“Er… how do you know about that?”
“You and Whit and Byron made the underground newswire,” he says, and shrugs. “You’re famous. But you don’t act like it.”
Byron hears his name across the room like he’s got supersonic ears and is by my side in half a second.
“They’re practically writing folk songs about you already, Wisty,” Drummer Boy continues. “That facility you hit is part of a system of exploitation and experimentation. The New Order calls them Juvenile Education and Repatriation complexes. It’s just cheap child labor.”
“That’s really shocking,” says Byron. The boy’s like a bad cold. You just can’t shake him.
“That’s not the worst of it,” says the drummer, and I realize I don’t even know his name. “There’s another place, the BNW Center—the Brave New World Center. We’ve heard they’re doing live human experiments on everybody they keep there. ‘Special’ kids”—he uses air quotes—“like you and your brother.”
Everybody’s quiet for a moment, and as the gravity of this sinks in, I lower my eyes from his. “I better go meet up with my brother. He needs to hear about this.”
“Yes,” says Byron Officious Swain as if he’s my aide-de-camp—or, worse, my boyfriend. “Keep us apprised,” he tells the drummer. Then he actually grabs my hand and starts pulling me toward the door.
How is it that I mess up with just about the hottest guy I’ve ever seen—and then find myself holding hands with Byron?
This isn’t about being “special”; it’s about being cursed.
Chapter 31
Wisty
CURSED, YES, but not for long apparently.
That’s because Eric—as he finally introduced himself—and the rest of the Bionics decide they want to come back with us to Garfunkel’s.
Whit is less than enthused. I have the sense he doesn’t trust them—and, of course, he’s still mad about the whole stealing-his-journal incident—but with Sasha, Emmet, Janine, and me backing the Bionics, he can’t quite say no.
A bunch of us are in the middle of doing an impromptu a cappella version of “The Fire Outside” when suddenly Whit floors the gas pedal while making a sharp turn. Eric’s hand just happens to slide off his knee and come to rest on my hand. It stays right there. I have no urgent need to remove it.
“Buckle up, everybody!” Whit shouts. “We’ve got New Order police on our tail.”
“Police?” I say, incredulous. “What are they doing here in Freeland?”
“Yeah!” shouts my brother. “And how did they manage to find us is another good question. Now brace yourselves!”
The van accelerates, and I scramble to look out the back windows. Three heavily armed New Order police vehicles are bearing down on us. This looks bad. Whit takes a sharp left turn that sends us all sprawling against the side of the van.
My head’s flung against Eric’s chest. Talk about making the best of a bad situation.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“S’okay,” Eric whispers.
But then a sharp right turn sends us rolling violently against the other side.
And now I’m tangled up with Byron. Ick.
“They’ve got us boxed in. Coming from all sides!” yells Whit, braking the van to a rocking standstill. “We’ll have to run! Everybody take off in different directions. Hopefully they won’t get all of us!”
“No!” I yell. “That’s not the best plan. Seriously, just stay in the van!”
Everyone looks at me like I’m crazy, which I might be. We’ll know soon enough.
“You guys know the song ‘Magic Truck’ by the How?” I ask.
Eric starts laying down a beat on the floor of the van. The bassist and guitarist grab their instruments.
Meanwhile, police cars are skidding to a stop all around us—and then a voice is coming over their PA: “Exit the vehicle immediately and lie on the ground.”
I wave for the band to keep playing. The lead singer starts in, and then I join him. The groove is instant, almost as if we’ve been rehearsing together for a couple of months.
I hear the policemen pounding on the windows. We answer by turning up the volume.
Then we don’t hear the policemen anymore. That’s because we’ve succeeded in levitating the van several hundred feet in the air.
Yeah, you heard me right.
The music was magic. The music did it. The van is still rising in the air.
I look out the back at the police vehicles, and one of the cops is throwing his hat on the ground in frustration.
“That was close. Too close,” comments Byron, seeing the glass as half empty.
“It… freaking… worked!” I scream, and then I can’t help myself—I throw my arms around Eric. My glass is very, very full.
This is definitely the best night of my life on the Wanted Dead or Alive list.
Chapter 32
Wisty
I THINK kissing was involved—I’m not certain, but I’m pretty sure. I think Eric’s a good kisser. Not sure, though. The entire evening was kind of a blur.…
I wake up inside Garfunkel’s the next morning, and I have two distinct thoughts: First: Did I dream of falling asleep in the drummer’s arms, or did it really happen? Second: My drumstick is gone!
It’s the first thing I reach out to touch in the morning. And it’s not there.
Problem. Big problem. Disaster. That drumstick is my magic wand and it’s a family heirloom.
Everyone else is deeply conked out after our night of revelry—so I begin a mad hunt to find the wand my mother gave me just before I was separated from her and dragged off to prison.
I always sleep with the drumstick under my pillow. Or whatever the circumstances are forcing me to use instead of a pillow. But it’s not there. And it’s not under the mattress either. And it’s not in my coat. And it’s not in my knapsack. It’s nowhere.
Okay, don’t cry about this. Think, Wisteria. What was different about last night compared to every other night you’ve slept at Garfunkel’s?
Well, the Bionics were here.…
That’s got to be it—the drummer! Was Whit right about them?
I tiptoe over to Byron—snoring like a buffalo—and expertly swipe his supersecret smartphone and text Eric at the number he gave me yesterday.
where R U?
He texts back right away:
had 2 go practice. didn’t want 2 wake u
got yr drumstx?
yep
got mine?
used oven mitt… just in case it was still hot
not funny
sorry
u have it? give back!
tots
you STOLE it
borrowed
i want it back NOW
im sorry. meet me
WTH? u bring it 2 me
don’t freak. m sorry. meet @ city of progress diner—11 am
fine
yr so cool
whatevs, I type.
But my heart is leapfrogging, and I’m grateful that cell phones don’t convey blushes. I’m cool? As of when?
I mean, it was jerky of Eric to take my stick. But he’s a rock drummer and he admired it. And, I mean, I can almost hear my mother’s voice telling me he just did it to get my attention. Just the way she told me why geeky Ben Campbell used to pull my hair in first grade.
Now I do start crying. I miss my mother so much. She was my best friend. She is my best friend.
Chapter 33
Wisty
I DECIDE against finding Whit and telling him where I’m going, even though he’s probably going to kill me when I get back. But I don’t really have a choice, because guess what my brother would say?
A) Have a great lunch. Could you bring me back some fries?
B) It’s windy out there. Be sure to zipper your coat.
C) Fine, I’m coming with you. No arguments, firebrand!
Yeah. If you picked A or B, I’m going to politely suggest you turn back a few
dozen pages and do some rereading.
I need to have my moment alone with Eric. So I sneak around quietly, making myself ready to infiltrate the City of Progress—the New Order’s demented model city, the template they mean to apply to the rest of Freeland after they’ve stamped out anyone who resists their disgusting ideas.
It takes a little bit of disguise to properly blend in (read: skirts and sweaters for girls, no black lipstick or obvious piercings; jackets and ties for boys, and Byron-style hair preferred), but it’s doable, and necessary.
And, since my hair hasn’t grown back yet, it’s a great excuse for me to lift a new hairdo—a cute little brunette bob—from the wig counter inside Garfunkel’s.
I tiptoe out the store’s front door, and suddenly I feel a vibration under my arm. More precisely, it’s coming from the very un-Wistylike white purse tucked there.
Another text message. I click the phone on.
A text message in my mother’s handwriting. WTH…?
IT’S OK, WISTY. SHE’S AN ALLY. GO WITH HER.
With who? Suddenly I feel very un-alone. I hear someone’s voice.
“Well, we meet again, my dear!”
I yank my head to the right, and there, leaning on the hood of a long-dead station wagon, one leg crossed over the other, is the little old ninja lady. The one who gave us the map that saved our lives. And now that I’m able to scrutinize her more closely, I realize she’s also the woman who almost got me arrested in a diner on my very first trip to the City of Progress. Mrs. Highsmith!
“It’s okay,” the strange little woman says in a high nasal drawl. “Go ahead and SMS or whatever it is you people do with your silly little gadgets. Your mother’s not particularly close, but you’ll at least see that she’s safe.”
I quickly type back,
If she’s an ally, y’d she try to get us arrested?
My mother’s handwriting replies,
SHE PANICKED—SHE THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE A NEW ORDER SPY. YOU SAW THEM TRY TO ARREST HER. WHY WOULD SHE WANT TO HELP THE NEW ORDER?
K, but how do I know this is u?
HOW WOULD ANYBODY ELSE KNOW THAT BEN CAMPBELL USED TO PULL YOUR PONYTAIL?
OMG, Mom!!!
I type as tears well up.
GO WITH HER QUICKLY, DEAR. GIVE WHIT A KISS FROM US. DAD AND I ARE THINKING OF BOTH OF YOU. ALL OF THE TIME. WE LOVE YOU SO MUCH.
Mrs. Highsmith comes up to me with an old-fashioned handkerchief that I numbly accept. It smells like witch hazel.
“You see? Your mother’s okay,” says Mrs. Highsmith. “Now, please come with me to my apartment—so we don’t get the New Order looky-loos all excited about capturing two witches on the same day.”
Chapter 34
Wisty
SO HOW DO YOU think we get to the City of Progress in about ten minutes flat? Broomstick? Portal? If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me—and that’s saying a lot, given what I’ve gotten you to believe about our insane lives so far.
Let’s just say Mrs. H. has some powers that might, just might, rival The One’s. If I didn’t have “Mom” telling me she was on my side… I’d have to wonder.
Okay, check this out: Mrs. H.’s apartment is a cluttered, dimly lit place—the heavy curtains are drawn even though it’s a sunny morning. There’s not an empty shelf, table, or chair. Even the piano top is covered with novels, hardbacks, paperbacks, notebooks, antique tomes. Obviously all banned. The walls are chockablock with pictures—some framed, some crudely taped up—and there’s even an easel with a half-finished painting of a dragon on it, which I almost trip over. There’s barely a path for me to follow her into the kitchen, which smells like some sort of heavily spiced tuna casserole. It must be 120 degrees in here.
“Pardon me while I finish working on this stew,” she says, peering over the lip of a giant black barrel sitting on a couple of hot plates in the middle of the kitchen floor. It’s enormous and looks like some kind of oil shipping container. She could fit a small horse in that thing. Maybe she has.
Mrs. H. dips a ladle into the soup for a taste. She offers me some, but I shake my head violently. “Needs some more willow bark and sassafras root anyway,” she says. “I underestimated how much this broth was going to absorb.”
Okay, remind me: how did I end up with an old witch stirring potions in a boiling-hot apartment, instead of with Drummer Boy, chatting and eating burgers in a very cool diner?
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking,” she says with a disapproving look. “So I’ll get to the point. Here’s the deal: as you may have discovered, The One Who Is The One is a complete yenta.”
I look at her quizzically. A yenta? Is that good or bad or something in between?
“A yenta is a person who wants to get into everybody else’s business. And, what’s worse, he wants to put an end to all their business and make it all about his business. Everything.” She pauses to take a sip of her brew and makes a face.
“He’s basically a conduit for the worst kind of evil. I’m talking stuff that makes a person want to put out her eyes and ears rather than to see or hear it,” she continues, wincing and replacing the ladle in the barrel.
“And, unfortunately, he’s figured out a way to get himself more power than any other individual in the history—or even the prehistory—of the world.”
“So are you here to tell me he can’t be stopped?” I say. “Typical grown-up stuff? Give it a rest? Get real? Stop fighting for nothing?”
She chuckles to herself. “I’ll let that slide, because you obviously don’t know me. Yet. Now, ready to take notes?”
She picks up her ladle and flings the tip toward one side of the room, then another, and then back toward me, spraying me with disgusting bits of her soup in the process. In a flash a pencil and a piece of paper fly into my hands.
“Didn’t know I was in school again, but… okay,” I say tentatively, wiping the drops of gag-worthy gruel off my face.
“There are two X factors in this entire situation that can give us the edge. Care to guess what they are?”
“Timing and luck?”
“Positive energy and negative energy. We need to maintain a surplus of the former. And we need to send that sick son of a gun a good dose of the latter. Capiche?”
I nod. Capiche?
“Now, I’m no fan of that Stockwood Music Festival—too many sweaty young bodies and too much mindless bobbing and weaving for my taste—but I heard last night through the underground newswire that you’re apparently quite musically talented.” I nod again. “Music, my dear, is a more potent force for change than you may think.”
“No offense, Mrs. H., but you have no idea how powerful it is unless you’ve performed on a stage in front of thousands. Plugged in.” I shiver just thinking about it. I can hardly wait to get my hands on a guitar again.
“How do you know I haven’t?” She chuckles, and I realize that this lady has a past I am definitely going to have to find out more about. “I’m talking about a very different kind of power, Wisty. That’s why it’s banned by the N.O. Didn’t you ever wonder why it’s forbidden?”
“I know why. ’Cause it’s fun, and the N.O. is antifun.”
Mrs. H. gives me a look that reminds me of my mom—her Wisty, stop being funny when you know this is serious look.
“If there is one thing I need to teach you, it’s never underestimate the power of what you or others create. Music, art, film, writing, all of this”—she waves her hand around the cluttered apartment—“there’s tremendous energy here. This is life force. Very important.”
“We’d better hide all of this from them, then,” I tell her. “You’re crazy to keep it here in the City of Progress. Maybe we can bring it to Garfunkel’s.”
“No. I need it. I can’t let it go. I’ll let them take me before they take it.”
I’m stunned. Die for kids, yeah, but die for… art? I’ll have to think about that.
She passes me a folded-up square of paper.
&nb
sp; “Learn it. Memorize it. Use it to help others. Pass it on. And on, and on.”
I open it and see a crudely drawn musical staff with notes. It looks like a pretty simple melody.
“What does it do?”
She points to a battered guitar that looks kind of lost and abandoned in the corner of the pantry. I hadn’t even seen it in all the clutter. “That’s for you to figure out. So—go figure.”
Before I know it, I’m strumming the guitar and learning how to “beat the blues,” as Mrs. H. calls it. It’s… amazing actually.
Now I just need to figure out how to bust up the New Order, get a restraining order against Byron, and placate Whit. Then the world will be back in its proper orbit again.
Closer anyway.
“Exactly right, dearie! Now taste,” says the ancient lady, stuffing the ladle in my mouth.
Chapter 35
Wisty
’SCUSE ME as I wipe drool from my chin…
Normally, I might just be talking about the fact that I’ve ordered a cheeseburger with pickles, shoelace fries, and a black-and-white shake. But today I’m double drooling because I’m sitting with Eric, Bionics Drummer Boy. How could his five o’clock shadow at eleven thirty in the morning and deepened undereye circles make him look even more gorgeous? But they do. He simply defies all laws of nature.
We place our orders with the ridiculously efficient waitress who is typical of the help in N.O. eateries.
“Too bad you’re not as fast as she is,” Eric quips. “Where the heck were you anyway? I’m, like, on my fifth cup of coffee, here.”
“Did you miss me?” I opt to say, instead of Sorry, but I was busy playing guitar in an old witch’s kitchen.
“Actually yeah,” he says. He levels his gaze at me, and I notice a glint of vulnerability in his eyes. “How come you look so crazy beautiful? You couldn’t have had much more sleep than me.”
Crazy beautiful? Never before has Wisteria Allgood been described as such. Crazy, yes. Beautiful…?
This is so nice. I’m so not used to the attention.
“Must be the wig,” I mumble, and glance down. He’s still staring at me. I can feel it. He’s reaching across the table… toward my hand…
Witch & Wizard: The Gift Page 7