Michael Grant - Lies

“Sometimes.”

“I’ll read it to you, maybe. That way, I’d be paying you back for living in your house.”

Justin didn’t know what to say to that. So he said nothing.

“Right,” Roger said. “Okay. I’m…um, going to go back to my room.”

Justin nodded fervently.

“If it’s okay with you, I mean.”

“It’s okay.”

TEN

51 HOURS, 50 MINUTES

“THAT’S THE LASTof the fuel,” Virtue reported mournfully. “We can run the generator for another two, three days at most. Then no more electricity.”

Sanjit sighed. “I guess it’s good we finished off the ice cream last month. It’d melt otherwise.”

“Look, Wisdom , it’s time.”

“How many times have I told you: Don’t call me Wisdom. That’s my slave name.”

It was a tired old joke between them. Virtue would call him Wisdom only to provoke him, when he thought Sanjit wasn’t being serious.

For a part of his life, Sanjit Brattle-Chance had been called Wisdom by just about everyone. But that part of his life had ended seven months earlier.

Sanjit Brattle-Chance was fourteen years old. He was tall, thin, slightly stooped, with black hair down to his shoulders, laughing black eyes, and skin the color of caramel.

He had been an eight-year-old orphan, a Hindu street kid in Buddhist Bangkok, Thailand, when his very famous, very rich, very beautiful parents, Jennifer Brattle and Todd Chance, had kidnapped him.

They called it adoption.

They named him Wisdom. But they, and every other adult on San Francisco de Sales Island, were gone. The Irish nanny? Gone. The ancient Japanese gardener and the three Mexican groundskeepers? Gone. The Scottish butler and the six Polish maids? Gone. The Catalan chef and his two Basque assistants? Gone. The pool guy/handyman from Arizona, and the carpenter from Florida who was working on an ornate balustrade, and the artist-in-residence from New Mexico who painted on warped sheets of steel? Gone, gone, and gone.

Who was left? The kids.

There were five children all together. In addition to “Wisdom,” they were: Virtue, who Sanjit had nicknamed “Choo” Peace; Bowie; and Pixie. None of them had started their lives with those names. All were orphans. They came from Congo, Sri Lanka, Ukraine, and China respectively.

But only Sanjit had insisted on fighting for his birth name. Sanjit meant “invincible” in Hindi. Sanjit figured he was closer to being invincible than he was to being wise.

But for the last seven months he’d had to step up and at least try to make smart decisions. Fortunately he had Virtue, who was just twelve but a smart, responsible twelve. The two of them were the “big kids,” as opposed to Peace, Bowie, and Pixie who were seven, five, and three and mostly concerned with watching DVDs, sneaking candy from the storeroom, and playing too close to the edge of the cliff.

Sanjit and Virtue were at the edge of the cliff themselves now, gazing down at the crumpled, half-sunk, sluggish yacht a hundred feet below.

“There are hundreds of gallons of fuel down there,” Sanjit observed. “Tons of it.”

“We’ve been over this about a million times, Sanjit. Even if we could get that fuel up the cliff without blowing ourselves up, we would just be delaying the inevitable.”

“When you think about it, Choo, isn’t all of life really just delaying the inevitable?”

Virtue sighed his long-suffering sigh.

He was short and round where Sanjit was angular. Virtue was black. Not African- American black, African black. His head was shaved bald-not his usual look, but he hadn’t liked the way his hair looked after three months without a haircut, and the best Sanjit could do for him was a buzz cut with the electric clippers. Virtue had a perpetually mournful look, like he went through life expecting the worst. Like he was distrustful of good news and morbidly gratified by bad news. Which was true.

Sanjit and Virtue balanced each other perfectly: tall and short, thin and beefy, glib and pessimistic, charismatic and dutiful, a little crazy and utterly sane.

“We are about to lose electricity. No DVDs. We have enough food, but even that won’t last forever. We need to get off this island,” Virtue said firmly.

The swagger seemed to go out of Sanjit. “Brother, I don’t know how to do it. I cannot fly a helicopter. I’ll get us all killed.”

Virtue didn’t answer for a while. There was no point in denying the truth. The small, bubble-canopied helicopter perched on the stern of the yacht was a flimsy-looking thing, like a rickety dragonfly. It could lift the five of them off the island and to the mainland. Or crash into the cliff and burn. Or crash into the sea and drown them. Or just spin out of control and chop them up like they’d been dropped into a giant food processor.

“Bowie is not getting better, Sanjit. He needs a doctor.”

Sanjit jerked his chin toward the mainland. “What makes you think there are doctors there? Every single adult disappeared off this island and off the yacht. And the phones and the satellite TV and everything stopped working. And there’s never a plane in the sky, and no one comes here to find out what’s going on.”

“Yes, I noticed all that,” Virtue said dryly. “We’ve seen boats off toward town.”

“They might just be drifting. Like the yacht. What if there are no adults over there, either? Or what if…I don’t know.” Sanjit grinned suddenly. “Maybe it’s nothing but man-eating dinosaurs over there.”

“Dinosaurs? You’re going with dinosaurs?”

Peace was coming across what had once been a perfectly manicured lawn and was now on its way to becoming a jungle. She had a distinctive walk, knees together, feet taking too many short steps. She had glossy black hair and worried brown eyes.

Sanjit steeled himself. Peace had been watching Bowie.

“Can I give Bowie another Tylenol? His temperature is going up again,” Peace said.

“How high?” Virtue asked.

“A hundred and two. Point two.”

“A hundred point two or a hundred and two point two?” Virtue asked a bit impatiently.

“That one. The second one.”

Virtue shot a look at Sanjit, who stared down at the grass. “It’s too early for another pill,” Virtue said. “Put a wet wash-cloth on his forehead. One of us will be in soon.”

“It’s been two weeks,” Sanjit said. “It’s not just the flu, is it?”

Virtue said, “I don’t know what it is. According to the book, the flu doesn’t last this long. It could be…I don’t know, like a million things.”

“Like what?”

“Read the stupid book yourself, Sanjit,” Virtue snapped. “Fever? Chills? It could be fifty different things. For all I know, it could be leprosy. Or leukemia.”

Sanjit noticed the way his brother winced after he said that last word. “Jeez, Choo. Leukemia? That’s, like, serious, right?”

“Look, all I can go by is the book. I can’t even pronounce most of it. And it goes on and on, maybe this, could be that, I mean, I don’t see how anyone understands it.”

“Leukemia,” Sanjit said.

“Hey, don’t act like that’s what I said, okay? It was just one possibility. I probably just thought of it because I can actually pronounce it. That’s all.”

They both fell silent. Sanjit stared down at the yacht and more specifically at the helicopter.

“We could try to patch the lifeboat from the yacht,” Sanjit said, although he knew Virtue’s answer already. They’d tried to launch the lifeboat. A rope had snagged, and the lifeboat had landed on a spur of rock. The wooden hull had been punctured, the boat had sunk and was now sloshing in between two rocks that slowly, gradually widened the extent of the damage. The lifeboat was a pile of sticks.