James Patterson - The Gift

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!”

The emergency-containment doors fly open and slam Whit and I against the wall behind them. Three school monitors the size of nightclub bouncers are dragging escapee Byron Swain. He’s limp- dead? No, he’s coughing now. Hard.

He sees me, of course, and croaks, “Told you. Stay away from the wrath of ERSA.”

Wisty

MY FIRST CHOCO-OPP IS a contest taking place in the Dynasium-basically a gym for dynacompetents, which is what they call kids they think might have energy capabilities rather than admitting that we actually have magic.

There are weights to levitate, bottles of various liquids to transmogrify (yeah, I don’t know what that means either), metal bars to bend, braziers of oil to set alight. And there are bunnies and rats in cages for I don’t know what yet-maybe we’ll just have to change the color of their fur?

Crossley, who’s now pretending yesterday’s weird episode never even happened, tells me the kids call these competitions “ spell ing bees,” although that’s strictly on the down-low. So is the slang term “M,” for magic.

ERSA, like most New Order officials, has absolutely no sense of humor. So we’re not in here casting spells, you see, we’re here demonstrating “dynacompetent potentials” and transmitting “biokinetic energies.”

ERSA’s smooth-as-apple-butter voice fills the room. “Students, join your partners at the workstation identified on the assignment board and await further instruction. You will have sixty seconds to complete your assigned challenge.”

I look up at the board and moan aloud. Whit got some cute girl named Cherry Lu whom he’s been playing eye hockey with ever since we got here. And me?

Perfect.

I have Byron “Nonmagical Weasel Who Shouldn’t Be in This Place to Begin with” Swain. “Informant” Swain. “Soon to Be a Half-light” Swain.

I take a deep breath so I’m better able to resist the urge to strangle him. Focus, Wisty. You must win the contest, I remind myself. Do it for the chocolate .

Byron and I head over to our station, a wooden bench with a series of lightbulbs and some big old metal drum attached to it. As we walk, I actually put my arm around his waist-but it’s only because I’ve got a pencil in my hand that I’m knifing into his side as hard as I can.

He doesn’t resist.

“I hate you forever,” I say through gritted teeth. “ Forever, you hear? You’re a criminal. An informant on Freeland. You’re probably the reason Whit and I ended up here.”

Byron says nothing. He just looks… sad.

“On the count of three,” says ERSA, “you will turn over the instruction card at your station. The first team to successfully complete the task it describes will win a trip to the BNW Reward Center… for chocolates. Get ready!”

I shove Byron out of the way and give him a threatening look so he knows not to interfere. “You’re probably the reason Eric betrayed me,” I continue.

“One…”

“And the reason that Margo died,” I accuse him. “You’re a murderer .”

“Two…”