James Patterson - The Gift

And now I’m tangled up with Byron. Ick.

“They’ve got us boxed in. Coming from all sides!” yells Whit, braking the van to a rocking standstill. “We’ll have to run! Everybody take off in different directions. Hopefully they won’t get all of us!”

“No!” I yell. “That’s not the best plan. Seriously, just stay in the van!”

Everyone looks at me like I’m crazy, which I might be. We’ll know soon enough.

“You guys know the song ‘Magic Truck’ by the How?” I ask.

Eric starts laying down a beat on the floor of the van. The bassist and guitarist grab their instruments.

Meanwhile, police cars are skidding to a stop all around us-and then a voice is coming over their PA: “Exit the vehicle immediately and lie on the ground.”

I wave for the band to keep playing. The lead singer starts in, and then I join him. The groove is instant, almost as if we’ve been rehearsing together for a couple of months.

I hear the policemen pounding on the windows. We answer by turning up the volume.

Then we don’t hear the policemen anymore. That’s because we’ve succeeded in levitating the van several hundred feet in the air.

Yeah, you heard me right.

The music was magic. The music did it. The van is still rising in the air.

I look out the back at the police vehicles, and one of the cops is throwing his hat on the ground in frustration.

“That was close. Too close,” comments Byron, seeing the glass as half empty.

“It… freaking… worked! ” I scream, and then I can’t help myself-I throw my arms around Eric. My glass is very, very full.

This is definitely the best night of my life on the Wanted Dead or Alive list.

Wisty

I THINK kissing was involved-I’m not certain, but I’m pretty sure. I think Eric’s a good kisser. Not sure, though. The entire evening was kind of a blur…

I wake up inside Garfunkel’s the next morning, and I have two distinct thoughts: First: Did I dream of falling asleep in the drummer’s arms, or did it really happen? Second: My drumstick is gone!

It’s the first thing I reach out to touch in the morning. And it’s not there.

Problem. Big problem. Disaster. That drumstick is my magic wand and it’s a family heirloom.

Everyone else is deeply conked out after our night of revelry-so I begin a mad hunt to find the wand my mother gave me just before I was separated from her and dragged off to prison.

I always sleep with the drumstick under my pillow. Or whatever the circumstances are forcing me to use instead of a pillow. But it’s not there. And it’s not under the mattress either. And it’s not in my coat. And it’s not in my knapsack. It’s nowhere.

Okay, don’t cry about this. Think, Wisteria. What was different about last night compared to every other night you’ve slept at Garfunkel’s?

Well, the Bionics were here…

That’s got to be it-the drummer! Was Whit right about them?

I tiptoe over to Byron-snoring like a buffalo-and expertly swipe his supersecret smartphone and text Eric at the number he gave me yesterday.

where R U?

He texts back right away:

had 2 go practice. didn’t want 2 wake u

got yr drumstx?

yep

got mine?

used oven mitt… just in case it was still hot

not funny

sorry

u have it? give back!

tots

you STOLE it

borrowed

i want it back NOW

im sorry. meet me

WTH? u bring it 2 me

don’t freak. m sorry. meet @ city of progress diner-11 am

fine

yr so cool

whatevs, I type.

But my heart is leapfrogging, and I’m grateful that cell phones don’t convey blushes. I’m cool? As of when?

I mean, it was jerky of Eric to take my stick. But he’s a rock drummer and he admired it. And, I mean, I can almost hear my mother’s voice telling me he just did it to get my attention. Just the way she told me why geeky Ben Campbell used to pull my hair in first grade.

Now I do start crying. I miss my mother so much. She was my best friend. She is my best friend.

Wisty

I DECIDE against finding Whit and telling him where I’m going, even though he’s probably going to kill me when I get back. But I don’t really have a choice, because guess what my brother would say?

A) Have a great lunch. Could you bring me back some fries?

B) It’s windy out there. Be sure to zipper your coat.

C) Fine, I’m coming with you. No arguments, firebrand!

Yeah. If you picked A or B, I’m going to politely suggest you turn back a few dozen pages and do some rereading.

I need to have my moment alone with Eric. So I sneak around quietly, making myself ready to infiltrate the City of Progress-the New Order’s demented model city, the template they mean to apply to the rest of Freeland after they’ve stamped out anyone who resists their disgusting ideas.

It takes a little bit of disguise to properly blend in (read: skirts and sweaters for girls, no black lipstick or obvious piercings; jackets and ties for boys, and Byron-style hair preferred), but it’s doable, and necessary.

And, since my hair hasn’t grown back yet, it’s a great excuse for me to lift a new hairdo-a cute little brunette bob-from the wig counter inside Garfunkel’s.

I tiptoe out the store’s front door, and suddenly I feel a vibration under my arm. More precisely, it’s coming from the very un-Wistylike white purse tucked there.

Another text message. I click the phone on.

A text message in my mother’s handwriting. WTH…?

IT’S OK, WISTY. SHE’S AN ALLY. GO WITH HER.

With who? Suddenly I feel very un-alone. I hear someone’s voice.

“Well, we meet again, my dear!”

I yank my head to the right, and there, leaning on the hood of a long-dead station wagon, one leg crossed over the other, is the little old ninja lady. The one who gave us the map that saved our lives. And now that I’m able to scrutinize her more closely, I realize she’s also the woman who almost got me arrested in a diner on my very first trip to the City of Progress. Mrs. Highsmith!

“It’s okay,” the strange little woman says in a high nasal drawl. “Go ahead and SMS or whatever it is you people do with your silly little gadgets. Your mother’s not particularly close, but you’ll at least see that she’s safe.”

I quickly type back,

If she’s an ally, y’d she try to get us arrested?

My mother’s handwriting replies,

SHE PANICKED-SHE THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE A NEW ORDER SPY. YOU SAW THEM TRY TO ARREST HER. WHY WOULD SHE WANT TO HELP THE NEW ORDER?

K, but how do I know this is u?

HOW WOULD ANYBODY ELSE KNOW THAT BEN CAMPBELL USED TO PULL YOUR PONYTAIL?

OMG, Mom!!!

I type as tears well up.

GO WITH HER QUICKLY, DEAR. GIVE WHIT A KISS FROM US. DAD AND I ARE THINKING OF BOTH OF YOU. ALL OF THE TIME. WE LOVE YOU SO MUCH.

Mrs. Highsmith comes up to me with an old-fashioned handkerchief that I numbly accept. It smells like witch hazel.

“You see? Your mother’s okay,” says Mrs. Highsmith. “Now, please come with me to my apartment-so we don’t get the New Order looky-loos all excited about capturing two witches on the same day.”