Masterminds

by Gordon Korman

  The rest of us exchange uncomfortable glances. Although we’re all angry with our parents, Amber’s desire for revenge is a little chilling. I can’t help but wonder whose DNA she wound up with. My father deserves to be brought to justice more than anybody, yet it hurts to think of him suffering in some jail.

  Not only is our plan half-baked; we’re not even sure what to hope for if we succeed.

  Another possible weakness is Mrs. Delaney. She knows what we tried to do that night. She’s kept our secret so far—if she hadn’t, we’d all be on Dr. Bruder’s magic pills. But she’s in a tough spot herself, being married to a Purple People Eater. And as our water polo coach, she sees us every day, which gives her plenty of chances to ponder whether or not she’s doing the right thing by covering for us.

  We’re all swimming extra hard to keep her happy. The quality of water polo in this town has never been better. I think she sees through it, though. She’s been distant and all business where she used to be warm and friendly. I try to engage her in conversation a few times, but she only wants to talk about improving our skills.

  Once, in private, I even go so far as to mention “. . . the time you gave us a lift in that Surety pickup.”

  She doesn’t take the bait.

  “We don’t need her to sign a blood oath, Eli,” Malik points out. “We just need her to keep her mouth shut a few more days.”

  “Besides,” adds Tori, “it’s not like she’s the only thing that can go wrong. Face it, the minute we’re past the barrier, we’re lost. We haven’t got a clue where we’re going and there’s nobody we can ask, since we don’t know a single person outside Serenity.”

  “That’s not technically true.” I actually thought of this a couple of days ago, but I haven’t mentioned anything before now, because I’m still not sure if it’s worth pursuing. But with the time to zero hour counting down, it’s something we all have to consider. “We do know someone out there. We know Randy Hardaway.”

  23

  AMBER LASKA

  Last year on the eve of Serenity Day, I was so excited that I didn’t sleep. I was going to get my face painted and eat cotton candy until I threw up on the Fun Slide or the Bouncy Castle. I was going to drink real soda, which Mom never keeps in the house. It was all bogus, yet it still makes me a little sad to think that I’m probably never going to be that psyched about anything again.

  My to-do list from that day is still pinned to my corkboard. It’s unique because of what’s not on it—no ballet or piano practice, no homework, or anything to do with school:

  •Go on Rides

  •Win Three-Legged Race with Tori

  •Listen (!!!) to Speeches

  •Present Project

  •The Big Game

  •Cheer for Dad in Plastics-Works-versus-Surety Tug-of-War

  •Fireworks

  What a difference a year makes.

  This time around, I don’t get much sleep either, but for a reason that has nothing to do with cotton candy or water polo. I’m still looking forward to the fireworks, but not to ooh and aah over the explosions of color. And there’s no list at all. The last thing I want to do is put our plan in writing and pin it to my corkboard where Mom and Dad can see it. Anyway, it would be a very short list:

  •Don’t blow it.

  It’s as if my entire body is a guitar string, vibrating with nervous determination. Today is the most important day of my life. And if it goes well, tomorrow will be the first day of a new one.

  It starts in the afternoon with family picnics in the park. Family—I don’t even know what that word means anymore. Tori has told me at least twenty times that my parents love me. I don’t deny that they were nice to me for thirteen years and gave me a cushy life. Everybody has a cushy life here, not from any plastics factory, or community philosophy, but because some billionaire coughed up tons of money to create a whole town and turn it into a giant behavior lab.

  So, yeah, maybe they love me, but that’s beside the point. They lied to me, all the while claiming that nothing is more important than honesty. I’ve been pumped up with so many lies that when you take them away, there’s nothing left and I’m an empty shell. I’ll never forgive them for that.

  I’ve done my share of crying; now it’s time to move on. I guess the criminal mastermind I’m cloned from isn’t the sentimental type.

  The ceremony starts at around two, when Mr. Frieden holds up the Serenity Cup and we all go nuts for about ten minutes, applauding, hugging our neighbors, shaking hands, and pounding people on the back. I lock eyes with Tori. She’s red-faced from cheering her head off, and I’m sure I am too. We’re determined to be the most enthusiastic Serenity citizens of them all—until tonight, when we vote with our feet.

  The speeches are the same as always, but this is the first year I find them painful to the ears. The speakers are introduced by their fancy titles: Mayor; CEO of the Plastics Works; Chief Medical Officer; Chamber of Commerce President. But in reality, these are our parents and neighbors, people we’ve seen in bathing suits and in line at the store buying Metamucil. I fell for it harder than most of the kids and I’m not proud of that. It only strengthens my resolve. I won’t be their stooge anymore.

  Then the “fun” begins. I allow myself a few jumps in the Bouncy Castle and some cotton candy for old times’ sake. For the egg-and-spoon race, Mrs. Amani hands me a soup ladle deep enough to float the Queen Mary, and I speak up and ask for the same regular spoon everyone else has. The adults nod approvingly. Now I understand I’ve passed another test. But what’s most satisfying to me is that by the time they get the chance to note it on my whiteboard, I’ll be gone.

  Next it’s on to the school for the presentation of our projects. Tori and I win first prize. I can’t take much credit for that. Tori’s the artist; my contribution is basically smearing blue on the sky and green on the grass. We’re awarded plaques we can hang in the rooms we’re not going to live in anymore.

  Then it’s time for the water polo match, Team Solidarity against Team Community. The whole town packs into the bleachers around the natatorium. There are even some Purple People Eaters among the spectators. This is the one day of the year that they actually mingle.

  As we stand at attention for the national anthem and “Serenity, My Home,” my mind wanders to the sports pages of that USA Today. There was coverage of baseball, football, basketball, hockey, soccer, tennis, lacrosse, and any sport you can imagine. But not a word about water polo. Why is it so popular here? Is Project Osiris monitoring our aggressive and competitive tendencies in an environment where we’re surrounded by water and insulated from major injury?

  Clones must be expensive.

  The game is a blur of splashing and yelling, the ball whizzing past my head, first in one direction, then the other. It’s hard to care about athletic glory when you’ve got so much going on soon. Even Malik is a subdued version of his usual Zeus-hurling-thunderbolts self. The match ends 4–4. The audience goes wild. In Serenity, we love ties because nobody goes home disappointed. That’s harmony and contentment for you. As for honesty . . . two out of three ain’t bad.

  By the time we get changed and back to the park, the barbecues are blazing and the sun is low in the sky. My last Serenity sunset. I should be happy, but I’m starting to get really scared. My eyes seek out the others in the crowd, and I can tell they’re thinking the same thing. We’re heart-and-soul behind this plan, but it’s about to get very real very fast.

  The Purple People Eaters lose the Plastics-Works-versus-Surety tug-of-war. They lose on purpose—they always do to show what great sports they are. It’s nice to see those perfect purple uniforms dragged through the mud and slime of the pit, but I’m too anxious to enjoy it. The waiting is torture and the hard part—the escape—hasn’t even started yet. I’m having trouble wrapping my mind around the enormity of what we’re about to do.

  A hot dog is waved under my nose. “Eat something, honey,” my mother exhorts. “You must be starving.�
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  I have such a nervous stomach that the smell of it almost makes me retch. “I’m not really hungry.”

  “After all that swimming?”

  So I take a bite and choke it down just to avoid an argument, or, worse, her taking me home for a little TLC. It’s gross but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not going to be the worst thing I have to do tonight.

  The sun is down. Dusk is quickly turning to darkness. The fireworks are about to begin.

  In more ways than one.

  24

  ELI FRIEDEN

  It’s easy to slip out of the park. Everybody’s eyes are on the fireworks.

  Malik and I dart into the trees and pause for a moment to make sure we’re not being followed. We haven’t got much time to waste, though. I have it on the highest authority—Dad’s—that this year’s Serenity Day extravaganza will last exactly twenty-three minutes.

  “Clear,” whispers Malik, and we’re off.

  In some bushes at the corner of the park, we’ve stashed the closest thing we could get to demolition tools—a shovel and a hoe from Dr. Bruder’s backyard shed. I’d feel a lot surer of success with a sledgehammer and dynamite, but that kind of stuff is hard to come by in this town. Anyway, beggars can’t be choosers.

  The streets are deserted, so we have no trouble winding up at the foot of the Fellowship hill. We peer through the factory gate. There they are, parked just inside—the three cone trucks. The one with the satellite dish is in the middle.

  “Looks like it’s wearing a crown,” I mumble.

  Malik grimaces. “Let’s dethrone it.”

  There’s no sign of the Surety patrol. Maybe it doesn’t even operate on Serenity Day. The Purple People Eaters have other jobs tonight, like setting off fireworks and losing the tug-of-war.

  Tools in hand, we scale the fence and run to the center truck. I hoist myself onto the hood and Malik climbs aboard via the payload, kicking dusty cones in all directions. We reach the dish at the same instant.

  “Remember,” I breathe, “try to time the blows with the explosions of the skyrockets. That way, there’s less chance anyone will hear us.”

  “Yeah, you do that,” he tells me. “I’ve waited thirteen years to beat the snot out of something, and I’m planning to do a good job.”

  He means it, too, because his first swing with the hoe misses the end of my nose by about three inches. It makes a gonging sound as it slams into the metal dish, denting it. I start whacking away with my shovel, all the while searching for some cable to cut. I’ve brought our meat scissors, which would behead a rhino. But the signal generator is stronger than it looks, and the wiring must be inside it. We’re inflicting major damage on the dish, twisting it into a piece of modern art. Shards are breaking off and flying every which way. Yet the heavy base of the thing is almost untouched.

  I change my strategy, leaving the hacking to Malik, and concentrating on trying to break the connection between the control box and the truck body. I pound on the roof of the cab in an attempt to buckle it. If I can create a little space, maybe I can get my shovel underneath and lever it off. Then I can slice through the wires, get it on the ground, and Malik and I can pound it into jelly.

  Perspiration is pouring off Malik, and he grunts with every swing of the hoe. I must be just as bad, because my eyes are stinging, and I’m having trouble with my grip on the shovel—that’s how sweaty my hands are. We battle on furiously. All this as detonations of light and color go off in the sky over our heads.

  That might explain why we never hear the golf cart.

  “Freeze!” booms a deep voice.

  The next thing I know, a purple arm has Malik in a headlock, and I realize we’ve been caught. His eyes widen in terror, but he’s unable to struggle or even cry out.

  Without even thinking, I swing my shovel around and catch Alexander the Grape right between the shoulder blades. He drops like a stone and rolls off onto the ground, where he lies still, gasping for breath. That’s when I see the cart parked behind us. Bryan Delaney is out and running toward us, his expression full of fury.

  “Hang on!” I yell at Malik, who is dazed but unhurt.

  And just like I know what I’m doing, I abandon the shovel and vault into the cab of the truck. There’s no key in the ignition, but I flip the sun visor, and the key falls into my lap. I jam it into the slot and twist. The big engine roars to life. Desperately, I take in my surroundings and realize in horror that this is nothing like Street Racers 2014. The transmission is a stick shift. I’ve read about these in books, but since Dad’s Lexus is automatic, I never bothered to research how to drive one.

  I give it some gas, forcing the handle into the spot marked 1. There’s an awful screech, and the truck shudders but doesn’t go anywhere.

  “The clutch!” hollers Malik. “Use the clutch!”

  “I’m clutching it as hard as I can!” I shout back.

  “It’s the pedal! To the left of the brake!”

  Clearly, Malik has a more realistic video game than mine. I press down on the clutch and reshift, and this time the truck begins to crawl out from between its brothers. There’s a thump as Bryan jumps on my running board. An indigo-sleeved arm reaches in for me. The hand grabs my hair. It hurts, but it gives me time to roll up the window, catching him just below the elbow. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the hoe handle come around and whack him on the side of the head. His body stiffens, and I lower the window just enough to allow him to fall off.

  “Go, go, go!” orders Malik.

  “Get in the truck with me!” I shout back.

  “I can’t. I’m busy!”

  I can hear him still hacking at the dish on the roof. He’s right. All of this is for nothing if we can’t knock out the barrier.

  The cone truck plows through the metal gate, leaving a snarl of broken and twisted chain behind it. I wheel onto Fellowship Avenue and shift into second for going up the hill. There’s another screech, and for an awful moment the motor begins to cough and sputter.

  Don’t stall . . . please don’t stall, I beg silently.

  In the rearview mirror, I see the golf cart with the two Purple People Eaters working its way through the ruined gate. They make the turn onto Fellowship and start after us. Bryan is bleeding from the side of his face. I swallow an involuntary wheeze. It’s the first time I’ve ever drawn blood from another person.

  Sorry, Mrs. Delaney.

  “Drive!” howls Malik in between loud blows.

  It hits me in a stab of panic that if the engine dies, I have no idea how to get it started again. It’s putt-putt-putting dangerously slow, and then it catches with a smooth healthy sound. We crest the hill and I head for the park, ignoring stop signs. The fireworks display is still going on, which means we’re not too late.

  The golf cart is just fast enough to keep pace, or maybe I’m slow enough to keep pace with it. The truck can do better, but not in this gear, and I don’t dare shift into third. I came perilously close to stalling before. I’m not taking that risk again.

  The park is dead ahead of us on the left. “I see them!” Malik calls from the roof.

  I do too—Hector and the girls, by the mayor’s parking space, where Dad left the Lexus. The surveillance camera that monitors this part of town is at their feet in several pieces—Tori’s job. They’re waiting for Malik and me to come running back so we can pile into the car and take off. Now, though, we’re in the truck, not on foot. And with two Purples chasing us, there’s no time to switch vehicles.

  At the sight of the factory truck, the three try to melt into the shadows.

  “It’s us, you morons!” Malik stage-whispers. “Get on—now! Change of plan—we’re not stopping!”

  The instruction bewilders them at first, even after they see who’s driving. Then they spot the golf cart coming up behind us, and they’re spurred into action. Hector and Amber clamber onto the back, joining Malik among the cones. Tori jumps into the cab with me.

  In the sky abo
ve us, seven big rockets splay out in a cascade of red, white, and blue. It’s the beginning of the grand finale. Our twenty-three minutes are almost up.

  “Can’t this thing go any faster?” Tori asks anxiously.

  Mentally crossing my fingers, toes, and heart, I depress the clutch and shift into third.

  There’s a bit of a screech, and the truck bucks once, but the engine is running smoothly and we take off. I stomp on the gas and we surge ahead. The golf cart grows smaller in the mirror as the speedometer climbs past twenty, thirty, and even forty.

  Cheering comes from the back of the truck, Hector and Amber celebrating our leaving the patrol in the dust.

  “They’ll never catch us now!” Amber exults.

  But it’ll be a pretty short-lived victory if we haven’t taken out the barrier.

  The cab resonates with the crack of Malik’s hoe against the dish. He’s thinking what I’m thinking. The signal generator is bent and broken, not to mention beaten to a pulp. But we haven’t been able to get at the guts. Our only hope is that the damage to the outside is enough to mess up the works.

  I take the turn onto Old County Six so fast that I send four or five orange cones flying out of the payload and skittering across the grass.

  “Slow down!” howls Hector. “I can’t hang on!”

  “Slow down?” Malik barks. “Speed up!”

  That we definitely are. The speedometer is inching past sixty and I’m starting to feel a little more in control behind the wheel. The Now Leaving Serenity sign is upon us and past almost before we think to look for it. Town is gone except for a few sparks from the end of the fireworks. And it’s only a matter of time before it begins to sink in that so are we.

  “So far, so good,” says Tori in a small voice.

  “I’m good too.” Actually, I ache all over, but that’s the tension in my arms and shoulders from hanging on to this big wheel. I don’t dare take my eyes off the road, but I’m pretty sure we’re getting to the point where the barrier would start acting on us—if the barrier is still in operation.