Masterminds by Gordon Korman Read Free Book Online Page B

all of us.
    The snake has had enough. It dashes off, and Dad scoops me up in his arms. It’s over that fast. By the time my younger self begins to cry, everything is back tonormal, and there’s nothing to cry about. I might have forgotten the whole thing except for the conversation I overhear when I’m in bed that night:
    â€œWhy did you hesitate?” my mother demands. “He weighs forty pounds, Peter! A snakebite would have killed him for sure!”
    â€œIt was a diamondback, Tina,” is my father’s response. “A little one, too—you know the venom is more concentrated in the very young! What was I supposed to do—get bitten myself?”
    â€œIf necessary,” Mom replies readily. “You know how valuable he is.”
    I hear Dad sigh. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
    Valuable . When they yell at me, or roll their eyes at me; when they ground me for some minor thing that isn’t even my fault, I remember that word and hang on to it. When I see another family having fun in a way we never do, I picture how Mom’s lips must have moved to form those precious syllables.
    I’m valuable .
    If that’s not love, what is it?

6
TORI PRITEL
    The Purple People Eaters aren’t really purple. Their uniforms are more like a deep blue-violet. Look closely and you’ll see it too.
    I notice things other people miss. I think it’s because I’m an artist, so I have an eye for detail. You know the smokestacks at the Plastics Works? You never see any smoke coming out of them. My parents say it’s because the factory is a green industry that doesn’t pollute. Steve (aka Dad) says they switched over in 1978. We’re ahead of our time in Serenity.
    It’s important because Amber and I are doing a mural for our Serenity Day project. If there’s anything coming out of the chimneys, it would be wrong. We want this to be as authentic as possible. I hope it goes better than thebook we were writing together. She says my pictures don’t match her story, when it’s obvious her story doesn’t match my pictures. We got into a pretty big argument about that for about fifteen or twenty minutes, until this song we both like came on the radio. Amber and I fight a lot, but twenty minutes is kind of our maximum. She claims I’m immature because, at thirteen, she’s technically a teenager and I’m still twelve. She’s really only seven months older than me, but she never fails to make a big deal out of it. She says I’m too sensitive, but I’m obviously not. (She also says I use the word obvious too much. She might be right about that one.)
    I have an artist’s studio in our attic. Dad set it up for me. There’s a window with a great view of the whole town and Carson National Forest in the background. At dusk, the light on the distant mountain faces reminds me of glowing amethyst.
    Come to think of it, the Purples’ uniforms have some of that too. Dark amethyst. Is that a real color? (Is there such a thing as light amethyst? I’ll have to check.)
    In the foreground we’ve decided to draw a cross section of our citizens. Obviously, we can’t pose everybody, so we’re collecting photographs to use as models. It’s pretty interesting to look at still pictures of people yousee on a daily basis. Mr. Amani, who’s more than a foot taller than his wife; Dr. Bruder with his goofy bow ties; Kurt Osterwald’s bright red hair, which is a perfect match for his dad’s. Then there’s Eli, who’s as dark as his father is fair. I’ll bet his mom’s hair was jet-black. Not that I’m anyone to talk. I look nothing like either of my parents. My dad insists that he found me on eBay. He’s joking, obviously. He calls me Torific and I call him Steve.
    â€œI think it would be more appropriate for my twelve-year-old daughter to address me as Dad,” he tells