"That's not the worst of it," says the drummer, and I realize I don't even know his name. "There's another place, the BNW Center-the Brave New World Center. We've heard they're doing live human experiments on everybody they keep there. 'Special' kids"-he uses air quotes-"like you and your brother."
Everybody's quiet for a moment, and as the gravity of this sinks in, I lower my eyes from his. "I better go meet up with my brother. He needs to hear about this."
"Yes," says Byron Officious Swain as if he's my aide-de-camp-or, worse, my boyfriend. "Keep us apprised," he tells the drummer. Then he actually grabs my hand and starts pulling me toward the door.
How is it that I mess up with just about the hottest guy I've ever seen-and then find myself holding hands with Byron?
This isn't about being "special"; it's about being cursed.
Chapter 31
Wisty
CURSED, YES, but not for long apparently.
That's because Eric-as he finally introduced himself-and the rest of the Bionics decide they want to come back with us to Garfunkel's.
Whit is less than enthused. I have the sense he doesn't trust them-and, of course, he's still mad about the whole stealing-his-journal incident-but with Sasha, Emmet, Janine, and me backing the Bionics, he can't quite say no.
A bunch of us are in the middle of doing an impromptu a cappella version of "The Fire Outside" when suddenly Whit floors the gas pedal while making a sharp turn. Eric's hand just happens to slide off his knee and come to rest on my hand. It stays right there. I have no urgent need to remove it.
"Buckle up, everybody!" Whit shouts. "We've got New Order police on our tail."
"Police?" I say, incredulous. "What are they doing here in Freeland?"
"Yeah!" shouts my brother. "And how did they manage to find us is another good question. Now brace yourselves!"
The van accelerates, and I scramble to look out the back windows. Three heavily armed New Order police vehicles are bearing down on us. This looks bad. Whit takes a sharp left turn that sends us all sprawling against the side of the van.
My head's flung against Eric's chest. Talk about making the best of a bad situation.
"Sorry," I mumble.
"S'okay," Eric whispers.
But then a sharp right turn sends us rolling violently against the other side.
And now I'm tangled up with Byron. Ick.
"They've got us boxed in. Coming from all sides!" yells Whit, braking the van to a rocking standstill. "We'll have to run! Everybody take off in different directions. Hopefully they won't get all of us!"
"No!" I yell. "That's not the best plan. Seriously, just stay in the van!"
Everyone looks at me like I'm crazy, which I might be. We'll know soon enough.
"You guys know the song 'Magic Truck' by the How?" I ask.
Eric starts laying down a beat on the floor of the van. The bassist and guitarist grab their instruments.
Meanwhile, police cars are skidding to a stop all around us-and then a voice is coming over their PA: "Exit the vehicle immediately and lie on the ground."
I wave for the band to keep playing. The lead singer starts in, and then I join him. The groove is instant, almost as if we've been rehearsing together for a couple of months.
I hear the policemen pounding on the windows. We answer by turning up the volume.
Then we don't hear the policemen anymore. That's because we've succeeded in levitating the van several hundred feet in the air.
Yeah, you heard me right.
The music was magic. The music did it. The van is still rising in the air.
I look out the back at the police vehicles, and one of the cops is throwing his hat on the ground in frustration.
"That was close. Too close," comments Byron, seeing the glass as half empty.
"It… freaking… worked!" I scream, and then I can't help myself-I throw my arms around Eric. My glass is very, very full.
This is definitely the best night of my life on the Wanted Dead or Alive list.
Chapter 32
Wisty
I THINK kissing was involved-I'm not certain, but I'm pretty sure. I think Eric's a good kisser. Not sure, though. The entire evening was kind of a blur…
I wake up inside Garfunkel's the next morning, and I have two distinct thoughts: First: Did I dream of falling asleep in the drummer's arms, or did it really happen? Second: My drumstick is gone!
It's the first thing I reach out to touch in the morning. And it's not there.
Problem. Big problem. Disaster. That drumstick is my magic wand and it's a family heirloom.
Everyone else is deeply conked out after our night of revelry-so I begin a mad hunt to find the wand my mother gave me just before I was separated from her and dragged off to prison.
I always sleep with the drumstick under my pillow. Or whatever the circumstances are forcing me to use instead of a pillow. But it's not there. And it's not under the mattress either. And it's not in my coat. And it's not in my knapsack. It's nowhere.
Okay, don't cry about this. Think, Wisteria. What was different about last night compared to every other night you've slept at Garfunkel's?
Well, the Bionics were here…
That's got to be it-the drummer! Was Whit right about them?
I tiptoe over to Byron-snoring like a buffalo-and expertly swipe his supersecret smartphone and text Eric at the number he gave me yesterday. where R U?
He texts back right away: had 2 go practice. didn't want 2 wake u got yr drumstx? yep got mine? used oven mitt… just in case it was still hot not funny sorry u have it? give back! tots you STOLE it borrowed i want it back NOW im sorry. meet me WTH? u bring it 2 me don't freak. m sorry. meet @ city of progress diner-11 am fine yr so cool whatevs, I type.
But my heart is leapfrogging, and I'm grateful that cell phones don't convey blushes. I'm cool? As of when?
I mean, it was jerky of Eric to take my stick. But he's a rock drummer and he admired it. And, I mean, I can almost hear my mother's voice telling me he just did it to get my attention. Just the way she told me why geeky Ben Campbell used to pull my hair in first grade.
Now I do start crying. I miss my mother so much. She was my best friend. She is my best friend.
Chapter 33
Wisty
I DECIDE against finding Whit and telling him where I'm going, even though he's probably going to kill me when I get back. But I don't really have a choice, because guess what my brother would say? A) Have a great lunch. Could you bring me back some fries? B) It's windy out there. Be sure to zipper your coat. C) Fine, I'm coming with you. No arguments, firebrand!
Yeah. If you picked A or B, I'm going to politely suggest you turn back a few dozen pages and do some rereading.
I need to have my moment alone with Eric. So I sneak around quietly, making myself ready to infiltrate the City of Progress-the New Order's demented model city, the template they mean to apply to the rest of Freeland after they've stamped out anyone who resists their disgusting ideas.
It takes a little bit of disguise to properly blend in (read: skirts and sweaters for girls, no black lipstick or obvious piercings; jackets and ties for boys, and Byron-style hair preferred), but it's doable, and necessary.
And, since my hair hasn't grown back yet, it's a great excuse for me to lift a new hairdo-a cute little brunette bob-from the wig counter inside Garfunkel's.
I tiptoe out the store's front door, and suddenly I feel a vibration under my arm. More precisely, it's coming from the very un-Wistylike white purse tucked there.
Another text message. I click the phone on.
A text message in my mother's handwriting. WTH…? IT'S OK, WISTY. SHE'S AN ALLY. GO WITH HER.
With who? Suddenly I feel very un-alone. I hear someone's voice.
"Well, we meet again, my dear!"
I yank my head to the right, and there, leaning on the hood of a long-dead station wagon, one leg crossed over the other, is the little old ninja lady. The one who gave us the map that saved our lives. And now that I'm able to scrutinize her more closely, I realize she's also the woman who almost got me arrested in a diner on my very first trip to the City of Progress. Mrs. Highsmith!