James Patterson - The Gift

“They at the music festival?” he asks.

“I think it’s something like that.”

“You have directions? Like I said, we’re a band. We’re called the Nopes. Ever heard of us?”

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?

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.

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.