Free The Gift by James Patterson Page A

behind me.
    “So where’d you get the drumstick? It’s an antique, right? Classic.”
    I turn and find I am looking eye-to-mesmerizing-eye with none other than the drummer of the Bionics.
    He is talking to me.
The Bionics drummer is talking to me
.
    I’m concerned about Whit, really I am, but… he’ll get over it, right?
    Drummer Boy is even better-looking up close than he was behind his drum kit. If that’s possible. He’s tucking his overlong,
     wavy black hair behind his ears, but then it falls right back in his face again. Sweet. I watch his lusciously thick lips
     move, but I have no idea what he’s saying, of course. I don’t think I could hear a car crashover my own heartbeat right now. Dumb? Maybe. Fun? Definitely.
    “Uh—what?” I finally manage to get out a couple of syllables. I’m unable to meet his hazel eyes for too long, so I find myself
     staring at his faded black T-shirt, which reads, NO ORDER . I like it. We have something in common already.
    “Your drumstick. Kind of funny for a guitarist and a singer to be carrying a drumstick around.” He has a nice smile, too.
     Not too much, just right.
    “Yeah, I know.” I smile back. Maybe a little too toothily. “My mom gave it to me. I think it’s for good luck. It’s kind of
     a collector’s item.”
    “It looks like it,” he says. “So your
mom’s
a drummer?”
    I am not about to ruin this with a mood-killing “I think my mom was a witch and this is a wand she gave me the night I was
     kidnapped” dud.
    “She was,” I lie. Ouch. Mom wouldn’t like the past tense. “I mean,
is.
” That feels even worse. “I mean,
was
.” My face goes from pale pink to fuchsia in about three seconds.
    But Drummer Boy looks at me with… sympathy? “I know, it’s hard.” How could he have possibly grasped my blah-blah? “A lot of
     us don’t know if our folks ‘is’ or ‘was.’” He puts a comforting hand on my arm, and my stomach kind of flips.
God, he’s sweet. He understands!
    His eyes drift back to my stick. “Can I see it? Is that all right with you?”
    “Um… sure!” I start to hand it to him, but as he grabsthe end to take it from me, he jumps back, yelping in pain.
    “It burned me!”
he says, sticking the side of his hand into his mouth. “What’s with that?”
    “Jeez! I’m so sorry!” I say. I look down at the stick in my hand. It doesn’t feel even slightly warm, but it
is
glowing red at the tip where he tried to touch it.
    “I had no idea it could do that,” I say. “I
really
didn’t mean —”
    “Don’t worry about it,” he says, shaking his hand and smiling through the pain. “It’s nothing. Especially next to what’s happening
     every day to kids in New Order ‘schools,’ right?”
    “Have you been to one?” I ask, a little surprised.
    “Not yet. A little too risky for us. But we’ve had fan tips about that last facility you raided.”
    “Er… how do you know about that?”
    “You and Whit and Byron made the underground newswire,” he says, and shrugs. “You’re famous. But you don’t act like it.”
    Byron hears his name across the room like he’s got supersonic ears and is by my side in half a second.
    “They’re practically writing folk songs about you already, Wisty,” Drummer Boy continues. “That facility you hit is part of
     a system of exploitation and experimentation. The New Order calls them Juvenile Education and Repatriation complexes. It’s
     just cheap child labor.”
    “That’s really shocking,” says Byron. The boy’s like a bad cold. You just can’t shake him.
    “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