Read Online The Gift by James Patterson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Patterson
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wrote the words to the next number.
“This is for my brother, Whit, who wrote the lyrics and who unfortunately couldn’t be here with us tonight.”
I’m actually pretty glad Whit’s not here, because I’dhave to explain how I kind of copied the lyrics out of his journal when he was sleeping. I don’t regret it, not for a second.
I’ve wanted to put these words to music ever since I first read them.
“It’s called ‘The Fire Outside,’ and it goes like this.” I begin picking out a simple, clean melody.
Byron waits a few bars and sticks a bass line underneath. We are disturbingly in sync, I have to admit. Musically, I mean.
Apparently he must have been a pretty good upright bass player in the school orchestra back home, and he’s showing a surprising
sense of rhythm here. With his shirt untucked and his hair kind of messy for once, he almost looks like he belongs at a rock
concert.
Lighters are being held aloft, and a whole cavern full of people is swaying back and forth to the music we’re making.
No sooner are Byron and I laying down the final chords when the six-foot-one poet himself appears at the back of the amphitheater.
There he is!
Whit is peering around intently, his head bobbing, as if he’s trying to find somebody, and it’s important.
Now he’s sidling through the crowd toward the stage. He’s shooting urgent looks at me and drawing his finger across his neck
as a sign for me to stop the set, and pointing off to the dressing-room area to the left.
Something’s definitely up.
Chapter 28
Wisty
THE POWER OF THE STAGE and the crowd is too much to resist, though. I finish the song first. Whit deserves to hear his words sung out to the
masses.
Then I hurry backstage, expecting him to accost me—or strangle me?—instantly, but…
he’s MIA.
“You were fantastic out there,” says Byron while I look around for Whit. “If this magic thing doesn’t work out, you could
always be a musician, you know. I mean, I guess after you failed out of orchestra in, what was it—fifth grade?—I just assumed
you were hopelessly terrible.”
“Yeah, well. It took you long enough to realize that a perfect grade point average isn’t the only measure of somebody.”
“Definitely
not,
” says Byron. He steps toward me with an infuriating eager-beaver expression on his pinched little face. “I really should
have taken you seriously a lot sooner, Wisty. I want to make up for that.”
Ew. He’s not doing what I think he’s doing, is he?
Please, somebody tell me Byron Hall Monitor Swain is
not trying to put his weaselly moves on me.
I don’t want to hurt his feelings, especially tonight, but he’s not leaving me much choice.
“I was wrong to underestimate you,” he goes on, inching even closer—and there aren’t many inches left at this point. “I mean,
you were always beautiful, anybody could see that, but I guess I never appreciated… the brains behind your… badness.” He said
“badness” with a sly smile, as if he were thinking about a kind of badness… of which I wanted
no
part.
Gross!
“You know, Byron, maybe it’s just exhaustion from the show, but I just threw up in my mouth a little bit. You might want to
back up.”
“Oh, here, let me give you a hand,” he says, and puts one of his ferrety paws on my arm. Next, he’s steering me toward the
“greenroom” couch made out of nongreen cushions pilfered from furniture in bombed-out homes.
I’m so shocked that Byron Belly-Crawler Swain has his hands on me that I can’t even react. I should have shoved him off the
stage when I had the chance.
“I know some great massage techniques for all sorts of exhaustion,” he’s saying, but just then the Bionics and a swarm of
their groupies burst into the room… along with my brother.
I guess the universe hasn’t totally forsaken me.
Chapter 29
Whit
“WHAT’S GOING ON?” Wisty asks me as she pivots away from Byron’s pathetic clutches.
“This is for my brother, Whit, who wrote the lyrics and who unfortunately couldn’t be here with us tonight.”
I’m actually pretty glad Whit’s not here, because I’dhave to explain how I kind of copied the lyrics out of his journal when he was sleeping. I don’t regret it, not for a second.
I’ve wanted to put these words to music ever since I first read them.
“It’s called ‘The Fire Outside,’ and it goes like this.” I begin picking out a simple, clean melody.
Byron waits a few bars and sticks a bass line underneath. We are disturbingly in sync, I have to admit. Musically, I mean.
Apparently he must have been a pretty good upright bass player in the school orchestra back home, and he’s showing a surprising
sense of rhythm here. With his shirt untucked and his hair kind of messy for once, he almost looks like he belongs at a rock
concert.
Lighters are being held aloft, and a whole cavern full of people is swaying back and forth to the music we’re making.
No sooner are Byron and I laying down the final chords when the six-foot-one poet himself appears at the back of the amphitheater.
There he is!
Whit is peering around intently, his head bobbing, as if he’s trying to find somebody, and it’s important.
Now he’s sidling through the crowd toward the stage. He’s shooting urgent looks at me and drawing his finger across his neck
as a sign for me to stop the set, and pointing off to the dressing-room area to the left.
Something’s definitely up.
Chapter 28
Wisty
THE POWER OF THE STAGE and the crowd is too much to resist, though. I finish the song first. Whit deserves to hear his words sung out to the
masses.
Then I hurry backstage, expecting him to accost me—or strangle me?—instantly, but…
he’s MIA.
“You were fantastic out there,” says Byron while I look around for Whit. “If this magic thing doesn’t work out, you could
always be a musician, you know. I mean, I guess after you failed out of orchestra in, what was it—fifth grade?—I just assumed
you were hopelessly terrible.”
“Yeah, well. It took you long enough to realize that a perfect grade point average isn’t the only measure of somebody.”
“Definitely
not,
” says Byron. He steps toward me with an infuriating eager-beaver expression on his pinched little face. “I really should
have taken you seriously a lot sooner, Wisty. I want to make up for that.”
Ew. He’s not doing what I think he’s doing, is he?
Please, somebody tell me Byron Hall Monitor Swain is
not trying to put his weaselly moves on me.
I don’t want to hurt his feelings, especially tonight, but he’s not leaving me much choice.
“I was wrong to underestimate you,” he goes on, inching even closer—and there aren’t many inches left at this point. “I mean,
you were always beautiful, anybody could see that, but I guess I never appreciated… the brains behind your… badness.” He said
“badness” with a sly smile, as if he were thinking about a kind of badness… of which I wanted
no
part.
Gross!
“You know, Byron, maybe it’s just exhaustion from the show, but I just threw up in my mouth a little bit. You might want to
back up.”
“Oh, here, let me give you a hand,” he says, and puts one of his ferrety paws on my arm. Next, he’s steering me toward the
“greenroom” couch made out of nongreen cushions pilfered from furniture in bombed-out homes.
I’m so shocked that Byron Belly-Crawler Swain has his hands on me that I can’t even react. I should have shoved him off the
stage when I had the chance.
“I know some great massage techniques for all sorts of exhaustion,” he’s saying, but just then the Bionics and a swarm of
their groupies burst into the room… along with my brother.
I guess the universe hasn’t totally forsaken me.
Chapter 29
Whit
“WHAT’S GOING ON?” Wisty asks me as she pivots away from Byron’s pathetic clutches.
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