James Patterson - Maximum Ride - The Angel Experiment

The Institute for Higher Living.

Catchy, huh?

Have you ever woken up about a hundred times more exhausted than you were when you went to sleep?

The next morning-at least, I assumed it was morning, since we were all waking up-I felt like one of the twelve dancing princesses, who danced all night, wore holes in their shoes, and had to sleep it off the next day. Except, oh, yeah: a) I’m not a princess; b) sleeping in a subway tunnel and having another brain attack aren’t that much like dancing all night; and c) my combat boots were still in good shape. Other than that, it was exactly the same.

“Is it morning?” Angel asked, yawning.

“I’m hungry” were, predictably, Nudge’s first words.

“Okay, we’ll get you some chow,” I said tiredly. “Then it’s off to find the Institute.”

Fang, Iggy, and I had agreed to not tell the younger kids about the hacker or about my latest brain attack. Why make ‘em worry?

It took a couple minutes for us to wend our way through the subway tunnels, back up into light and air. You know you’ve been breathing something less than primo when the New York street smells really fresh and clean.

“It’s so bright,” the Gasman said, shielding his eyes. Then, “Is that honey-roasted peanuts?”

Their incredible scent was impossible to resist. You could have an Eraser selling those peanuts, and we’d probably still go. I focused my eyes on the vendor. No. Not an Eraser.

We got some peanuts, and then we walked down Fourteenth Street, chomping, as I tried to figure out a sensible way to comb the city. First, a phone book. We saw a phone kiosk up ahead, but it had only a chain where the phone book had been. Would a store let us use theirs? Hey! Information! I dug some change out of my pocket and picked up the phone. I dialed 411.

“In New York City, the Institute for Higher Living,” I said when the automated operator came on.

“We’re sorry. There is no listing under that name. Please check and try again.”

Frustration was my constant companion. I wanted to scream. “What the he-eck are we supposed to do now?” I asked Fang.

He looked at me, and I could tell he was mulling over the problem. He held out a small waxed-paper bag. “Peanut?”

We kept walking and eating, gazing in constant amazement at the store windows. Everything you could buy in the world was for sale on Fourteenth Street in New York. Of course, we couldn’t afford any of it. Still, it was awesome.

“Smile, you’re on Candid Camera,” said Fang, pointing at a window.

In an electronics store, a short-circuit camera was displaying passersby on a handful of TV screens. Automatically, we ducked our heads and turned away, instinctively paranoid about anyone having our images.

Suddenly, I winced as a single sharp pain hit my temple. At the same time, words scrolling across the TV screens caught my eye. I stared in disbelief as Good morning, Max, filled every screen.

“Jeez,” Fang breathed, stopping dead in his tracks.

Iggy bumped into him, saying, “What? What is it?”

“Is that you?” the Gasman asked me. “How do they know you?”

Playing is learning, Max, said the Voice inside my head. It was the same one as last night, and I realized I couldn’t tell if it was adult or child, male or female, friend or foe. Great.

Games test your abilities. Fun is crucial to human development. Go have fun, Max.

I halted, oblivious to the gobs of people streaming around us on the street. “I don’t want to have fun! I want some answers!” I blurted without meaning to-the crazy girl talking back to her little Voice.

Get on the Madison Avenue bus, said the Voice. Get off when it looks fun.

Idon’t know about the rest of you who have little voices, but something about mine made me feel completely compelled to listen to it.

I blinked and discovered the flock gazing at me solemnly, watching me sink further into total insanity right before their eyes.

“Max, are you okay?” Nudge asked.

I nodded. “I think we should get on the Madison Avenue bus,” I said, looking for a street sign.

Fang looked at me thoughtfully. “Why?”

I turned slightly so the others couldn’t see me and mouthed, “The Voice.”

He nodded. “But Max,” he whispered, barely audible, “what if this is all a trap?”

“I don’t know!” I said. “But maybe we should do what it says for a while-to see.”

“Do what what says?” the Gasman demanded.

I had started walking toward the corner. I heard Fang say, “Max has been hearing a voice, inside her. We don’t know what it is.” So much for not worrying the others.

“Like her conscience?” Nudge asked. “Do the TVs have anything to do with it?”

“We don’t know,” said Fang. “Right now it wants us to get on the Madison Avenue bus, apparently.”

The bus stop was fourteen blocks away. We got on, and I pushed our fares into the machine. The driver waved us through, saying, “Pass, pass, pass” in a bored voice.

I hoped the Voice didn’t want me to keep spending money-we were dangerously low.

For people who get nervous in small, confined spaces or surrounded by other people, riding a bus is pretty much a living nightmare. It was so crowded we had to stand in the aisle with people pressed up against us. I figured we could always kick a window out and jump, but the whole thing frayed my few remaining nerves. My head was swiveling constantly, scanning for Erasers suddenly morphing out of our fellow passengers.

Well, Voice ? I thought. What now ?

I’m sure this will surprise you, but the Voice did not answer.

Next to me, Angel trustingly held my hand, watching the city go past the bus windows. It was up to me. I had to keep everyone safe. I had to find the Institute. If my brain attacks killed me, Fang would take over. But until then, I was numero uno. I couldn’t let the flock down. Do you hear that, Voice? If you’re going to make me let everyone down, you’re going to be sorry you ever… entered my brain.

Oh, my God, I was so freaking nuts.

“Okay, people,” the bus driver said over the PA system. “ Fifty-eighth Street! This is where the fun is!”

Startled, I looked at Fang, then started hustling everyone out the back door of the bus. We stepped into the sunlight. The bus pulled noisily away, leaving us choking on its exhaust. We were at the bottom of Central Park.

“What-” I began, then my eyes widened as I saw a large glass-fronted building across the street. Behind its glass were an enormous teddy bear, a huge wooden soldier, and a fifteen-foot-tall ballerina up on one pointed toe.

The sign said AFO Schmidt.

The world’s most amazing toy store.

Well, okay.

We poor, underprivileged, pathetic bird kids had never been in a toy store.

And AFO Schmidt is where kids think they’ve died and gone to heaven. Right inside the front door was a huge two-story clock covered with moving figures. The song “It’s a Small World” was playing loudly, but I figured that was to keep out the riffraff.

I had no idea why we were here. It seemed too much to hope for that somehow this little romp was getting us closer to finding the Institute, but I made the executive decision to see where it took us.

A life-size stuffed giraffe surrounded by other life-size stuffed animals led the way to the whole stuffed-animal area, which was practically as big as our old house.

I looked down at Gazzy and Angel to see them staring, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, at too many fabulous toys to even comprehend.