Masterminds

  On the other hand: Randy’s lies were all essentially goofs. Mostly, he lied because he was bored and wanted to stir things up a little. I can’t remember him ever lying about something that really mattered. Sure, he put that giant spider in my sleeping bag. But when he found out it was poisonous, he confessed before I could get bitten. When it was important, Randy was always straight-up with me.

  So what’s the letter? A gag, like Tori says? I don’t think Randy would joke about something like that. At the same time, his letter doesn’t make a lot of sense. He said something screwy is going on, but not what. He said some of us are special, but not how. He connected it to the time I got sick, but he couldn’t explain that either, or who my fellow “specials” might be.

  Tori suspects she might have experienced my symptoms once. “I was at the edge of town collecting wildflowers for a painting I was working on,” she told me the night we found Randy’s note, “when all of a sudden I felt like I had to throw up.”

  “Did the Purples come?” I ask her.

  “No, but it got so intense that I started home so my parents could take me to the clinic. I’ve never been in so much pain!”

  Brings back memories. “What did Dr. Bruder say?”

  She shrugs. “I never went to him. Halfway to my house, I was totally fine again, so I figured what’s the point?”

  Okay, so if Tori and I are both “specials,” what do we have in common?

  Not much. I’m a guy; she’s a girl. She has two parents; I’ve just got my dad. We’re not the same age and grade. My father’s in education, and her parents work at the plastics factory. She’s a great artist while I’m happier fiddling with computers and technology.

  A gust of wind blows the rain against my bedroom window, startling me back into the present moment. I’m at my desk, researching my Serenity Day project on my iPad.

  Serenity isn’t as dry as the desert, but real storms are rare here. Still, distant thunder has been rumbling all around us. It was only a matter of time before we got our share.

  Randy on my brain, I Google McNally Academy.

  There is no such place. Not in Colorado, not in any state.

  Am I angry? Amused? Disappointed? Relieved?

  I tip an imaginary cap to my friend. Good one, Randy. You really had me going.

  I resolve to put the letter out of my mind and return to my Serenity Day project. I’m doing a timeline where you can see American history, New Mexico history, and Serenity history laid out side by side. This area belonged first to Spain and then to Mexico. So the birth of the USA far to the east must have seemed awfully distant to people around here.

  I watch as the web page sorts itself out on my tablet.

  THE BOSTON TEA PARTY

  On December 16, 1773, American colonists met with representatives of the British government in Boston to discuss turning the thirteen American colonies into a separate country. Tea was served.

  I write it down in my notebook, stifling a yawn. Malik always complains that Serenity is boring. Maybe that’s because all American history is so boring. We’re just a boring part of a boring whole, and the most interesting fact about the forming of our nation is what drink they served at the meeting.

  And it took forever: 1773, and we didn’t get a country until 1776? That’s bureaucracy. Either that, or the Founding Fathers had to crawl on their hands and knees from Boston to Philadelphia.

  There is a flash of lightning accompanied by an enormous clap of thunder that shakes the house. The lights flicker. The web page blinks out, and blinks back on again, the browser searching to reestablish a connection. It takes a few seconds as the echo of the boom dies away. The search page blinks back, reloading my Boston Tea Party options. But when I click on the top link, I’m struck by a jolt even more powerful than the lightning.

  It’s not the same site. The picture’s the same, and the title of the article still says The Boston Tea Party. But the single paragraph has been replaced by dense text that fills the screen and—I scroll down—goes on to several other pages.

  The Boston Tea Party was a protest against taxation without representation by the Sons of Liberty against the British government. In a dispute over three shiploads of tea, American colonists, many disguised as Mohawk warriors, boarded the ships and tossed the tea into Boston Harbor. The event was a major catalyst in bringing on the American Revolutionary War, which began with the battles of Lexington and Concord in 1775 . . .

  Where did this web page come from? Why am I getting a different story now? And which one’s true? According to this, America didn’t just split off from Britain. They rebelled and fought a years-long war for independence! And they definitely didn’t drink tea, because the tea was in the water.

  This wasn’t a friendly affair; it was a rebellion!

  I’m so flabbergasted that, when the phone rings, I almost go through the ceiling. I hear my father downstairs, speaking in urgent, hushed tones. And then he’s calling up the stairs to me:

  “Eli, I have to run over to the school for a bit.”

  “In this storm?”

  “That’s exactly it. There have been lightning strikes around town. I have to make sure everything’s all right at our building.”

  I stand at my window and watch him back out of the driveway. He knows the town better than anyone. So why is he heading in the opposite direction from the school, toward the Plastics Works?

  I strain to follow his taillights, but he’s out of sight.

  Did my father just lie to me?

  I turn back to my iPad.

  On December 16, 1773, American colonists met with representatives of the British government in Boston to discuss turning the thirteen American colonies into a separate country. Tea was served.

  I blink. Once. Twice. It’s still there. No angry colonists, no tea in the harbor, no Revolutionary War.

  Okay, Mrs. Laska taught us that the internet isn’t 100 percent reliable. And sometimes websites will give you slightly different versions of an event. But surely that doesn’t mean a war instead of a tea party!

  I fiddle with my iPad for hours that night, but I can’t track down the story of the tea in Boston harbor. I search everything: Sons of Liberty; taxation without representation; 1773. There are entries about Lexington and Concord the places, but nothing about great battles happening there. When I type American Revolutionary War, nothing comes up.

  I’m so riled that I don’t even hear Dad come home. I have no idea how long he’s standing behind me.

  “Having technology is a privilege, Eli,” he says reprovingly. “I trust you not to abuse it by staying up till all hours of the night.”

  Yeah, and I trust you not to tell me you’re going one place and then drive off in the opposite direction!

  I don’t say that. I look at the clock. It’s after one a.m. “Sorry,” I mumble.

  And that would be it. But as he walks out of the room, a spasm of anger comes over me. I’m madder at myself than I am at Dad. I mean, he’s my own father, who changed my diaper when I was a baby; who loves me more than anything! Why am I so afraid to tell him what I think? What’s wrong with us? What’s wrong with me?

  “Trust is a two-way street, you know,” I blurt.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You said you were going to check the school. How come you turned left?”

  His expression softens. “There’s a lot of flooding in the area. I had to go around the block.” His gaze moves from me to my screen. The words American Revolutionary War are clearly visible in the search field. “You didn’t happen to notice anything unusual on your tablet, did you?”

  I’m astounded. “Like what?”

  “The storm played havoc with a number of electrical systems around town,” he explains. “I was concerned that your tablet might be damaged if you left it plugged into the charger.”

  “No, it’s fine.” I force my voice to sound calm, but inside, my mind is a blizzard of chaotic thoughts. First: He knows. Next: How does h
e know? And Randy’s words: Something screwy.

  If this doesn’t count as screwy, I don’t know what does.

  And then something comes out of my mouth even I don’t expect. “Dad, tell me about the Boston Tea Party.”

  For the first time in my memory, I see my father at a total loss for something to say. “I—I hardly think one thirty in the morning is the right time for a history lesson.”

  I regard my father in amazement. He looks tired, even hesitant! The steely gray eyes usually so confident betray doubt, hesitation.

  Maybe it’s because I’ve got the Boston Tea Party on the brain, but I experience this amazing thrill of, well, independence. It’s a genuine rush, and it leads me to make a terrible mistake.

  I pull Randy’s letter out of my pocket, unfold it, and slam it into his hand.

  8

  MALIK BRUDER

  I don’t have many good things to say about Happy Valley, New Mexico, but here’s one: we don’t get a lot of thunderstorms.

  Which does me no good tonight, because this is a big one. The flashes light up the town like it’s high noon, and the crashes are beyond just loud. You feel them inside your skull.

  The worst part is I’m sitting on my bed, rocking back and forth, praying for it to be over, and I know that Hector, who’s afraid of moths, loves electrical storms! Well, he must be thrilled tonight, because this one is blowing the lid off New Mexico!

  It finally dies out after midnight. But before I can calm down and go to sleep, we get a telephone call. Dad’s the only doctor in town, so this must be a medical emergency.

  I stick my head into the hall. I can almost feel the wind from my dad hustling into his clothes behind the master bedroom door. And my parents’ “whispered” conversation sounds more like shouting. I’m dying to know what’s going on. Something’s up; something big.

  The door flies open, and I catch my father’s parting words to Mom. “. . . by the time we get through with him, it’ll be the truth.” He wheels around, and that’s when he sees me standing there. “Go back to bed, Malik.”

  “Who’s sick?”

  “I suppose you’ll hear about it tomorrow anyway. It’s Eli Frieden.”

  “Is it bad?” I ask.

  “It’s not good. He’s had a relapse of his recent illness.”

  I can tell it’s not good. Dad’s leaving the house without one of his dumb bow ties, which happens about once per millennium. It usually takes an outbreak of plague for that.

  “Is it—serious?”

  “He’s not going to die, if that’s what you mean,” my father replies. “I have to go.”

  My mother wraps her arms around me as the door closes downstairs. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m sure your friend will be fine.”

  I bristle. “What planet are you living on, Mom? I’m not his nursemaid; I’m not even his friend. I hate everybody equally.”

  She’s used to me. “You’re all close friends, all thirty of you.”

  “Twenty-nine, but who’s counting?” I mumble.

  “I forgot about Randy.” She hugs me tighter. “That must have been upsetting to you—”

  “I already told you it wasn’t.”

  “—and now this on top of that.”

  Even if we lived in a city, with millions of mothers in it, mine would still be the most annoying. I just want to twist out of her suffocating embrace. But I don’t, because she has a point.

  I shouldn’t care about Eli, but I do. What choice do I have? In Happy Valley, we’re all basically stuck with each other.

  The next day at school, Stanley Cole and Melanie Brandt are trading Purple People Eater cards—Rump L. Stiltskin for Sunshine plus Dodecahedron Face.

  I’m totally blown away. “Why?”

  “Stiltskin’s worth two,” Stanley explains. “He performs photosynthesis.”

  “So does your lawn,” I point out.

  “I like Dodecahedron Face,” says Melanie. “I see him near my house sometimes. He’s cute.”

  “Cute?” Tori challenges. “His head is shaped like a dodecahedron!”

  “What’s a dodecahedron?” I ask irritably. “Wait, scratch that. I don’t care. Listen, Frieden’s not coming to school today. He had a relapse of pukey-pukey last night.”

  “Is it serious?” Tori probes.

  I shrug dramatically. Dad finally rolled in this morning while I was getting ready for school. If there was bad news, he would have told me then. “Well, the Purples didn’t have to drag him home this time. He was home already.”

  Amber shoots me a disapproving look. “You don’t have to be so mean about it.”

  “Lighten up,” I shoot back. “He’s not dead. He probably just wishes he was.”

  Hector’s uncertain. “Your dad never figured out what was wrong with Eli the first time around.”

  I glare at him. “Are you saying my father’s a lousy doctor?”

  He backs off. “No, Malik! Not at all! It’s just—if we don’t know what it is, how do we know it isn’t contagious?”

  “That’s right, Hector, think about yourself,” Amber scolds. “Remember, community is sharing.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about!” Hector defends himself. “I don’t want him to share it with me! Malik, what does your dad say it is?”

  “None of your business,” I grumble. “He doesn’t talk about patients.” Dad’s exact words were “by the time we get through with him, it’ll be the truth.” That sounds more like a threat than a diagnosis. But doctors don’t go around threatening patients. Mostly it makes no sense at all.

  “Randy,” Tori whispers resentfully.

  We stare at her. “What are you talking about?” Amber asks. “Randy left two weeks ago. What could he have to do with Eli getting sick now?”

  She hesitates, like she’s struggling over whether or not to tell us. Once she starts singing, though, it’s a real opera. “He left a letter for Eli that really freaked him out. He says he isn’t with his grandparents. He’s been shipped off to some boarding school. He thinks there’s some kind of plot going on in Serenity. Or maybe it’s not a plot—it’s just weird. His exact words were ‘something screwy.’” The longer she goes on, the more upset she gets. “And it’s all because some of us are supposed to be special!”

  “Special how?” asks Amber in bewilderment.

  “It’s a goof!” I snort, laughing it off. “Hardaway was always a wing nut, and this was his way of leaving us with something to remember him by. What a doofus.”

  “But Eli refuses to believe that,” Tori tells us. “He thinks there’s something going on in Serenity, and we all could be in danger. And now look what’s happened to him!”

  “You don’t get sick from being upset,” Hector insists. “Something has to be really wrong with you.”

  We have Squatting and Mumbling first that day, which is what I call Meditation. I make fun of it, but it’s actually my favorite subject in school. Who can argue with a class where you do nothing, there are no assignments, and it’s impossible to prove you didn’t finish your homework? But as I sit cross-legged on my carpet square that day, I’m meditating for real, or at least thinking pretty hard. Just because Hardaway’s a joker doesn’t necessarily mean he’s joking now. I don’t know any special people, and I couldn’t care less if he’s at a boarding school or a farm or on the surface of Pluto. But those words—something screwy—ring a bell with me.

  Ever since the day Hector bled all over that shipment of traffic cones, I’ve been keeping an eye on those trucks. I swear I saw dark crusty stains on one of them yesterday! Am I imagining things? Or is that the same load of cones?

  What could the point of driving a shipment of cones around town for all these weeks possibly be?

  Screwy.

  After Meditation, Mrs. Laska announces, “Let’s each of us think of a message we’d like to put on Eli’s get-well card.”

  I write Feel better, man, but what I really want to say is Be careful, Eli. I don’t like what
my father said. And maybe Randy’s not such a wing nut after all.

  What if I’ve spent so much of my life complaining about how small and boring and one-horse Serenity is that I’ve missed the forest for the trees?

  This place is messed up, and nobody knows it better than me.

  9

  ELI FRIEDEN

  It’s like I’m swimming, up, up, trying to reach the surface, trying to breathe. Bubbles race all around me. Why can’t I speed up? Then I see the heavy weights attached to my ankles. It’s impossible to make any progress, and yet I keep at it, flailing my arms and kicking with all my might.

  The urge to breathe is more than a desire; it’s a mania, the kind of primal urge that takes over mind and body and blocks out all other thought. My vision darkens around the edges. The oxygen deprivation is getting to me now. I’m not going to make it. But I can’t stop moving because, the instant I do, the weights will drag me down to the bottom. How far below? I can’t know. All that matters is going up.

  Just as my lungs are about to explode, I break the surface in a cascade of spray, gasping in great gulps of air. When at last my lungs are satisfied, I scan my surroundings, praying for rescue.

  A huge shape looms above me. It’s a British frigate, riding at anchor in the harbor. I crane my neck for a better look. There are men on board, in Mohawk warrior garb. The first chest of tea hits the water barely a few feet from me.

  I find my voice at last. “Help!”

  The tea keeps raining all around me.