The Gift (17 page)

Okay, so my spa dream is back in play!

I guess if they wanted to poison us, they could have done it already, and I’m not sure I care either way at this point.

I pick one up and—
OMG
—it’s the best-tasting thing I’ve ever had inside my mouth. I’m seriously about to collapse in a heap of unending lip smacks
and mmmms when the door in front of us clicks and in walks…
Byron Swain
.

Wisty

“HEY, GUYS,” says Byron, weaseling up to me and Whit with an air of, I don’t know… there’s something slightly off about him. Dejection,
maybe? “They told me to come… welcome you.”

“How’d
you
get here?” I say, with a tone wavering between disgust and bafflement.

“Does it matter?” asks Whit, glaring at Byron and nudging me. “We’re all here now.” And I think I know why:
to defeat the New Order from the inside.

I notice that Byron’s practically swimming in his all-white jumpsuit, as if it’s a hand-me-down costume carelessly pulled
off a pile rather than carefully selected.

Suddenly I realize Byron might be on a mission to free us.
Better be nice to the guy
. “Cool outfit, B.,” I comment, then decide that I’m not a good liar. “You look ridiculous.”

“It’s the school uniform,” he tells us. “You’ll have yours as soon as you get decontaminated.”

“Decontaminated?”

“Cleanliness is next to Oneliness,” says Byron. The guy has no sense of sarcasm about him. Makes him impossible to figure
out.

“So the brainwashing’s going pretty good with you, huh?” I ask.

“It’s not so bad,” replies Byron kind of listlessly. “There’s chocolate, you know.”

“Calling that stuff ‘chocolate,’” I say, swallowing a mouthful of saliva in afterthought, “is like calling caviar ‘fish eggs.’”

“When did
you
ever eat caviar?” asks Whit.

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Brother.”

“I know you sometimes pretend like you’ve done things you’ve only read about in books.”

“It’s not
totally
pretending. When you read a book that’s good enough, you sort of
have
done the things you read about.”

“Don’t talk about books,” warns Byron. “You don’t even want to know what they do to you here for that. If ERSA hears you —”

“Who’s Ursa?”

“The Educational Remediation Services Administrator—the entity that runs, or really
is,
this place. That’s the voice you were hearing over the intercom. And nobody’s ever seen her in person, so some of us think
she’s just a computer. An extremely powerful one.”

“I knew The One was into technology, but actually having a computer run a school—that would be a whole new kind of insane.”

I glance over at Whit, who’s staring at one of the little spots on the wall. There’s one every few feet, and up in the ceiling,
too. And each is covered with glass.

“Camera lenses, or ERSA’s eyes, if you prefer,” says Byron. “You’ll get used to it. Although, word to the wise, it’s always
best not to forget you’re being watched. Almost always.”

“Almost?”

Byron shoots me a look. “Actually,
always,
always. I wouldn’t want to face the wrath of ERSA myself.”

I burst into a squeal of laughter. “Oh, it’s my worst nightmare—a computer gone ballistic! Can’t wait till Mrs. ERSA whips
my butt when I tell her she can go
reboot
herself.” I’m guffawing at my own incredibly stupid joke.

“Don’t laugh. You’d be surprised what she can do. Like, she can change the chemical composition of the air in this room if
you’re not compliant—even make it toxic. And she doesn’t care who else is in the room with you.”

“Seriously, Wisty,” says Whit, hushing me. “Try to keep the attitude in check. We need to
not
make waves if we want to figure out what’s going on in this place.”

“Um, Whit, this isn’t us on some sort of mission. This is us being
prisoners
.”

“Fine. You go ahead and get busy figuring out what
kind of special punishments you can earn. Meantime, I’m going to keep my head down and my eyes open.”

“Awesome,” I say, my tongue finding some chocolate residue still wedged between my molars. “And I’ll keep my eyes open for
more of
that stuff.
”

Maybe it’s time for me to turn over a new leaf. Maybe it won’t be that hard to keep my mouth shut to earn some brownnose points.
Come to think of it, I’m not above acting like my last name’s “Swain,” if it helps me nab more chocolate.

I twist my head around at the sudden sound of the rear wall parting, revealing two arrows—one pointing left and marked with
a
, and the other pointing right, with a
.

And ERSA’s voice fills the air. “Informant Swain, return to your quarters. Whitford and Wisteria Allgood, you will now proceed
to the gender-appropriate decontamination showers for cleansing.”

Informant?

Informant?

My body is already charged and whirling with vengeance, my chipped fingernails ready to start clawing at that traitor’s eyes
with reckless abandon.

But he’s already gone.

I’m really going to kill that kid.

Wisty

ALL RIGHT, we’re definitely on the inside now. Maybe Whit is right, maybe this is the only way to defeat The One. Maybe we’re closing
in on something important. Meanwhile, though, we look like freshly boiled lobsters.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!” I’m jumping up and down as Whit and I are reunited in the (surprise) all-white common space, waiting
for our next instructions.

“Stings, huh?” Whit agrees. “I have to admit, though, you really needed a bath. You were kind of starting to stink.”

I punch him in the arm. Apparently even near-death experiences can’t take the obnoxiousness totally out of the brother. “Speak
for yourself. And they seriously didn’t need to take off the top two layers of my skin to solve the problem.”

Byron, on the other hand… I remember a murder-mystery board game we used to play as kids, and I start a
wicked fantasy:
Wisteria Allgood, in the shower, with the industrial-strength power nozzle…

My plotting is interrupted by a military march–like set of notes signaling the end of class, then the sound of a bunch of
kids emerging into the hallway. Several come into the room and plop themselves in front of a TV.

“Hey, guys,” says the boy who sits down next to us. “I’m Crossley.” He’s short and wiry, with a boyishly earnest and appealing
face.

“I’m Whit, and this is Wisty,” says my brother somewhat guardedly.

“Yeah, everybody in this place knows about you two. Especially Wisty.” He leans in. “Saw you rockin’ out on the Net.”

Whit and I are stunned. “Huh?” says Whit. “How’d you —?”

Crossley’s eyes flash toward one of ERSA’s eyes. “Anyway, they gave us all chocolates when they announced you were coming.”

“Do they give chocolates often?” I blurt out.

“Every once in a while ERSA gives them to the whole school, but usually it’s just when you earn a trip to The Room Where You
Eat The Chocolate.”

“So how do you earn that?”

“By being a good student, generally.”

“Like solving trigonometry problems?”

“Sort of,” says Crossley. “You’ll see. The chocolate is awesome. It’s just that some of us aren’t quite prepared for
its… awesomeness.” He turns his attention to the TV screen and pastes a smile on his face like a baby who’s just been fed,
pooped, and changed.

I suddenly realize that I have no idea if the kids at this school are brainwashed New Order spawn—Mini-Ones in training—or
if they’re innocent kids trapped in a white N.O. box just doing what they need to do to survive.

As Crossley cheers along with the group at another exciting ribbon-cutting ceremony being broadcast on Channel One, I notice
him discreetly holding up a small scrap of paper, shielding it in the palm of his hand so that the cameras can’t see it.

I KNOW A PLACE WHERE ERSA CAN’T HEAR US.

Another mindfreak. For the past few months, my Enemy Meter had two readings:
For Us
and
Against Us,
with His Traitorness Swain spinning the thing into overdrive. I’d wished all kids were For Us. I’d assumed it. But now?

“Maybe I can help you guys win the next competition. Come on, let’s go study!” I look at him as if he’s crazy, but then I
notice he’s winking at me.
Ew.

We follow Crossley out of the common room, down a couple of hallways and stairways, and ultimately to a spot just between
the A Barracks and the B Barracks. He quickly points at the walls, which, for a few yards, have no cameras or microphone knobs.

“The emergency-containment doors open here, so they didn’t install any cameras or mikes,” he whispers. “So, if you want, I
can tell you what I know about your parents.”

In the blink of an eye, Whit has him by the collar. “What do you know about our parents? Where are they? How do you know?”

“Whoa, boy!” Crossley gasps. “You don’t want to hurt me. There’s a lot I can do for you… if you cooperate.”

“Cooperate how?”

“Make a fair trade. I get some of your M; you find out from me where in this facility your parents are being held.”

Whit gives Crossley a perfect body slam—enough to scare him but not enough to really hurt him. “I repeat,
what do you know about our parents?
”

“Whit,
chill,
” I whisper, trying the, um, feminine touch instead. “Look, Crossley, you seem like a nice guy. We don’t want to hurt you.
But you know what? We
can.
You’re lying about our parents. We’d never be put in the same facility with them. So first, stop lying, and second—what do
you mean by our ‘M’?”

“Your magic. Your mojo. Whatever. I need some. I’m flunking out and need help.” He gives us a pathetic look, and Whit eases
his grip.
“Please.”

Someone’s asking
me
for help with his “schoolwork”? I’m just about to burst into hysterics when an alarm goes off.

ERSA’s voice echoes through the hall: “Code gray. Code gray. Code gray.”

Crossley squirms out of Whit’s distracted grasp. “Air-quality alert. Bet it’s an escape attempt,” he says, and starts tearing
down the corridor. “In five secs this hall will be swarming with guards!”