The Gift

Chapter 22

Wisty

I can't begin to tell you how fantastic it is when we return to Garfunkel's-and a hero's welcome. Mr. Homecoming King Whit Allgood is, of course, used to it from his old life. But truants like me rarely get the crowds cheering.

Janine hurls herself at Whit and he doesn't seem to mind, obligingly wrapping his arms around her.

Meanwhile Emmet surprises me with a bear hug and holds on to me just a little longer than I would have expected him to. Maybe as if… he'd been a little worried about me?

He interrupts my pathetic little fantasy by rubbing his hands all over my creepy-looking head. "Bald is beautiful, baby!" He laughs.

I blush, but I'm elated. I'm so high that I can't even feel annoyed that Byron's getting lifted up on the shoulders of shaved-headed kids like a war hero. I let it slide. We couldn't have done it without him, I guess.

Byron howls idiotically-clearly on a head rush from "feeling the love" for the first time in his sad life, poor little weasel-and finally lets himself fall backward. The roaring crowd starts passing him above their heads as if we're in a throbbing mosh pit. It's madness. But it's totally great to celebrate something for a change. I'm soaking in the smiles rather than the usual tears and long faces.

Sasha knocks into me, and I grin at him. "If the weasel gets over here, I'm letting him drop," I say, staying in character. Eternally ungrateful Wisty.

Sasha ignores it. "You look very punk rock!" he shouts. "I like it. It suits you."

"And you look like a bucket of frozen lizard pus." I'm still grinning.

"I'm not kidding. You look totally hard-core. Maybe we could use you at the underground concert."

"What concert?" Someone bashes into me, and I'm almost thrown off balance. "Don't we have more important things on our plate?" I ask, though I admit I'm intrigued.

"This concert is important. It's a great opportunity to get new recruits to the cause. Trust me. Maybe even get some intelligence about what other Resistance units know. As a bonus, the concert breaks all their precious rules!"

God knows I'd love to hear some real music. Almost everything's been banned by the New Order for some moronic reason. Causes too much "disorder," I guess. And joy.

Suddenly I'm starving for music, and it's as if Sasha can read my mind. He pulls me away from the mosh pit and takes out his guitar from underneath one of the makeup counters.

"I've been rehearsing." He starts picking out a riff, and I smile-I know the song. It's been a lifetime since I've heard it, but chills run up my spine.

I jump in, singing right on the first line, and Sasha cuts off. "You know it?"

"Are you kidding? I live and breathe that song. Give me the guitar."

Sasha hands it over, looking bemused. But with the first chord I strum, I feel as if a switch inside me has been thrown into the on position-as if power is literally coursing through my body-and suddenly, even though the guitar's not plugged into anything, it sounds as if I'm hooked up to a sweet amplifier stack.

I take a few steps up the immobile escalator so I can survey the crowd below, and I belt out the famous song's first few lines. I close my eyes as I feel the lyrics swell up inside me and pour out with this crazy mix of joy and pain. I can't stop myself, and I sing this great tune that we all grew up with. It's called "Born to Fly," written and sung by Luce Winterstein, one of my faves.

And, as I sing the final chorus and open my eyes, I see the entire population of Garfunkel's looking up at me, Wisteria Allgood, and they're cheering, hooting, applauding. Meanwhile, Byron is still moshing-or being moshed?-down below.

I realize with a shock that the sound-that glorious blare of music that's so loud it's rattling my bones-isn't just in my mind. It's real! There's a wall of amplifiers that I apparently have conjured up out of thin air.

I strum the last power chord, hold it, and tack on a final "Oh yeah!"

Well, I guess I've got my mojo back anyway.