James Patterson - Maximum Ride - The Angel Experiment

There’s a pot of gold beneath every rainbow, filled her laptop screen in big red letters. The message broke up into smaller letters that then scrolled across the screen over and over, filling it.

Pot of gold beneath every rainbow… Okay, did leprechauns work here? Was Judy Garland going to burst into song? Why couldn’t I just get some straight information? Because it was a puzzle, a test. I literally gnashed my teeth. Beneath every… Hmm.

“Does this building have a basement?” I asked.

The receptionist frowned at me and looked us over again with a harder gaze.

“Who are you?” she asked. “What do you want?” She lifted her chin and caught the eye of the security guard. Were they Erasers? They definitely could be Erasers. This whole building might be full of despicable wolf men.

“Never mind,” I muttered, pushing the others toward the revolving doors. The security guard was already on our tails, and just as we all got through, I jammed a ballpoint pen into the door channel. The guard was trapped inside one section and started throwing his weight against the glass.

On the street, we hit the ground running.

My lungs were burning. Know the feeling? About six blocks later, we slowed to a walk. No one seemed to be following us, no cop cars had emerged from the traffic, no sign of Erasers. My head was pounding and it hurt like crazy. I felt like I needed a time-out from life.

With no warning, the Gasman turned and punched a mailbox. “This sucks!” he yelled. “Nothing ever goes right! We get hassled everywhere! Max’s head is busted, Angel lost Celeste, we’re all hungry-I hate this! I hate everything!”

Stunned, I shut my gaping jaw and went over to him. When I put my hand on his shoulder, he pushed it away. The others crowded around-it was so unusual for Gazzy to break down like this. He was always my little trouper.

Crap.

The flock was watching me, waiting for me to tell the Gasman to snap out of it, get it together. Stepping forward, I wrapped my arms around Gazzy, surrounding him. I rested my head against his and just held him tight. I smoothed his light hair with my fingers and felt his narrow back shaking.

“I’m sorry, Gazzy,” I murmured. “You’re right. This has really sucked. I know it’s hard sometimes. Listen, what would make you feel better right now?” I swear, if he’d said, Check into the Ritz, I would have done it.

He sniffled and straightened a bit, wiping his face on his grubby sleeve. I resolved to get us new clothes soon. ‘Cause I was Ms. Bank Card.

“Really?” he said, sounding very small and young.

“Really.”

“Well, I just want-I just want to, like, sit down somewhere and eat a lot of food. Not just get food while we’re walking. I want to sit down and rest and eat.”

I looked solemnly into his eyes. “I think that can be arranged.”

We ended up back near Central Park, searching for a place to eat. A diner on Fifty-seventh Street looked good, but there was a half-hour wait. Then, off the street inside the park, we saw a restaurant. Millions of tiny blue lights covered the oak trees that surrounded it. The sign said, Parking for Garden Tavern, This Way. Plunked among the trees was a huge building with tons of plate glass windows overlooking the park.

Gazzy said excitedly. “This looks great!”

It was also the last place on earth I wanted us to go. Too big, too flashy, too expensive, and no doubt full of trendy grown-ups. We were not going to blend. We would not be inconspicuous.

And yet, the Gasman wanted to eat here. And I had promised him pretty much anything he wanted.

“Uh, okay,” I said, already feeling dread and anxiety seeping from my pores. Fang pulled open the heavy glass door, and we stepped inside.

“Whoa,” Nudge said, her eyes wide.

From the reception area, we could see three different dining rooms. There was the Prism Room, which was dripping with crystals, basically: chandeliers, candelabras, faceted windows. Door number two led to the Garden Room, which was like a lush, overgrown rainforest, but with tables, chairs, and waiters. The third one was the Castle Room, for those of us who needed to feel regal while we chowed. They all had soaring ceilings with rafters. The Castle Room had an open fireplace big enough to roast a steer.

I was glad to see we weren’t the only kids-though we were the only ones without a grown-up.

“May I help you?” A tall, blond, modelly woman glanced at us, then looked to see who we were with. “Are you waiting for your parents?”

“No,” I said. “There’s just us.” I smiled. “Can we have a table for six, please? I’m treating everybody with my birthday money.” Another lie, another smile.

“Um, okay,” said the hostess. She led us to a table in the Castle Room, way back by the kitchen. Since the kitchen would be a useful escape route, if necessary, I didn’t quibble.

She passed out large, very fancy menus as we scrambled into our seats. “Jason will be your server today.” With one last, uncertain glance, she left us.

“Max, this is so, so great,” Nudge said excitedly, clutching her enormous menu. “This is the nicest place we’ve ever eaten!”

Since we’ve Dumpster-dived for lunch on many occasions, this was an understatement. Fang, Iggy, and I were miserable. Nudge, Gazzy, and Angel were ecstatic.

Actually, the Castle Room would have been neat, if I didn’t hate crowds, sticking out, grown-ups, feeling paranoid, and spending money.

On to the menu. I was relieved to see that they had a kids’ section.

“Are you waiting for your parents?” A short, stocky waiter with slicked-back red hair-Jason-was standing next to Iggy.

“No, there’s just us,” I said.

He frowned slightly and gave us a once-over. “Ah. Are you ready to order?”

“Anyone know what they want?” I asked.

The Gasman looked up. “How many chicken tenders are on a plate?”

Jason looked almost pained. “I believe there are four.”

“I better have two orders, then,” said the Gasman. “And this fruit cocktail. And two glasses of milk.”

“Two orders for yourself?” Jason clarified.

The Gasman nodded. “With fries. To start.”

“I want a hot-fudge sundae,” said Angel.

“Real food first,” I said. “You need fuel.”

“Okay,” Angel said agreeably, then blinked and looked up at Jason. “We’re not spoiled rich brats,” she said. “We’re just hungry.”

Jason started, then his face flushed and he shifted his feet.

“I want this prime rib thing,” Angel said, looking at the adult side of the menu. “And all this stuff that goes with it. And a soda. And lemonade.”

“The prime rib is sixteen ounces,” our waiter said. “It’s a pound of meat.”

“Uh-huh,” Angel said, wondering what he was getting at.

“She can handle it,” I said. “She’s a big eater. Nudge? What do you want?”

“This lasagna primavera,” Nudge decided. “I might need two. It comes with salad, right? And bread? Some milk. Okay?” She looked at me, and I nodded.

Jason just stood there-he thought we were pulling his leg. “Two lasagnas?”

“You might want to start writing this stuff down,” I suggested. I waited till he had noted their orders, then said, “I’ll start with the shrimp cocktail. Then the maple-glazed roast pork loin, with the cabbage and potatoes and everything. The house salad with bleu cheese dressing. And a lemonade and an iced tea.”

Jason wrote it all down, as if he were enduring an hour-long eye-poke.