The Gift (12 page)

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.”

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.

“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.

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…

“Listen, Wisty,” he says. His fingers interlock with mine, and the cool metal touch of his insignia ring against my skin is
exhilarating. I feel as if my spine has been replaced with an overcooked noodle.

“I’m
really
sorry,” he says. I look up at him, and suddenly there’s only pain in his eyes now.
Poor thing, taking this drumstick incident so seriously!

“About the stick? It’s nothing —”

I’m interrupted by a commotion at the door, and we both turn to look.

Oh, kill me now. It’s my big brother with the savior complex.

“
Wisty, it’s a trap!
Get out of there! Now!” Whit yells as a bunch of rock star–looking dudes appear from out of nowhere—and attempt to pin him
to the wall.

I try to jump to my feet, but Eric forcefully grabs my wrist.

“I’m so sorry, Wisty,” he’s whispering. “I had no choice in this.”

“What? What
is
this?” I demand to know.

The Bionics singer and guitarist are standing at the opening of the booth now. And they’re chewing on unlit cigars.

It can’t be. But I’m afraid it is.

“Eric?” I ask, tears starting to spill from my eyes. But Drummer Bum only shrugs and looks away.
Is he doing what I think he’s doing?
How could he have been so wonderful one minute, and now he’s turning me over to the New Order?

I’m wrong about people sometimes, but I’ve never been
this
wrong. I slump forward on the table, feeling as if I’ve just been stabbed in the chest.

What is wrong with me for walking right into this trap?

I look up into the face of my crush of five minutes ago. I’m searching for a clue, for any of the signs I missed.

But all I see is his near perfect face, and genuine-seeming contrition.

“I had to, Wisty. Don’t you see?
You’re The One Who Has The Gift.
”