The Gift

by James Patterson

  I resist the obvious response and just shrug my shoulders. “I think it’s in a stadium in the next city, down the old interstate-about twenty miles south of here.”

  “Really? I heard it was north, dude. The other way.”

  “That’s what they told me anyhow,” I say. “I honestly don’t know. Sorry, guys.”

  “Well, we’ll come back here if you got it wrong,” he says with a threat in his voice. “Hey, can you tell me this: will Wisteria Allgood be there? At Stockwood?”

  “Wist-a-who?” I say, hoping I don’t look panicked. Even though I kind of am.

  “Wisteria Allgood, the Youth Resistance leader,” he repeats.

  “I think I’ve heard of her,” I say. This is getting worse and worse-the “Youth” Resistance is something you just don’t hear us referring to ourselves as.

  I shiver and look back casually at the visitors. “Hey, guys, it’s getting late, and I’m supposed to go meet some friends for a pickup game. Want to come?”

  “We’re musicians, not jocks,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me. “Come on, guys. We better get rolling so we can do some rocking.”

  And, with that line-a dead giveaway that they aren’t “rockers”-they turn and walk away. I watch until they round the corner.

  As soon as I’m pretty sure the phonies in black are gone, I take the fire-escape stairs three at a time. Up in my makeshift room, I flip open my journal to take another look at the poem I’d written earlier. And, as if by some otherworldly magic, I see a short message instead.

  It packs quite a punch.

  GO TO YOUR SISTER. SHE NEEDS YOU. TRUST NO STRANGERS.

  It’s written in familiar handwriting. Like my father’s handwriting.

  And then, when I blink, it’s gone.

  I flip madly through the journal, hoping to find it again to convince myself I hadn’t hallucinated, but instead I come across my most recent poem.

  Another wave of panic comes over me.

  What on earth made me write a six-page poem about the death of my sister?

  Chapter 25

  Wisty

  I HAVE TO ADMIT, I nearly lose my nerve, just watching the level of talent that’s been assembled onstage. I also know that this crowd can be brutal if they don’t like your music.

  Worse, I almost say thank you to Byron for getting us passes so that we can watch the acts from back here. We’re so close we can see droplets of sweat, and the way a singer’s mouth forms around a particular word, and the speed of a guitarist’s fingers.

  And then the Bionics are up.

  Okay, now I understand Janine’s personality switcheroo. They’re by far the hottest band ever. How do I know? Because seeing their sweat is actually a turn-on and not a turnoff. That has never happened to me before. Sweat usually equals stinky Whit-hug after a track meet.

  Everything is different with these musicians. It’s as if they’re on a whole other plane from everybody else. The singer-bassist, the guitarist, and the drummer-who I consider the cutest of the three (though it’s not like I’d say no if any of them asked me out)-brush by me on their way to the stage. I can practically taste their rock-star auras, their magic.

  They take up their instruments as the hunky lead singer says a generous and humble thank you to the adoring crowd-and I find myself actually squealing with Janine. No wonder the Bionics are banned by the N.O.

  But then-What the heck? How could -?

  Suddenly an enormous poster of The One Who Is The One is rising up behind the band.

  I know it’s just a poster, but I’m totally creeped out, seeing him looming over the stage like that.

  The audience hushes, too. Just a picture of that evil monster is enough to throw a pall over the concert hall.

  But then-totally brilliant-the band strikes the first chord of their first song, and the poster catches fire in the lower-left corner. The whole thing quickly goes up in flames as the underground arena explodes in the most unbelievable screams and cheers.

  I don’t know how to explain it-I mean, I know I can’t do what they do, but I’m not intimidated; I’m inspired.

  And it’s a good thing, too, because their set-eight great songs-seems to go by in a flash. And then it’s just like the open-mike list says-next up is a little-known wonder hailing from… Garfunkel’s department store?

  “Wisteria Rose Allgood! Give it up for her!”

  The Bionics drummer actually winks at me as he walks by. And, at least in part to keep my face from exploding into a fierce blush, I dash out onto the stage.

  Chapter 26

  Wisty

  “UMM, HI, EVERYBODY,” I manage to say after a few seconds in which I feel totally flash-frozen. What did I just get myself into?

  The brilliant spotlights and-even more blinding-the glare of hundreds, make that thousands, of pairs of eyes… looking right at me.

  This is definitely a little more than I was expecting or prepared for. It’s definitely a little frightening… but it’s also exhilarating. I feel a strange connection to all these people. We’re in this together, right? It’s us against the big bad N.O. They’ve got the guns, but we’ve got the numbers.

  “How ’bout those Bionics, huh?” I ask lamely, but they reward me with a massive cheer anyway. Cool. I guess they’re in a generous mood.

  “So I’m going to sing a couple of songs,” I say, trying to slow my speech down and not blurt or stutter. “But first I just want to remind you all of one important thing. You know how we’re kind of outnumbered outside of Freeland?”

  Massive boo.

  “And you know how they’ve taken away so many of us? Just kids, even little babies. They have control of the cities. They have the country. They have the planes. They have the tanks.”

  Right then, almost as if on cue, the chasm shakes and shudders from another overhead bomb blast.

  More massive boos.

  “But what they don’t have is our spirit. That… they cannot have!”

  Massive cheers.

  “And not only that but-as a kid I met in one of their horrible prisons reminded me-they’re afraid of us. That’s why they’re hunting us. That’s why they stage their plots and propaganda against us. That’s why they bomb -”

  There’s another ground-shaking blast from the surface.

  “- the world like there’s no tomorrow. It’s because, for them, there is no tomorrow. No next generation. No future,” I continue. “And we’re not going to give it to them either! Not now, not ever!”

  Massive cheers that last for minutes. This is maybe the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

  “There’s just one other thing,” I say when my voice can be heard again. Then I produce my drumstick, the one my mom gave me the night Whit and I were kidnapped. “They don’t have our… magic!”

  And, with that, I grab a guitar and even more lights come up, revealing that I’m standing in front of a newly conjured amp stack that nearly reaches to the ceiling. Now I’ll be even louder than the Bionics.

  I strike the first chord of my first song, and I’ve never felt so amazing, so blessed, in my entire life.

  At least until Byron comes onstage with a bass guitar and joins in.

  Chapter 27

  Wisty

  EVEN WITH THE KING of the Weasels in my band, I totally understand why people want to become rock stars. There’s no other rush, no other feeling like it. This cavern has a natural reverb that seems to transform my voice into a chorus of hard-rocking angels. It’s like an out-of-body experience.

  And then I realize I’m playing the audience, too. Hundreds, make that thousands, of people are moving to my rhythm, to my melody, to my words.

  Well, not all “my” words.

  After I finish the first song and I think my face is going to bust open because I’m smiling so hard from the euphoria, I let everyone know who wrote the words to the next number.

  “This is for my brother, Whit, who wrote the lyrics and who unfortunately couldn’t be here wit
h us tonight.”

  I’m actually pretty glad Whit’s not here, because I’d have to explain how I kind of copied the lyrics out of his journal when he was sleeping. I don’t regret it, not for a second. I’ve wanted to put these words to music ever since I first read them.

  “It’s called ‘The Fire Outside,’ and it goes like this.” I begin picking out a simple, clean melody.

  Byron waits a few bars and sticks a bass line underneath. We are disturbingly in sync, I have to admit. Musically, I mean. Apparently he must have been a pretty good upright bass player in the school orchestra back home, and he’s showing a surprising sense of rhythm here. With his shirt untucked and his hair kind of messy for once, he almost looks like he belongs at a rock concert.

  Lighters are being held aloft, and a whole cavern full of people is swaying back and forth to the music we’re making.

  No sooner are Byron and I laying down the final chords when the six-foot-one poet himself appears at the back of the amphitheater. There he is! Whit is peering around intently, his head bobbing, as if he’s trying to find somebody, and it’s important.

  Now he’s sidling through the crowd toward the stage. He’s shooting urgent looks at me and drawing his finger across his neck as a sign for me to stop the set, and pointing off to the dressing-room area to the left.

  Something’s definitely up.

  Chapter 28

  Wisty

  THE POWER OF THE STAGE and the crowd is too much to resist, though. I finish the song first. Whit deserves to hear his words sung out to the masses.

  Then I hurry backstage, expecting him to accost me-or strangle me?-instantly, but… he’s MIA.

  “You were fantastic out there,” says Byron while I look around for Whit. “If this magic thing doesn’t work out, you could always be a musician, you know. I mean, I guess after you failed out of orchestra in, what was it-fifth grade?-I just assumed you were hopelessly terrible.”

  “Yeah, well. It took you long enough to realize that a perfect grade point average isn’t the only measure of somebody.”

  “Definitely not,” says Byron. He steps toward me with an infuriating eager-beaver expression on his pinched little face. “I really should have taken you seriously a lot sooner, Wisty. I want to make up for that.”

  Ew. He’s not doing what I think he’s doing, is he? Please, somebody tell me Byron Hall Monitor Swain is not trying to put his weaselly moves on me. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, especially tonight, but he’s not leaving me much choice.

  “I was wrong to underestimate you,” he goes on, inching even closer-and there aren’t many inches left at this point. “I mean, you were always beautiful, anybody could see that, but I guess I never appreciated… the brains behind your… badness.” He said “badness” with a sly smile, as if he were thinking about a kind of badness… of which I wanted no part. Gross!

  “You know, Byron, maybe it’s just exhaustion from the show, but I just threw up in my mouth a little bit. You might want to back up.”

  “Oh, here, let me give you a hand,” he says, and puts one of his ferrety paws on my arm. Next, he’s steering me toward the “greenroom” couch made out of nongreen cushions pilfered from furniture in bombed-out homes.

  I’m so shocked that Byron Belly-Crawler Swain has his hands on me that I can’t even react. I should have shoved him off the stage when I had the chance.

  “I know some great massage techniques for all sorts of exhaustion,” he’s saying, but just then the Bionics and a swarm of their groupies burst into the room… along with my brother.

  I guess the universe hasn’t totally forsaken me.

  Chapter 29

  Whit

  “WHAT’S GOING ON?” Wisty asks me as she pivots away from Byron’s pathetic clutches. Normally I’d be ready to teach him a lesson for putting his creepy claws on my sister, but now I’m just relieved to see that he’s not one of the fake rockers who were nosing around at Garfunkel’s.

  I’m pretty sure they’re here somewhere-and they’re definitely looking for my sister. It’s becoming increasingly clear to me that she has something that they want. Badly.

  “New Order spies,” I tell her. “And they’re after you, Wist. So next time you decide to take the stage at a packed concert, will you give me a heads-up? You know, so I can tell you that it’s a totally boneheaded idea.”

  “Huh? What spies?” she asks, looking only mildly distressed. Meanwhile her eyes are darting over to some of the rock-star types being swamped by chirping groupies and whatnot on the other side of the room.

  “Wisty, listen to me. Closely. Some guys came by Garfunkel’s asking after you and the concert. They were dressed like some old person’s idea of a rock band. They were obviously New Order Citizen Patrol, or worse.”

  Her head drifts off toward the fan herd again, so I put my hands on either side of her face and swivel it back toward me.

  “Oh, okay.” My sister blinks several times, finally processing what I’m saying. “Are they here? Should I be worried?”

  “I gave them the wrong directions, but I don’t think I fooled them. We’d better get out of here.” I grab her hand, but she shakes me off.

  “Whit, I’m okay! This is probably the safest place in the city. We’re surrounded by, like, a jillion Freelanders hopped-up on New Order hate. Not to mention half of them are packing weapons -”

  “Plastic weapons,” I remind her, frowning. “They’re in costume, for God’s sake.”

  Wisty shrugs. “Costumes, whatever, doesn’t matter. We’re practically indestructible down here. Can’t you feel it? It’s the most amazing thing.” Her eyes are still glazed over with some sort of euphoria I don’t understand. I have a future flash: Wisty, rock star, being interviewed twenty-five years after her career goes south. They slipped something into my drink that night, she insists. I didn’t know it. But after that, I was an addict.

  I’m shaking my sister now, and her head swings like that of a bobblehead doll. “Wisty, snap out of it! I know you don’t believe me, but I’ve got this feeling we’re on the verge of something really bad happening.”

  “You mean something bad ‘like a rabid mad dog, poisoning me,’” sings Byron, inserting his unwelcome presence as usual, “‘while the fire inside me glows, the fire outside you grows.’”

  Holy freaking crap, what did the weasel just say? Those are my words. From my journal.

  “What the -?” My eyes feel as if they’re going to pop out of my head. “You were reading my journal, you jerk?”

  I can’t help it-I grab him by the neck. I’ve had just about enough of our so-called leader of the week.

  Wisty finally comes out of her haze. “Whit!” she shouts, trying to pull me off Byron. It’s the first time ever that she defends him! Didn’t I tell you the world’s turned upside down? “Byron only knows those words from the song I just sung. Up on the stage.”

  Huh? I don’t know how I couldn’t have heard the lyrics on my way in. I was so focused on making sure she was safe. Wait a minute…

  Wisty was reading my journal? WTH?

  I release Byron but give him an extra shove for good measure. I look at Wisty, hoping I heard her wrong. “That’s what you were singing up there? Words from my journal?”

  “You weren’t even listening?” she says, then softens her voice. “It was a tribute to your genius, Whit. I love what you wrote.”

  Wisty reaches for me, but I’m already stomping out of the room. “You two deserve each other!” I yell back at her and the traitor.

  Chapter 30

  Wisty

  I’M ALMOST READY to follow Whit when my whole body is kind of stun-gunned by this amazing voice behind me.

  “So where’d you get the drumstick? It’s an antique, right? Classic.”

  I turn and find I am looking eye-to-mesmerizing-eye with none other than the drummer of the Bionics.

  He is talking to me. The Bionics drummer is talking to me.

  I’m concerned about Whit
, really I am, but… he’ll get over it, right?

  Drummer Boy is even better-looking up close than he was behind his drum kit. If that’s possible. He’s tucking his overlong, wavy black hair behind his ears, but then it falls right back in his face again. Sweet. I watch his lusciously thick lips move, but I have no idea what he’s saying, of course. I don’t think I could hear a car crash over my own heartbeat right now. Dumb? Maybe. Fun? Definitely.

  “Uh-what?” I finally manage to get out a couple of syllables. I’m unable to meet his hazel eyes for too long, so I find myself staring at his faded black T-shirt, which reads, NO ORDER. I like it. We have something in common already.

  “Your drumstick. Kind of funny for a guitarist and a singer to be carrying a drumstick around.” He has a nice smile, too. Not too much, just right.

  “Yeah, I know.” I smile back. Maybe a little too toothily. “My mom gave it to me. I think it’s for good luck. It’s kind of a collector’s item.”

  “It looks like it,” he says. “So your mom’s a drummer?”

  I am not about to ruin this with a mood-killing “I think my mom was a witch and this is a wand she gave me the night I was kidnapped” dud.

  “She was,” I lie. Ouch. Mom wouldn’t like the past tense. “I mean, is.” That feels even worse. “I mean, was.” My face goes from pale pink to fuchsia in about three seconds.

  But Drummer Boy looks at me with… sympathy? “I know, it’s hard.” How could he have possibly grasped my blah-blah? “A lot of us don’t know if our folks ‘is’ or ‘was.’” He puts a comforting hand on my arm, and my stomach kind of flips. God, he’s sweet. He understands!

  His eyes drift back to my stick. “Can I see it? Is that all right with you?”

  “Um… sure!” I start to hand it to him, but as he grabs the end to take it from me, he jumps back, yelping in pain.