The Gift

“Please, Whit. It would mean a lot to me.”

“Okay,” I concede. “I guess. But you have to promise you won’t tell anybody- especially my sister. This is between us.”

“I swear,” she promises. I trust her more than anybody but Wisty. Janine is actually a very sweet person.

But still, I can’t believe I’m reading this to her.

Methought that joy and health alone could be

Where I was not-and pain and sorrow here.

And is it thus?-it is as I foretold,

And shall be more so; for the mind recoils

Upon itself, and the wrecked heart lies cold…

We feel benumbed, and wish to be no more…

As I finish, Janine is gazing thoughtfully. I’m not sure if she likes it or hates it. But then I think I see that her eyes are damp.

“You okay?” I ask. I reach out and touch her arm. Her skin is soft, warm.

“It’s so… beautiful,” she says, wiping away a tear with her sleeve. “Not dumb at all. Definitely not dumb.”

And the next thing I know, Wisty’s stepping out from behind a clothing rack. “That’s a Lady Myron poem,” she says incredulously. “That is, if I’m recalling Ms. Magruder’s eighth-grade English class correctly.”

Chapter 17

Wisty

WHIT’S FACE IS so red that I actually feel a little bad about what I just said.

“Umm,” I mumble. “Sorry to interrupt.”

I really should’ve clapped my hands on my ears and walked away when Whit started talking about poetry. But to miss Whitford P. Allgood’s first poetry reading would be, well, unsisterly.

Janine looks at me as if I’m her bratty little sister, not Whit’s. “Were you eavesdropping on us?”

“What’d you expect? I’m a Resistance spy,” I counter, fending off the glares. “And don’t you forget it, kids.” Whit rolls his eyes. He’s clearly woken up on the wrong side of the bed-or floor, as the case may be. Time to change the subject. “So, did you hear about the new mission yet, Bro? It’s a toughie.”

“I didn’t want to tell him.” Janine shoots me a look. “He’ll want to go. He’s in no condition -”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Whit interrupts. “You’re not my mother.”

Ouch. We don’t ever talk about Mom and Dad casually anymore.

Janine looks a little hurt, then shakes it off. She smoothes down her cargo pants as she stands up. “Besides, I’m not sure it’s one any of us should take. The rough intelligence makes it look worse than the mission that got Margo killed.”

My nostrils are flaring. “The mission that got Margo killed is exactly why we need to go there, Janine. We should finish what she started.”

“Where is it?” asks Whit, struggling to stand up.

“They call it the Acculturation Facility,” Janine explains as she crouches down to help him. “They say it’s a school, not a prison, but… it’s actually worse. It looks like some kind of labor camp. Nothing but young kids.”

“How many are there?”

“Almost a hundred,” she tells us. “But it’s the brainwashing that goes on there that I’m concerned about. Instead of finding one hundred captives wanting escape, we’re likely to see them turning against us. In fact, the New Order is programming them to do just that.”

“We’ve got to go,” I insist.

“Yeah,” Whit agrees. “The One is probably expecting us to be licking our wounds right now, not remotely imagining we’ll do something bold like this.”

He grabs a fresh sweatshirt off a nearby rack and starts to put it on.

Janine’s losing her patience. She folds her arms across her chest authoritatively. “Whit, this is a really bad idea.”

Her eyes shift to a rack of cycling shorts that suddenly sprouts a head.

Byron!

“I have unfortunate news for all of you,” he says smarmily. “Care to hear it?”

“You weren’t eavesdropping on us, were you?” I say indignantly.

He laughs. “I’m a Resistance spy, and don’t you forget it,” he mimics. I roll my eyes.

“Well? We’re waiting for your unfortunate news,” I say.

“Just because Margo was… eliminated,” Byron emphasizes, “it doesn’t mean that suddenly Janine is leader of the week. Nor you, Wisty, nor Whit. This mission isn’t your decision.”

“Then whose is it?”

“Mine,” Byron announces with a ridiculous chest heave. “While Whitford’s been reciting love poetry and Janine’s been nursing Mr. Heroic back to health, you’ve all missed the majority vote of the group back at Home Furnishings for leader of the week.”

He clucks as we stare at him, gaping. “Next time, you might want to make sure you pay more mind to your civic duties.”

I guess you can take the kid out of the New Order, but you can’t take the New Order out of the kid.

Chapter 18

Wisty

HAVE YOU EVER TRIED to cut off all of somebody’s hair with a pair of scissors?

It’s incredibly hard to do without achieving a certain insane-asylum look. I actually do a pretty good job on Whit-he looks kind of like a war-movie hero. Apparently Emmet’s hack job on my head doesn’t fall into the same category, though. (I wouldn’t let my brother come near my hair with scissors.)

“At least you don’t have to worry about that witchy red color any longer.” Byron cackles as we pull up to the Acculturation Facility. “Except for a couple of patches.”

“Who invited you on this mission anyway, B.?” I grumble, even though I know we don’t have a choice. He’s our way in-but I can’t help but fear this is a trap. I can’t bring myself to actually trust Byron Swain.

At least Sasha and a few others are with us-but they’re back manning the escape vehicles hidden beyond the tree line.

Byron unfurls his folio of various New Order badges and medals and memberships and ID cards at the guards at the entry, and then he drags us, handcuffed, through the door to the registration area.

The whole place has that oh-so-distinctively-generic-New-Ordery blandness to it. If it were a turtleneck color in my K. Krew clothes catalog, it would be called Dirty Dishwater.

“I’ve got Stephen and Sydney Harmon here,” Byron says with an exaggerated bluster of authority. He plays the part so well. Maybe because he is the part? “Transfers from AC Facility #625. The One Who Reassigns is expecting them-I just spoke to him an hour or so ago.”