The Gift

Chapter 51

Wisty

ALL RIGHT, we're definitely on the inside now. Maybe Whit is right, maybe this is the only way to defeat The One. Maybe we're closing in on something important. Meanwhile, though, we look like freshly boiled lobsters.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!" I'm jumping up and down as Whit and I are reunited in the (surprise) all-white common space, waiting for our next instructions.

"Stings, huh?" Whit agrees. "I have to admit, though, you really needed a bath. You were kind of starting to stink."

I punch him in the arm. Apparently even near-death experiences can't take the obnoxiousness totally out of the brother. "Speak for yourself. And they seriously didn't need to take off the top two layers of my skin to solve the problem."

Byron, on the other hand… I remember a murder-mystery board game we used to play as kids, and I start a wicked fantasy: Wisteria Allgood, in the shower, with the industrial-strength power nozzle…

My plotting is interrupted by a military march-like set of notes signaling the end of class, then the sound of a bunch of kids emerging into the hallway. Several come into the room and plop themselves in front of a TV.

"Hey, guys," says the boy who sits down next to us. "I'm Crossley." He's short and wiry, with a boyishly earnest and appealing face.

"I'm Whit, and this is Wisty," says my brother somewhat guardedly.

"Yeah, everybody in this place knows about you two. Especially Wisty." He leans in. "Saw you rockin' out on the Net."

Whit and I are stunned. "Huh?" says Whit. "How'd you -?"

Crossley's eyes flash toward one of ERSA's eyes. "Anyway, they gave us all chocolates when they announced you were coming."

"Do they give chocolates often?" I blurt out.

"Every once in a while ERSA gives them to the whole school, but usually it's just when you earn a trip to The Room Where You Eat The Chocolate."

"So how do you earn that?"

"By being a good student, generally."

"Like solving trigonometry problems?"

"Sort of," says Crossley. "You'll see. The chocolate is awesome. It's just that some of us aren't quite prepared for its… awesomeness." He turns his attention to the TV screen and pastes a smile on his face like a baby who's just been fed, pooped, and changed.

I suddenly realize that I have no idea if the kids at this school are brainwashed New Order spawn-Mini-Ones in training-or if they're innocent kids trapped in a white N.O. box just doing what they need to do to survive.

As Crossley cheers along with the group at another exciting ribbon-cutting ceremony being broadcast on Channel One, I notice him discreetly holding up a small scrap of paper, shielding it in the palm of his hand so that the cameras can't see it.

I KNOW A PLACE WHERE ERSA CAN'T HEAR US.

Another mindfreak. For the past few months, my Enemy Meter had two readings: For Us and Against Us, with His Traitorness Swain spinning the thing into overdrive. I'd wished all kids were For Us. I'd assumed it. But now?

"Maybe I can help you guys win the next competition. Come on, let's go study!" I look at him as if he's crazy, but then I notice he's winking at me. Ew.

We follow Crossley out of the common room, down a couple of hallways and stairways, and ultimately to a spot just between the A Barracks and the B Barracks. He quickly points at the walls, which, for a few yards, have no cameras or microphone knobs.

"The emergency-containment doors open here, so they didn't install any cameras or mikes," he whispers. "So, if you want, I can tell you what I know about your parents."

In the blink of an eye, Whit has him by the collar. "What do you know about our parents? Where are they? How do you know?"

"Whoa, boy!" Crossley gasps. "You don't want to hurt me. There's a lot I can do for you… if you cooperate."

"Cooperate how?"

"Make a fair trade. I get some of your M; you find out from me where in this facility your parents are being held."

Whit gives Crossley a perfect body slam-enough to scare him but not enough to really hurt him. "I repeat, what do you know about our parents?"

"Whit, chill," I whisper, trying the, um, feminine touch instead. "Look, Crossley, you seem like a nice guy. We don't want to hurt you. But you know what? We can. You're lying about our parents. We'd never be put in the same facility with them. So first, stop lying, and second-what do you mean by our 'M'?"

"Your magic. Your mojo. Whatever. I need some. I'm flunking out and need help." He gives us a pathetic look, and Whit eases his grip. "Please."

Someone's asking me for help with his "schoolwork"? I'm just about to burst into hysterics when an alarm goes off.

ERSA's voice echoes through the hall: "Code gray. Code gray. Code gray."

Crossley squirms out of Whit's distracted grasp. "Air-quality alert. Bet it's an escape attempt," he says, and starts tearing down the corridor. "In five secs this hall will be swarming with guards!"

The emergency-containment doors fly open and slam Whit and I against the wall behind them. Three school monitors the size of nightclub bouncers are dragging escapee Byron Swain. He's limp-dead? No, he's coughing now. Hard.

He sees me, of course, and croaks, "Told you. Stay away from the wrath of ERSA."