Gifted (19 page)

“Um, well, sort of…” I say.

“We're going that way, too,” her friend Jolene says. “Come with us.”

“The thing is,” I tell them while scanning the thinning streams of people, “I need to do some shopping.”

“You sure do,” the third girl, called Rhiannon, says. “Those pants have seen better days.”

“I know, right?” I pat the dusty fabric covering me. “I'm a mess.”

“Get you out of those clothes and you'd look just like a boy in the Buzz,” Jolene says and laughs.

“What?” I step away, my heart bumping.

“Mm-hm, with that hair and those teeth.” She fakes a big smile, which cracks the other two up. “Too bad you're just a Plebe boy!”

“Yeah,” I say with a nervous twitter. “Too bad.”

“You'll have to hit Black Friday tomorrow,” Veronica tells me.

“Black Friday?” I ask.

“To buy some pants,” says Jolene.

“Isn't there anyplace open now?” I ask.

Rhiannon screws up her face. “You could buy stuff from the warehouse, but…” She shakes her head.

“That would be dumb?” I ask and they all nod. “Because…?”

“You'd pay Plute prices, duh,” says Rhiannon.

“Good to know,” I say.

“So get them tomorrow because right now we all gotta eat,” says Veronica, then she grabs my arm and drags me toward the AutoTrams.

Resigned that I'll never find Zimri tonight, I follow the girls.

As the tram pulls away from the warehouse, I look up at the fleets of drones continually taking off and landing on the roof. I cringe at the thought of myself in the City mindlessly pressing order buttons, then huffing and moaning when my packages didn't arrive within an hour, as if no one was on the other side of that order picking out what I wanted, packing it in a box, and attaching it to a drone that had to fly all the way to find me.

“Don't you hate the Plutes?” I blurt to Veronica who's in the seat next to me. “They're so entitled and demanding. They think they need—no, not just need, but
deserve
—everything they want, the minute they think of it.”

Veronica looks at me perplexed. “But if they didn't act like three-year-olds about everything then we wouldn't have jobs, would we?”

“Oh,” I say quietly. “I never thought of that.”

“Doesn't mean we like them,” says Jolene who sits with Rhiannon, facing us.

“Or that we're not jealous. I mean, dang, nice life, right? All they do is flit from party to party taking pix of themselves.” Veronica scooches into the seat with Jolene and Rhiannon and slings her arms around their shoulders, then they all hold up their hands and pretend to shoot pix with FingerCams. They switch poses every second, exaggerating goonish smiles, and I realize what jerks we must seem like to them.

“Their lives are one big, endless party,” Veronica says. “Until they get their brains zapped and wake up famous.”

“That's not exactly how it works,” I say. They all look at me skeptically. “They go to SCEWL, you know.”

Jolene snorts. “I can tell you one thing for sure, their school ain't nothing like the one we went to.”

As we get out of range of the warehouse signal, all the HandHelds wake up and begin to ping with headlines and messages from friends. Except for mine because I never set up the feed so my HandHeld is as useless as a brick on my wrist once I leave the warehouse. While everybody else is connecting digitally to the world, I look out the tram window. We pass rows and rows of PODPlexes, rising like boxy white mushrooms from the land. Somewhere in there is where Zimri sleeps at night and where she starts her day.

“Ios LiveStream starts at 7:00,” Jolene says.

“New song from Minerva VaVoom drops today,” Rhiannon says.

“Merle and Loretta are heading to the Strip, too,” Veronica adds. “They want to meet us there.”

“Ew, did you see this about some Plute kid who died?” Jolene asks.

“What?” I ask. “Who?” They all three look at me.

“Poor baby,” Veronica says, pointing to my dead HandHeld. “Technology not your thing?”

“Something like that,” I tell her. “But who died?”

Jolene sighs and skims the story on her palm. “Some patron's kid was missing. Now they think he wrecked his fancy flying car into a river somewhere.” She shrugs. “They say he was on drugs. Nothing new.”

The tram makes a sharp left, sending me across the seat, scrambling to get near Jolene's screen. “Who was he?” I ask.

“Who cares,” Veronica says as we pull up alongside the Strip. “I'm starving!”

“But wait!” I grab Jolene before she can get up. “What was his name?”

Jolene takes one last glance at her screen as everyone pours out of the tram. “Orpheus Chanson.”

*   *   *

After scarfing down a big bowl of slightly slimy grubworm-meal noodles with reconstituted microshrimp and spinocoli sprouts, I slip out of the Strip, leaving Veronica and her friends scream-singing along with Ios's latest LiveStream. I take the shortcut I found yesterday through the middle of the PODPlexes toward the river path. I need to get back to my Cicada, still safely hidden beneath the tree, where I can find out more about my supposed death. Do my parents really think I crashed or did one of them plant the story to up their Buzz? Either way, the shower, new clothes, and place to live will have to wait until tomorrow, my first day off since I arrived.

As I hurry past the SQEWL where RoboNannies patrol the perimeter of a big dirt patch, I hear sirens. All the kids inside the Y.A.R.D. run to the fence to watch five black-and-white security cars scream around the corner and I panic. Have I been located? Are they after me? Did someone realize I'm alive and well? I look around for a place to hide but there's nowhere to go; the buildings are all locked. Guards spill out of the cars, hands on Taser holsters as they run for the SQEWL. Their HandHelds crackle and I hear one say, “Bomb threat! Evacuate the children.” RoboNannies quickly corral the kids into straight lines and usher them out of the Y.A.R.D., away from the buildings. In the chaos, I bolt, not stopping until I hit the river path.

Usually by now everyone is either at the Strip or in the warehouse working second shift, but tonight there are people all along the path. They walk in small groups, twos and threes, everyone heading in the same direction, toward the willow tree where I'm going, which makes me nervous. Has someone found my Cicada? Is there a reward for my safe return?

I follow along far enough behind that no one notices me, but when we get to the bend in the river where Zimri ran me down on her bike yesterday, the others scramble over the side of the embankment. I stand back in the shadow of the trees, trying to imagine where they could all be going. A secret party? Bonfire by the river? Down for a swim? Or does this have something to do with the emergency at the SQEWL? Whatever it is, it's drawing a lot of people because more and more come along the path and climb over the edge. After several minutes of watching, I decide to find out for myself what's going on.

It's getting dark and the moon is behind some clouds, so I can't see where I'm going once I get over the crest of the hill. I'm afraid I'll fall into the river, but when I come to the bottom, I find flat smooth ground and another smaller path looping back toward a dim light. I follow the voices and as my eyes adjust, I can make out a door that seems to be carved in the side of the riverbank. As I get closer, I see a sign that says, “WELCOME TO NOWHERE.”

Another person comes up behind me. “What is this place?” I ask. The girl, whom I've never seen before, ignores my question as she pulls a black mask over her face and pushes past me. I stand aside as more people slip silently through the door with masks in place. I debate about what to do. The whole thing is creepy. Could it be some sort of secret society that planted a bomb in the SQEWL? Have I stumbled on the nefarious part of Complex life? I think about running away, but then I realize that whatever's going on can't be all that secretive or someone would have asked me what I'm doing here. Plus, everyone who comes over the embankment looks excited as they hurry toward the door.

I peek inside. The space is small and cramped, just a dugout really, but it's packed from wall to wall with people holding cups and chatting as if it's nothing out of the ordinary to stand around wearing black masks. The whole thing is pretty freaky but I'm intrigued and, since nobody tries to stop me, I walk right in.

At the makeshift bar, a masked person says, “Cash only,” and points to a wooden box sitting on a counter made from two wobbly boards propped up on old sawhorses.

“Cash?” I say. “What for?”

He points to a handwritten sign that says
For Layla Robinson
.

“Layla Robinson!” I blink back my disbelief.

“She needs it more than you do right now, bub,” the guy says.

Other people, also in masks, push me aside and shove wads of bills into the box, then grab cups from the rickety counter and join the crowd forming by a stage at the back of the room. Several of them look at me like they know me but since their faces are hidden, I have no idea who they are. Finally, I tap a girl on the shoulder and ask, “What's with the masks?”

“Just a precaution,” she says with a shrug. “And it's kind of cool, right? I mean the whole anonymity thing. We are all Nobody from Nowhere when we're here.”

“Like the song?” I ask, more confused.

“Duh,” she says and moves away.

Then someone yells, “Here they come!”

I get pushed aside by everyone jostling forward, trying to get a better view. I stand on tiptoe and crane my neck, but I still can't see over all the bodies in front of me. Then I hear someone smacking sticks together. The crowd erupts as a drummer breaks into a driving beat with bass drum, snare, hi-hat, and ride cymbal. Whoever's up there can really play. Then some backing tracks come in. I hear a fuzzy electric guitar, probably vintage, dirtied up with age and probably worth thousands of dollars. An electric bass with a fat, warm sound, strings boinging beneath nimble fingers. Even an analog keyboard! People yell and clap along. Everyone starts dancing. I push and worm my way forward, looking for any path so I can see what's happening on stage, but I can't get close enough because the crowd is packed in too tight. Finally, I turn around and head back toward the bar.

Slowly and carefully, I climb up on the bar, afraid the whole thing will collapse, but it holds my weight and as soon as I stand, I catch a glimpse of a singer strutting onto stage. She is tall and sinewy, all muscle and tendon beneath her pitch-black clothes. Her face is covered with a black mask like everyone else, but her unmistakable hair gives her away. When she breaks into song, I stumble and almost fall because I know that voice. It has tunneled inside of me and echoed through my mind. I've heard her on the radio waves. I've heard her by the river. At that moment it comes together and I understand.

“Zimri!” I shout but my voice gets lost in the roar of the crowd. “Zimri! Zimri!” I keep shouting as I hop down.

It takes me three songs to push my way to the front, but I'm determined to get closer. Her voice is amazing. Better than the muddy recording I've heard on the waves. On every song, she hits the notes in a two-octave range. By the time I fight my way to the front, Zimri is in the center of the stage.

“Should we really stick it to them?” she yells at the audience. “Show everyone what real music sounds like?” The crowd roars. She lifts up her left hand and I see what looks like a crude ExoScreen glove with a strange camera eye on her palm.

“Do you know who's on the LiveStream tonight?” she taunts as the guy behind her keeps the beat. “Ios,” she says, then breaks into a parody of “(Quark) Charmed, I'm Sure,” strutting around and shaking her booty just like Ios does. Zimri's done this impression for me before, during our breaks by the river, and every time it makes me laugh.

The crowd around me hisses and boos for fun. I can't believe how much they dislike Ios. What if I told them what she did at summer camp in Malta?

Then Zimri says, “Should we give her the Geoff Joffrey treatment?” Everybody screams. The drummer crashes the cymbals. “Should my eyes shoot right through her Live-Stream …
like a laser beam
?” she sings, mocking Geoff's song. The crowd stomps and claps and eggs her on as the drums continue. “Do you dare me to do it?” she demands, working the crowd into a frenzy. She laughs, haughty and full of mischief, and my chest swells.

I hear myself yelling, too. Cheering her on like everyone else around me. At this moment I want more than anything for every person on the planet to see and hear Zimri sing because this show in the jam-packed dugout is better than any concert I've ever seen in a Chanson Industries Arena.

“Here we go!” Zimri yells and the drummer smacks out a beat, the backing tracks swell up, and the crowd joins in, clapping overhead as Zimri turns the palm camera on herself and counts, “One, two, a one-two-three-and!” Then breaks into,
“I am Nobody from Nowhere, a speck upon your screen,”
with everyone singing along.

I nearly lose my mind. I can't believe I'm right there in front of her and she's singing the song that has become my anthem and everyone else's. People jump and scream and punch their fists into the air while she stomps past us onstage. I reach out. I shout her name. I want her to know that I am here and that she's amazing. More than that, I want the world to know. I want everyone to hear what a true musical genius sounds like.

“Zimri!” I shout over and over until finally she looks my way. We lock eyes. Hers through the mask, mine exposed. “It's me!” I shout.

Her voice falters. She backs away and stumbles, her hands held out in front of her body as if to stop me, the camera eye pointing straight at me. “Oh, no! Oh, no!” she says into the mic and then I realize what I've done.
Zimri
is the hijacker. Not Calliope. Zimri is the one my father's after.