James Patterson - The Gift

We turn and see the most ragamuffiny band of ragamuffins poking their heads out of the doorway of a boarded-up video-game store.

“Who are you?” I ask, wide-eyed. They’re clearly not so nervous that they don’t want to be seen, but not so trusting that they want to be in arm’s reach.

One little boy with an incredible burr-tangled mane of brown-blond hair steps forward.

“Are you guys regular people?” he asks. He can’t be much past the third grade.

“If you mean we’re not brainwashed by the New Order, yeah,” I say. “We’re not. Where are your parents?”

“They’re gone. We don’t know where. Taken.”

“Taken?”

“The soldiers put them in trucks and stole ’em away,” he says. Some of the smaller boys and girls start to rub tears from their eyes.

A flash of emotion crosses Whit’s face. Sympathy, empathy-call it what you will. My brother’s not exactly a softy, except when he ought to be. He takes off his knapsack and puts it on the ground in front of him, then rests his hands on it for a moment with his eyes closed.

And then-it’s the most surreal thing-a puppy and two kittens poke their heads out of the bag.

The children’s sorrow turns to wonder and laughter as the puppy and kittens scamper out of the bag. The kids who can’t get in to pet the animals are looking back at Whit with awe. Frankly, so am I. “Whoa!” I say.

Now he’s pulling back on his collar, and white doves are fluttering out of his shirt and up into the sky. And now-gross!-he sneezes and a cloud of yellow bees comes out of his nose and zooms up after the doves. The kids are laughing hysterically.

“Where’d you learn the parlor tricks?” I ask Whit. “Sweet. You’re becoming a rather charming wizard.”

He shrugs. “I thought I should do something nice for someone else for a change, instead of just worrying about us all of the time,” he says, and turns back to the merrymaking kids. “You guys want to come with us?” he offers.

Wow. The things that can happen when you black out for a few minutes. Suddenly my brother’s become Mr. Whitford Fountain-of-Charity Allgood, Esq.

“You gonna open a soup kitchen next?” I say with a big smile.

“Maybe,” he says. “Why not?” And then my brother conjures up a big pot of hot tomato soup, with bowls and spoons, and just the right amount for everybody.

Wisty

WITH THE HELP OF some spells that appear in Whit’s journal, we’re able to find our way back to Garfunkel’s department store, which thankfully is only several miles away. But trying to dodge New Order surveillance with a stream of dirty, chattering kids in tow is no picnic, let me tell you. I’m never becoming a camp counselor.

As we stride in, the first thing I notice from the back of the crowd-where I’m rounding up stray kids like a kindergarten teacher’s aide-is Janine. She’s our most reliable Freeland icon after Margo. Her eyes light up brightly as she runs past the empty cosmetics counters to welcome her hero.

My brother, Whit, that is. In case I haven’t mentioned this enough, a lot of girls adore Whit. Which, I guess, makes his faithfulness to Celia kind of extra impressive.

“You did it!” Janine clutches him before he has a chance to explain that these kids aren’t the ones we were supposed to rescue. “This is way beyond our expectations! We didn’t think -”

Whit gently pushes her away, pain in his eyes. “It’s not that simple, Janine.” Next, Feffer, our rescued hound, comes prancing up, barking with excitement.

“Where’s Margo?” Sasha, our resident zealot, asks with confusion all over his face.

Oh God. They think we succeeded on our original mission. They don’t know…

And so, for the next fifteen minutes, utter devastation drowns the group as we explain the sordid outcome of the mission that failed.

Margo was one of the original and most beloved Freeland leaders, one of the real rocks in our ever-changing existence. As it turns out, those on the mission who had escaped got back to Freeland without witnessing her execution. And Garfunkel’s-whose power mostly comes from an ingenious method of siphoning energy from perfume bottles-doesn’t have regular access to New Order broadcasts. Actually, that’s probably a blessing.

“We were all just keeping vigil for your return,” Sasha says. “For all of you.”

Having to tell the story just tears me up all over again. And looking around at everyone makes it worse. The ragamuffin crew’s light of hope seems extinguished. I’m even sorry for Sasha, whom I don’t particularly trust because he lied through his teeth to us once. But he and Margo had the same fire of resistance in their blood. They would do anything for the cause.

And Janine-well, she and Margo were like sisters. Her green eyes, which had shone so brightly for Whit, were glazed over with shock and grief. Whit was stroking her hair comfortingly. Finally, she buried her head in the crook of his neck. “We grew up together,” she moaned. “Best friends since preschool, you believe that?”

“Sure I do,” whispers Whit. “Everybody loved Margo.”

Emmet, my best bud here, comes over to me and puts his arm around me. Normally it would make me beyond happy-because, let’s face it, Emmet is extremely wicked cute-but right now, strangely, it almost annoys me.

I’ve had it with falling apart. If Margo walked in here right now, she would probably revolt against all this pitiful weeping and feeling sorry for her.

A revolt. Not a bad idea actually.

“Look!” I say, sliding away from Emmet’s arm and climbing on top of a glass makeup counter. “The hankie festival is over. The last thing Margo would want is to see us sitting around moping.” Sasha nods. “We have to keep moving; we have to stay ready. The New Order is just getting stronger.”

Jamilla, our “team mother” shaman, dries the tears on her cheeks. Even Feffer shows a little more of the steely glint she usually has in her eyes.

“The One Who Is The One wants to crush our spirit!” I yell. “Would Margo have let her spirit be crushed?”

“No!” Sasha yells back. “Absolutely not.”

“The One Who Is The One wants us to stop, to turn ourselves in, to quit!” I shout. “Did Margo ever stop resisting?”

“No!” a group of us says in unison.

“The One Who Is The One doesn’t want us to execute our next mission. And the one after that. Would Margo have told us to execute our next mission?”

“Yes!” Almost the whole room’s on board now.

Then Emmet-who’s looking maybe even cuter than usual-stands up with his fist in the air. The volume in the room grows, and I’m definitely feeling giddy. Maybe there really is something to this leadership stuff.

But then something happens to let all the wind out of my sails.

The person I detest the most in the whole world has just entered the room.

Well, maybe not quite the most. But darn close.

Wisty

BYRON TRAITOR SUCK-UP P. Weasel Swain skulks into the room, bobbing his head like an animal trying to pick up a scent, and then makes a beeline for me. Byron was a know-it-all snob in high school and then a New Order puppet who was complicit in our capture-and who, by the way, I actually turned into a weasel once. He has supposedly left the N.O., but that doesn’t mean I have to like him.