delirious with pain.

An enormous military-style helicopter settles on the road, its rotor buffeting us with air.

“Purple People Eaters!” Randy breathes.
Through a fog, I can barely make out the distinctive tunics of the Surety, the security force of the Serenity Plastics Works that doubles as the town police.

“What happened?” I feel better, but by no means back to normal. An impenetrable grogginess covers me like a curtain. The nausea and headache are gone, but the memory of so much pain and fear haunt me.

But for once, I’m not sure whether I agree or not, because the memory of the chopper triggers other images: rough hands hauling me aboard the craft; a stifled “Hey!” from Randy, hitting the deck beside me; the sound of the bikes being crammed into the cargo hold; a dizzying takeoff, which finally brings up lunch; Serenity viewed from high above, growing steadily larger as we come in for a landing.

“You mean”—my mind can barely take it in—“you’re leaving Serenity?”
He nods grimly.

He’s proud of himself too—standing at the basket, grinning smugly, lips smacking, icing staining his fingers, when Mom comes in for the afternoon.

Even though I’m nervous, I’m also a little intrigued. Meeting new people doesn’t happen very often. There are only 184 possible choices, and I already know almost all of them.

It began as a grisly mystery: bloodstained walls in a Hollywood hotel suite; a Browning pistol still clutched in the victim's limp hand; a famous face contorted in death...

I know that keeping secrets is like chiseling at the mortar between bricks in a wall.

My father’s a honcho at the factory, and he’s usually not home until dinner.

“Let’s go for a swim,” she suggests. “Work on our stamina for the big game.”

The only thing more depressing than living in Happy Valley is having to celebrate it. In school, we all have to work on special projects for Serenity Day, which is the holiday where we commemorate the founding of this wonderful community.

The highlight of the day is the big water polo match between Team Solidarity and Team Community.

The houses glide by, white and immaculate, not a shutter out of position; the lawns are groomed and green, the flower beds well tended and perfect.

Mrs. Hardaway comes up behind her son and fixes me with an unreadable expression. Anger? Resentment? Fear, even?

We throw Randy a going away party at school, with a frozen yogurt cake and his favorite chips—fiery jalapeño and lime. There are only thirty kids in the whole town—nineteen of us in the upper school classroom, so it isn’t exactly a big blowout.

“One of the unique things about Serenity is that we’re all like a family,” Dad says in his capacity as principal.

“He’s sad, you’re sad,” she contends. “Nobody ever leaves town, so we’re extra sensitive to any change. Remember how weird it was when Mrs. Delaney got here?”

“Maybe,” I concede, “but that doesn’t explain everything. Like why all this is happening so fast. I’ve barely heard Randy even mention his grandparents before—have you? I’m in the clinic for two days and suddenly he’s going to live with them?”

“Who’s the enemy?”
She looks flustered. “Well, there isn’t one now. I’m just explaining why certain information has to be classified.”

She manages to regain her composure a little.

I turn and come face-to-face with a coiled snake—a diamondback, its tail in the air, poised and ready to strike.

“Come on,” I wheedle. “Let’s take a trip. When’s the last time you and Mom went on vacation? I’ve never even been outside Serenity.”

“That doesn't make a lot of sense to me,” I muse.

“And that’s where the message is?” I ask dubiously.

There must be two dozen cards, each one with a photo of a Surety agent (candid, obviously. Purples never pose. These must have been taken on a cell phone from behind hedges or around corners).

He sits back against the wall of the tree house, utterly defeated.

He’s floundering. “Randy thinks there’s a connection between being special and getting sick...”

“If Randy’s so terrible, then so am I. Ninety percent of what he did—I was right there with him.”
I relent. “I didn’t mean it that way. Randy’s not terrible. But you’ve got to admit he wasn’t the ideal Serenity kid.”

Of all the things you could say about Serenity—it’s a little bit small, it’s a little bit conservative, it’s a little bit dull. Screwy is the last thing you’d call it!