The Gift

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.

Chapter 23

Wisty

EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS IS FORBIDDEN, banned, and maybe that’s why it’s so incredibly great. One step into the Stockwood Music Festival, and it feels as if you’ve been transported out of the New Order nightmare and into a dream of a place owned by us, ruled by us, and pumping with the fresh blood of music, very good music, astonishing music that just makes you want to dance-which is also forbidden.

“I don’t know what Whit was thinking, passing up the opportunity to come here,” I say to Janine, who’s walking behind me, both of us bouncing on the balls of our feet. My brother had-characteristically-insisted on staying behind to protect the younger kids who needed to remain at Garfunkel’s. And he had-uncharacteristically-mumbled some blah-blah about “having a feeling” something bad might happen if there was a “power vacuum” there.

But this… this was a once-in-a-New-Order-time experience. “I’m gonna kick Whit’s tight little butt when we get back,” I finish.

Janine blushes at the mention of Whit’s butt. The girl’s all brains and heart-but when you mention anything about bodies, she gets embarrassed. “Yeah,” she says, and gets all therapist on me. “He needs this more than any of us.”

The concert’s being held in what was once the underground reservoir for a small village called Stockwood. It’s been totally drained and is now just a stadium-size cavern, illuminated by portable road-crew lights. I feel as if I’m on a movie set, because I’m seeing people milling around in dress ranging from medieval monks’ robes and ninja outfits to white face paint and black capes.

No wonder creativity’s been banned. It’s way too freaking cool for the New Order to handle.

“I didn’t realize there was a come-as-your-favorite-comic-book-hero theme,” I remark to Sasha and Emmet.

“Not exactly,” says Sasha. “They’ve come here in costume to honor characters from the banned movies and books that they used to love.”

“Love,” I say. “Present tense.” I won’t let the N.O. take that away.

“Absolutely,” drawls Emmet. “This is all an empowerment kinda thang.”

I see exactly what he means. There’s banners and handheld signs with slogans like N.O. CAN’T DO and NOTE TO N.O.: WE WILL ROCK YOU.

Just then there’s a huge tremor, and little bits of dust and debris curtain down from the ceiling. I have a moment of panic, my head instinctively swiveling around, half expecting to see soldiers pouring in to terrorize us.

Everybody chills, but there are no aftershocks, and moments later we’re back to communing, chanting, and proselytizing for the Resistance. It’s as if nothing had happened. A New Order bomb must have landed directly overhead. No biggie. Just another thorn in our sides.

Speaking of which, Weasel Boy comes bobbing up to us. “Hey, guys!” The smug look on Byron’s face makes me want to ralph. “I acquired some backstage passes for us! Party on!”

Party on? I guess all of the times I’ve told him to stop talking like such a blowhard have paid off, but I’m not sure I love the result.

“Not interest -,” I start to say, but Janine cuts me off.

“You got backstage passes? You mean we’ll get to meet the Bionics? ” screams Janine as if she’s the world’s original teenybopper. Weird-I didn’t think she had an ounce of teeny to bop in her. She lifts Byron right off the ground with a hug. Man, these Bionics must be really good.

“I thought this was supposed to be an open-mike thing,” I say.

“It is,” says Byron as Janine lets go of him. “But they’re doing it for free. Why are you asking? Were you going to get up on the stage?”

“Maybe I was.”