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."
I start to blush, until Byron replies unctuously, "Well, I'll get you on the list. Consider it done."
"Forget it," I say. I can't give Byron the satisfaction. "Not interested. Let it go."
"Come on, Wisty," says Janine. "You were good back at Garfunkel's."
Just then another bomb crashes overhead, and dirt rains down from the ceiling. Byron doesn't even flinch. He just turns and stalks off toward the stage.
Janine, Emmet, and Sasha chatter with excitement. Meanwhile, I'm standing here thinking, Gee, isn't it rather inconvenient to be in the middle of an underground cavern in the middle of a war? Where tons of rocks could come tumbling down and bury us alive at any minute?
None of that dispels the incredible energy of the concert scene, though. Onstage right now is a group that uses only their mouths to create the music of a full band. Some of them sound like guitars, some like basses, some like drums, some like trumpets, some like instruments that haven't yet been invented.
Janine is giggling and pointing at the stage. It's as if just being here is changing her whole demeanor. She's being… a normal person.
Next we watch these young guys who do incredible balletic duels. Leaping, spinning, twisting, and defying gravity.
And then there's a mind-blowing dance troupe that does their entire show on stilts. It just keeps going…
If there's one thing that makes me hope we stand a chance against the New Order, it's the knowledge that we have so much talent.
Talent-and passion.
That's what scares the N.O. about us, isn't it? We've got it, and they don't. We all have the gift.
Chapter 24
Whit
What have I done?
I'm sitting on the roof of Garfunkel's bombed-out, dilapidated department store, looking down at the journal in my lap. How could I have ever put such a thing down on paper, much less thought it up in the first place?
This poem I've just written wasn't plagiarized from Lady Myron or anyone else. I have to take full responsibility for these sickening words.
I look off at the horizon, past the outskirts of this burned-out city and the yellowing hills. I see a lazy squadron of bombers passing along, their contrails turning pink in the light of the setting sun. Is it that the world's turned upside down? That everything that was normal yesterday is extinct today? Or is this whole Celia thing just slowly driving me crazy, turning me into some death-obsessed poet?
Just then I hear voices.
I run to the edge of the roof and look down at the bomb-pocked street. A small gang of slacker-looking dudes in black T-shirts and jeans is laughing and walking toward the building's entrance. I have no idea who they are, but at least we know nobody employed by the New Order wears black jeans and Ts. Or has long hair.
Still, I have a bad feeling. Just like the one I'd told Wisty about, before she and the rest left for Stockwood.
I zip down the fire escape to see what's going on with these guys.
Turns out they're a band looking for the Stockwood Festival. Why a bunch of musicians wouldn't know the whereabouts of the biggest concert ever in Freeland seems a little suspicious.
Also suspicious is that they radiate jerkosity. They keep snickering and slapping each other on the back, saying things like "Righteous" and "Big-time," the kinds of expressions used by guidance counselors who are trying a little too hard.
The leader-a guy with too much gel in his hair and this horrible wannabe goatee-looks me up and down. "Are you the man here?" he asks.
"Nobody's really the leader here. And nobody else is here anyway."
"They at the music festival?" he asks.
"I think it's something like that."
"You have directions? Like I said, we're a band. We're called the Nopes. Ever heard of us?"
I resist the obvious response and just shrug my shoulders. "I think it's in a stadium in the next city, down the old interstate-about twenty miles south of here."
"Really? I heard it was north, dude. The other way."
"That's what they told me anyhow," I say. "I honestly don't know. Sorry, guys."
"Well, we'll come back here if you got it wrong," he says with a threat in his voice. "Hey, can you tell me this: will Wisteria Allgood be there? At Stockwood?"
"Wist-a-who?" I say, hoping I don't look panicked. Even though I kind of am.
"Wisteria Allgood, the Youth Resistance leader," he repeats.
"I think I've heard of her," I say. This is getting worse and worse-the "Youth" Resistance is something you just don't hear us referring to ourselves as.
I shiver and look back casually at the visitors. "Hey, guys, it's getting late, and I'm supposed to go meet some friends for a pickup game. Want to come?"
"We're musicians, not jocks," he says, narrowing his eyes at me. "Come on, guys. We better get rolling so we can do some rocking."
And, with that line-a dead giveaway that they aren't "rockers"-they turn and walk away. I watch until they round the corner.
As soon as I'm pretty sure the phonies in black are gone, I take the fire-escape stairs three at a time. Up in my makeshift room, I flip open my journal to take another look at the poem I'd written earlier. And, as if by some otherworldly magic, I see a short message instead.
It packs quite a punch.
GO TO YOUR SISTER. SHE NEEDS YOU. TRUST NO STRANGERS.
It's written in familiar handwriting. Like my father's handwriting.
And then, when I blink, it's gone.
I flip madly through the journal, hoping to find it again to convince myself I hadn't hallucinated, but instead I come across my most recent poem.
Another wave of panic comes over me.
What on earth made me write a six-page poem about the death of my sister?
Chapter 25
Wisty
I have to admit, I nearly lose my nerve, just watching the level of talent that's been assembled onstage. I also know that this crowd can be brutal if they don't like your music.
Worse, I almost say thank you to Byron for getting us passes so that we can watch the acts from back here. We're so close we can see droplets of sweat, and the way a singer's mouth forms around a particular word, and the speed of a guitarist's fingers.
And then the Bionics are up.
Okay, now I understand Janine's personality switcheroo. They're by far the hottest band ever. How do I know? Because seeing their sweat is actually a turn-on and not a turnoff. That has never happened to me before. Sweat usually equals stinky Whit-hug after a track meet.