The Gift

reminds me of when I was six, when Whit and I plotted to steal Mom’s lima beans out of the freezer and flush them down the toilet without her knowing. We succeeded with part A, but not part B. And guess who got in trouble? Me. Always me. And still it’s me, alone in my punishment.

Whit, I need you here now! I hurl the chunk of beans at the door with a power I didn’t even know I had, and it shatters with a satisfying crunch.

“Uh-oh.” I hear a voice from behind the door. “You okay in there, Wist?”

Whit?

“Whit?” I shout, running toward the door as I hear a key in the lock.

In comes my brother, escorted by a chunky school monitor. Much to my amusement, the guy actually slips on a couple of lima beans as he enters the room but tragically doesn’t fall flat on his face.

“Jeez, Wisty, what happened to your head?” is Whit’s greeting.

I’m hugging him in an instant, and then I see who’s being escorted in behind him. Sporting a black eye. How predictable is this?

I glare at the weasel. “I thought this was supposed to be solitary.”

He glares back. “Don’t blame me, Wisty. It wasn’t my decision. Ask your brother.”

I let Whit go as the grunting monitors shove their wards into the basement with me. Without a word they leave, the door clicking and locking behind them.

“What happened to you two?” I ask, not entirely hiding my delight at their imprisonment, or really at the fact that I have some company, which, as you probably know, misery so loves.

Whit shrugs. “Byron and I got in a good old-fashioned fistfight. You know. Guy stuff.”

“Well, good for you, boys. And good for me. I have company now!” I spread my hands out grandly. “Welcome to my little shop of horrors. They do free head-waxing here, by the way. I’m sure they’d do your chest for you, Whit. And your monobrow, Byron.”

“That’s vile,” Byron remarks, picking up a lima bean from the dirty floor and examining it.

And it’s going to get a lot more vile down in this dungeon.

Chapter 59

Wisty

I’M CLUTCHING A LIMB, or I guess I should say a dismembered arm. Drummer Boy No More’s. Then suddenly it’s pulsating and starts moving as if it’s a living thing, first caressing my face, then, like the traitorous soul it belonged to, clawing viciously at my eye…

I wake up screaming and with my head pounding. Even worse, Byron is leaning very close to my face. I can smell his dippy cologne. “Are you okay, Wisty? You’re as white as a sheet and you’re sweating like a soaker hose.”

They’ve clearly given Byron some sort of script that’s been diabolically designed to keep me on an emotional knife-edge between suicide and murder.

The dayless, lightless monotony down here also creates the ideal conditions for psychosis. We’ve already taken bets on who’ll succumb first. Byron’s been-I kid you not-counting beans (lima beans, that is), just like his deadbeat New Order dad. Whit’s been writing in his journal and searching for the Shadowland (and Celia, of course), and I’ve been self-inflicting pain in order to steel myself for the next visit from the torture brigade.

“Make him go away, Whit,” I grunt through my headache.

“Really, Wisty,” insists Byron. “I just want to help -”

“I don’t need help. I’m perfectly capable of being miserable on my own. Buzz off and do something useful for once in your life,” I mutter.

“Something useful?” he says. “Oh. I didn’t think you thought that I could.”

“Seriously, I’d be so incredibly psyched to be proven wrong right now.”

“Well, then. How about… I pick the lock on the door?”

Whit and I both look at him, trying to figure out if he’s joking. Then I remember: Byron has a subzero sense of humor.

In our exploration of this dank place, we’ve come across only three doors. And, of course, they’ve all been locked tight. We’ve checked, in the event that there’s some good-hearted, normal person hiding in the body of a grunting, surly school monitor. (Not.)

“I did it on one of the other doors-not the door we used to get in here,” Byron explains. “Then I put it back so we wouldn’t get in trouble.”

“A door is a door is a door,” I say, still aghast. “How’d you do it?”

“It wasn’t that hard. I used to be a Sector Leader’s Star of Honor, and as trainees we learn all kinds of skills that are helpful in a prison. So I found a piece of wire and I looped it into the tumbler and felt around, and then, you know, before too long, I’d got it.”

“When exactly did you do this?” I ask.

“When you guys were snoring so loud that I couldn’t sleep.”

“Let me get this straight,” says Whit. “You can pick the lock to a door that might be our escape route out of here, and you didn’t tell us?”

“Well, there’s something behind the door,” explains Byron.

“So? Like what? A monster?” Whit quips and makes a scary face.

“More like, umm…” Byron’s voice trails off.

“What?” I scream at him.

“Your parents.”

Chapter 60

Whit

I KNOW YOU’RE ASKING yourself the same question I am. I’m sure Wisty is, too. Could there possibly be any reason not to tell us that our parents are in the room next door? If they really are?

“I… I think they’ll hurt you, Wisty,” Byron stutters. “They’re not safe anymore. Something’s happened to them.”

That’s all just total bull. Has to be. Byron is clearly the first of us to go psycho.

I put my arm around my sister, and she’s shaking with dread and fear. “Not safe? They’re our parents!” Her voice is becoming shrill. “They’re not capable of hurting us. I swear, Byron, if it turns out you’re not lying and you can get us to them, I will kiss you over and over. And forgive you for every single awful thing you’ve ever done. Which is a lot.”

That makes it a no-brainer for the weasel. With a sigh, he starts toward the door, and we follow. Could Crossley really have been telling the truth?

“Swain, you’re not getting off that easy,” I call after him. “If you’re lying, I swear you’ll regret if for the rest of your days. And if you’re not lying, then explain why you think they’re dangerous!”

“I can’t explain it,” he says, and seems about as disturbed as we are. “Some things you just can’t explain. But it’s true.”