Gifted (15 page)

Gifted? He's just a pompous snot with a superiority complex!

That voice! That anonymous voice! It belonged to Mr. Harris! The very educator who was out there risking his life to save mine!

Now why would he want to do that?
My inner voice chided.
Why would any of them want to do that? They all hate you, George, with the possible exception of Mr. Zimmerman, but he doesn't count. This is their chance to get rid of you forever, and a chance like this doesn't come along twice!

“Shut up!” I told the Voice. “I'm not listening anymore!” I covered my ears, which didn't help, of course, since the noise was inside my head.

They left you here! You're all alone!

“No, I'm not!” I wailed. “They
have
to be looking for
me, if only for reasons of liability! They would never leave me behind!”

Then where are the Bruise Brothers? Why aren't They here yet?

The Voice had a point there. My mind started racing. The Bruise Brothers should have been here by now, that is, if They'd actually chased me down the beach at all. I tried to remember when I'd last turned to look at Them. It had been on top of the dune right before I'd gone over the edge.

They turned around, George!
The Voice giggled, menacingly.
They ran back through the woods and hopped on a bus!

“That's not true!”

They're on Their way home now, and you're out here all by yourself!

“That can't be true!”

And you're going to die out here!

I sat up straight, staring in horror. Then I sagged back down, my rebuttal lost on my lips. It
was
true. The Voice was right.

Hot tears stabbed the corners of my eyes. “I'm all alone!” I sobbed. “And I'm going to die out here!”

I pressed my face to the wall and let misery wash the sand from my cheeks. I cried and I cried, harder than I'd cried in years.

And I did so for a very long time.

I mopped my face with a sandy sleeve and told myself to snap out of it. There was no point in feeling sorry for myself. Not yet, anyway, because I might be wrong. There might be people searching for me. It wouldn't hurt to take a look and see. And I wouldn't have to go outside. There were viewing ports upstairs.

I climbed the staircase and found the viewing ports—four slits cut in the tower wall. Each blast of wind sent the rain shooting in like a fire hose. I ran to one in between blasts and saw a thick fog of swirling sand with a
green
sky above it—a dark, sickly sky, a bilious sky, and no signs of life below. Life couldn't have survived out there. I jumped aside before the next squall could spray me, then descended a couple of steps and sat down.

There was no doubt about it. The Bruise Brothers were heading home and I was in here being punished by God.

I would never go home again!

Home! A vision appeared in my mind's eye. Our
modest but lovely four-bedroom Colonial, nineteen hundred and eighty-six square feet of insulated comfort. I remembered arguing vehemently in favor of the new foam insulation over the old fiberglass-batt kind but having to concede to my parents' cost-cutting efforts. Funny how it didn't seem important anymore! The aluminum siding that I had picked out. Our neatly manicured lawn. The birdbath that wild horses couldn't drag me near because it contained a myriad of pathogens.

I thought of my mom on the front walk waiting for me to come home, a hand held to her heart in breathless anticipation, standing between two carefully clipped rows of assorted flowering shrubs. The dog was with her, our lovable Irish setter—the sunshine bouncing off his silky mahogany coat—waiting for me, too, and smiling visibly the way only happy dogs do.

Tears rolled down my cheeks.

Not that we ever
had
a dog, but nostalgia was stealing over me, and, I don't know, he seemed to balance out the picture somehow.

I sighed.

My poor mom. She'd be beside herself when she found out I was dead. She'd put up such a brave front—acting so cheerful—actually
singing
as she'd packed my camping gear. My tired mom. Taking care of me was her life's work. Was she tired because of me? Yes, she was tired because of me. I saw that now. And what had I ever done for her? Not much. An autographed photo of myself every Mother's Day. That wasn't much. Or at least, not nearly enough. I wished I could make it up to her, or even just say thank you for once.

And my dad. I wished I could thank him, too, for all sorts of stuff I couldn't even think of. I would thank him
for “things too numerous to mention.” And all the speeches. He
loved
giving me speeches. Like on Monday morning, “Mark my words, George, when you come back on Friday, you will not be the same boy who left.” Well, he was right in a way because by Friday I would be dead. Or even sooner. The human body dehydrates in what? Three to five days? It would be less for me. I had less of a body.

My mouth felt suddenly dry. I licked my lips, getting a fresh coating of sand on my tongue.

The wind was really loud, constant now, no longer coming in gusts. I palmed my ears the way I did as a kid whenever my dad started lecturing me. I stopped doing that as I got older because I saw how rude it was, and because it really pissed him off. These days I hummed to myself whenever he got started.

He was always giving me advice, convinced that I was listening. Trying to get me to make friends, that was his big thing.

“If you give others a chance, George, they'll give you a chance.”

I always wondered,
a chance to do what? Hit me first?

“You have to
be
a friend if you want to
have
a friend.” He was always saying that, even though he knew all I cared about was becoming a scientist. One day I'd make a name for myself and gain people's respect. I'd become one of the world's top minds—a great man.

“Son, I think a great man needs to have more than a great mind. It's not who he is but what he does that makes a man great, and for that he needs a great
heart
.” I'd dismissed this as pointless backchat at the time … but it made sense now. My dad was saying I didn't have a great heart. That I was a completely heartless person. A heartless jerk.

The biggest jerk that ever lived. What good was having a superior brain if you had an inferior heart?

Now, Anita had a great heart, but nobody liked her either.
Probably because she hangs around me
, I thought bitterly. I remembered the day she showed up wearing her new black aviator jacket. At the time I'd accused her of coveting mine. Now I could see she'd only bought it so that I wouldn't get made fun of alone. She was always taking care of me—like getting in line in the cafeteria to buy strawberry milk for me day after day so that I wouldn't have to pass Their table and get heckled, getting heckled herself and acting like she didn't mind.

And getting beaten up in the woods for me. She'd been a scapegoat, taken my punishment, just like Sydney Carton in my book. Not a
willing
scapegoat, but a scapegoat nonetheless. A true-blue friend. The very truest and the very bluest. No wonder God was punishing me. I'd never done a thing for her!

But if I lived through this, I'd become the best friend she ever had! I would make it up to her, and everyone else!

And Sam! After what I'd done to him! Watching him work on his Junior Scientist project, knowing he wasn't doing it right and enjoying his embarrassment! No wonder he'd chased me to my death! Who could've blamed him for that? Why, I would have done no less! I would make it up to him, too, if I lived through this.

I sank to my knees. “God!” I cried. “I take all that other stuff back! I didn't mean any of it! I want You to know that I'm sorry for being a jerk my whole life, and if You let me live, I'll make it up to everybody. I swear I'll be different! I'll be kind and considerate to everyone whether they deserve it or not! Please give me another chance! I promise to help my fellow man! I promise to—”

I broke off here because a loud rattling sound below made me bolt to my feet and nearly bite off my tongue. I ran downstairs and leaned over the rail. It was the door shaking in its frame. Up and down and side to side, as if a jackhammer were against it hammering away. And like an idiot I stood rooted to the spot, hypnotized, the painful popping in my ears telling me that the air pressure was falling fast.

A split second later there was a punch. The door was gone! The outside world had become a huge suction pump!

Escape seemed impossible, but I somehow managed to jump backward and fly straight up the steps in a flash, as if I'd sprouted the wings of an eagle. I came to a halt, however, in the next moment, after tripping over my feet and falling headlong into the rigid embrace of the winding steel steps.

After that, I was out cold.

I awoke to the sound of splashing water. I lay peacefully listening to the gentle sloshing until I felt the pain in my forehead, and as soon as I felt it, it became huge and hot and blinding. I touched the spot, felt a sharp sting, and my eyes popped open. A small scream escaped my lips. My fingers were covered in blood. Suddenly the tower walls seemed to spin about me. I took off my jacket, held the fuzzy collar against the wound with shaking hands, and realized that I couldn't hear the hurricane anymore. I needed to see outside.

I forced my wobbly legs up the stairs until I reached the viewing ports, and as I looked out, I couldn't believe my eyes—searing sunlight in a powder blue sky, what Heaven must look like to the dearly departed, and glittering blue-gray water below, alive with feasting seagulls diving and scrambling for their catch! I laughed out loud.

“God! You let me live! You gave me another chance! A chance to turn over a new leaf! And I swear I'll do all the things I promised! I'll make it up to everybody! I will help
my fellow man! I will put myself last while putting others first, and I shall act like I don't mind doing it!”

Then I looked down. I stopped laughing.

“God?” I called. “Where's the beach?”

For the beach was gone. The tower was standing in the Delaware Bay.

Okay
, I thought,
I'm not going to panic. I'm going to assess the situation from all angles, then I'll panic
. I proceeded up the stairs to the rooftop, where I caught my breath. I could see for miles—the blurry pine forest, the blurry campground, what was left of the blurry dunes. It was a wasteland! And the parking lot. A lump grew in my throat. It was a lake now. And just as I'd suspected. No buses. Only the Music Man's pickup truck alone in the water. He'd probably hopped on a bus with the rest of them, afraid to drive in the storm. Afraid to get caught in a hurricane again.

And I could see why!

I leaned on the guardrail, inadvertently ripping the fuzzy collar off my cut. But I was too depressed to notice the excruciating pain this caused because I had just turned to look farther inland.

Which wasn't the right word at all. I was looking at swampland, tons of fallen trees, hacked apart and leaning over in the flowing floodwater. And there was camp! The bunkhouses, the latrines, the mess hall—all in water up to their rooflines. But they'd be all right. They were built to last. The newer building, however, the Administrative Office slash Nurse's Quarters, that was finished. It was like looking down at a dollhouse with the roof off. The first floor was almost completely submerged, the second a catastrophe of exposed beams, wall studs, and broken junk—
the whole building leaning up against a tree, tilting east toward the bay.

I peered west at the horizon, caught a flicker of movement beyond the forest. Vehicles moving? I squinted harder. Emergency vehicles? I couldn't tell, but no one coming into Cape Rose State Park. Why should they? The park had evacuated as scheduled, and I probably hadn't been reported missing yet. From the position of the sun, I calculated the time at roughly two fifteen or two twenty. I doubted the rest of the class had reached school, with a zillion coastal residents heading for high ground at the same time. Eventually they'd realize I'd gotten left behind and send for help, but who knew when that would be? It might be hours from now.

Hours and hours with nothing to drink, and I was so thirsty now I could hardly stand it. And, contrary to that, I had to pee, and the latrines were a hundred yards away and at the bottom of the sea.

My cut throbbed with new vigor. I laid my head to rest on the rail and stood looking down, lost in thought, staring dully at the pale concrete between my feet and trying to ignore the rude, incessant chatter of the many happy seagulls scavenging the bay, when I became aware of another sound. The sound of a voice. Not my
inner
voice this time, which I hoped I'd never hear from again, but a human voice. For a second I thought I'd imagined it. I strained to listen. There it was again, coming from the campground. What was it saying?

I scanned the buildings, my foggy vision resting on the second floor of the torn-up Administrative Office slash Nurse's Quarters. It must have come from there, although
I couldn't detect a living soul among the rubbish. But maybe the person could see me.

“Ahoy there!” I shouted, jumping up and down and twirling my jacket around in a big circle over my head. “What did you say? I didn't quite catch it!”

I froze and listened intently. The response was faint, but the words were clear.

“Help! Somebody! Help!”

I recognized the speaker right away.

It was Sam Toselli
.

So, the Bruise Brothers were here! I wasn't alone! And though I was still racked by thirst and a savage desire to pee … why, They probably were, too! There was comfort in that.

Then I got suspicious. I yelled, “I can't see you! Can you see me?” and nobody answered.
Is this a trap?
I wondered.
Are They luring me down there so They can finish me off and make it look like an accident?
A legitimate concern for a guy who'd recently been on the wrong end of a homicidal manhunt through the forest, but entirely unfounded. Because a moment later I heard a plaintive “Help! Please!” and there was anguish in Sam's voice. Genuine anguish. I was sure of it because there was often genuine anguish in my own voice, and I could easily spot a fake.