"It's okay," the strange little woman says in a high nasal drawl. "Go ahead and SMS or whatever it is you people do with your silly little gadgets. Your mother's not particularly close, but you'll at least see that she's safe."
I quickly type back, If she's an ally, y'd she try to get us arrested?
My mother's handwriting replies, SHE PANICKED-SHE THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE A NEW ORDER SPY. YOU SAW THEM TRY TO ARREST HER. WHY WOULD SHE WANT TO HELP THE NEW ORDER? K, but how do I know this is u?
HOW WOULD ANYBODY ELSE KNOW THAT BEN CAMPBELL USED TO PULL YOUR PONYTAIL?
OMG, Mom!!!
I type as tears well up. GO WITH HER QUICKLY, DEAR. GIVE WHIT A KISS FROM US. DAD AND I ARE THINKING OF BOTH OF YOU. ALL OF THE TIME. WE LOVE YOU SO MUCH.
Mrs. Highsmith comes up to me with an old-fashioned handkerchief that I numbly accept. It smells like witch hazel.
"You see? Your mother's okay," says Mrs. Highsmith. "Now, please come with me to my apartment-so we don't get the New Order looky-loos all excited about capturing two witches on the same day."
Chapter 34
Wisty
SO HOW DO YOU think we get to the City of Progress in about ten minutes flat? Broomstick? Portal? If I told you, you wouldn't believe me-and that's saying a lot, given what I've gotten you to believe about our insane lives so far.
Let's just say Mrs. H. has some powers that might, just might, rival The One's. If I didn't have "Mom" telling me she was on my side… I'd have to wonder.
Okay, check this out: Mrs. H.'s apartment is a cluttered, dimly lit place-the heavy curtains are drawn even though it's a sunny morning. There's not an empty shelf, table, or chair. Even the piano top is covered with novels, hardbacks, paperbacks, notebooks, antique tomes. Obviously all banned. The walls are chockablock with pictures-some framed, some crudely taped up-and there's even an easel with a half-finished painting of a dragon on it, which I almost trip over. There's barely a path for me to follow her into the kitchen, which smells like some sort of heavily spiced tuna casserole. It must be 120 degrees in here.
"Pardon me while I finish working on this stew," she says, peering over the lip of a giant black barrel sitting on a couple of hot plates in the middle of the kitchen floor. It's enormous and looks like some kind of oil shipping container. She could fit a small horse in that thing. Maybe she has.
Mrs. H. dips a ladle into the soup for a taste. She offers me some, but I shake my head violently. "Needs some more willow bark and sassafras root anyway," she says. "I underestimated how much this broth was going to absorb."
Okay, remind me: how did I end up with an old witch stirring potions in a boiling-hot apartment, instead of with Drummer Boy, chatting and eating burgers in a very cool diner?
"Don't think I don't know what you're thinking," she says with a disapproving look. "So I'll get to the point. Here's the deaclass="underline" as you may have discovered, The One Who Is The One is a complete yenta."
I look at her quizzically. A yenta? Is that good or bad or something in between?
"A yenta is a person who wants to get into everybody else's business. And, what's worse, he wants to put an end to all their business and make it all about his business. Everything." She pauses to take a sip of her brew and makes a face.
"He's basically a conduit for the worst kind of evil. I'm talking stuff that makes a person want to put out her eyes and ears rather than to see or hear it," she continues, wincing and replacing the ladle in the barrel.
"And, unfortunately, he's figured out a way to get himself more power than any other individual in the history-or even the prehistory-of the world."
"So are you here to tell me he can't be stopped?" I say. "Typical grown-up stuff? Give it a rest? Get real? Stop fighting for nothing?"
She chuckles to herself. "I'll let that slide, because you obviously don't know me. Yet. Now, ready to take notes?"
She picks up her ladle and flings the tip toward one side of the room, then another, and then back toward me, spraying me with disgusting bits of her soup in the process. In a flash a pencil and a piece of paper fly into my hands.
"Didn't know I was in school again, but… okay," I say tentatively, wiping the drops of gag-worthy gruel off my face.
"There are two X factors in this entire situation that can give us the edge. Care to guess what they are?"
"Timing and luck?"
"Positive energy and negative energy. We need to maintain a surplus of the former. And we need to send that sick son of a gun a good dose of the latter. Capiche?"
I nod. Capiche?
"Now, I'm no fan of that Stockwood Music Festival-too many sweaty young bodies and too much mindless bobbing and weaving for my taste-but I heard last night through the underground newswire that you're apparently quite musically talented." I nod again. "Music, my dear, is a more potent force for change than you may think."
"No offense, Mrs. H., but you have no idea how powerful it is unless you've performed on a stage in front of thousands. Plugged in." I shiver just thinking about it. I can hardly wait to get my hands on a guitar again.
"How do you know I haven't?" She chuckles, and I realize that this lady has a past I am definitely going to have to find out more about. "I'm talking about a very different kind of power, Wisty. That's why it's banned by the N.O. Didn't you ever wonder why it's forbidden?"
"I know why. 'Cause it's fun, and the N.O. is antifun."
Mrs. H. gives me a look that reminds me of my mom-her Wisty, stop being funny when you know this is serious look.
"If there is one thing I need to teach you, it's never underestimate the power of what you or others create. Music, art, film, writing, all of this"-she waves her hand around the cluttered apartment-"there's tremendous energy here. This is life force. Very important."
"We'd better hide all of this from them, then," I tell her. "You're crazy to keep it here in the City of Progress. Maybe we can bring it to Garfunkel's."
"No. I need it. I can't let it go. I'll let them take me before they take it."
I'm stunned. Die for kids, yeah, but die for… art? I'll have to think about that.
She passes me a folded-up square of paper.
"Learn it. Memorize it. Use it to help others. Pass it on. And on, and on."
I open it and see a crudely drawn musical staff with notes. It looks like a pretty simple melody.
"What does it do?"
She points to a battered guitar that looks kind of lost and abandoned in the corner of the pantry. I hadn't even seen it in all the clutter. "That's for you to figure out. So-go figure."
Before I know it, I'm strumming the guitar and learning how to "beat the blues," as Mrs. H. calls it. It's… amazing actually.
Now I just need to figure out how to bust up the New Order, get a restraining order against Byron, and placate Whit. Then the world will be back in its proper orbit again.
Closer anyway.
"Exactly right, dearie! Now taste," says the ancient lady, stuffing the ladle in my mouth.
Chapter 35
Wisty
'SCUSE ME as I wipe drool from my chin…
Normally, I might just be talking about the fact that I've ordered a cheeseburger with pickles, shoelace fries, and a black-and-white shake. But today I'm double drooling because I'm sitting with Eric, Bionics Drummer Boy. How could his five o'clock shadow at eleven thirty in the morning and deepened undereye circles make him look even more gorgeous? But they do. He simply defies all laws of nature.
We place our orders with the ridiculously efficient waitress who is typical of the help in N.O. eateries.
"Too bad you're not as fast as she is," Eric quips. "Where the heck were you anyway? I'm, like, on my fifth cup of coffee, here."