The Gift (10 page)

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.

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 with 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.

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.

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 Gar
funkel’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.

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.