Hypergifted, p.15
Hypergifted, page 15
The cart was heavy, but on level carpet, it rolled fine. As we made for the main entrance, Donovan caught a glimpse of the inspectors marching across the grass from Poplar Hall.
“The back door!” he hissed, and we changed direction.
We got out in the nick of time, struggling to heave the cart up a half step at the building’s service entrance. Butternut Hall had not been designed for pig smuggling.
Moving our load along the cobblestone paths was a lot harder than the smooth floors of the dorm, especially when the ground began to slope gently upward. I had to join Donovan in pushing from behind. Pretty soon we were both bathed in sweat.
The grunting and mewling coming from under the shower curtain was enough to break my heart. I lifted up the covering and peeked inside. Porquette’s round belly was even more distended than usual, and bright red in color. It was obvious she was in terrible pain. I felt responsible. My elderberries had done this to her!
“This is all my fault,” I mumbled.
“Keep pushing,” Donovan ordered. “We’re almost to the top.” He paused, brow furrowed. “What’s that noise?”
We crested the rise and looked down into the main quad. The rally was in full swing. Considering this was summer semester, the turnout was impressive. There must have been four hundred people swarming the square, waving signs and chanting.
“We want Porquette! . . . We want Porquette! . . .”
“It’s the Never Forget Porquette Rally,” I explained.
He stared at me. “And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”
“It’s frustrating for me too,” I defended myself. “All these people think the Fibonacci spiral is a curly tail.”
“Is your IQ two-oh-six or just six?” Donovan demanded. “Now we have to march Porquette through a whole rally that’s supposed to be about her!”
He was so mad that he let go of the cart to wave his arms at me. That was when the slope pulled the cart away from both of us and started it on a bumpy journey down the hill.
30
Hyperdelivery
Donovan Curtis
“Grab it!” I cried, lunging for the cart. The handle was just beyond my grasp.
All we could do was chase the cart as it jounced down the slope. It wasn’t moving very fast, but by the time I caught up with it, there was just no stopping it. Noah probably understood the formula for how much strength was required to put the brakes on a five-hundred-pound rolling pig. All I knew was it would take a lot more than any one kid.
I pressed the rubber soles of my sneakers into the cobblestones in an attempt to slow the cart. It ripped my shoes clean off, leaving me running in my socks, Noah scrambling behind me, just out of reach.
The rally was getting closer, the chant echoing in my ears: “We want Porquette! . . . We want Porquette! . . .” Oh, man, their prayers were about to be answered—the hard way!
College students scattered as the runaway cart bulldozed its way into the crowd. One front wheel came up against a curbstone and snapped off. The unbalanced wagon wobbled and tipped over, spilling its load onto the soft grass. There lay the missing mascot, reclining on the shower curtain.
“Porquette!” The cry was torn from dozens of throats.
Shock gave way to revelation, which turned at last to joy. They’d held a rally to bring back Porquette, and here she was—and in record time too.
“It’s Porquette!”
“Fine swine, top of the line!”
“Those two kids brought her back!”
“That one’s Noah Youkilis!”
The sudden rush of elation faded quickly as the hundreds of rally-goers got a closer look at their beloved mascot. Porquette was obviously in pain, lying on her side, unable to get up. Her belly was bloated and tomato red. And the sounds coming from her, mixed with rapid breathing, told the story of a creature in torment.
“What’s wrong with Porquette?”
“Did those two kids hurt her?”
“Why does Noah Youkilis hate Porquette?”
Expressions turned from joy to concern to anger—and that anger was directed at Noah and me. We were the ones with Porquette, so whatever was wrong with her had to be our fault. C.T. Beldner stepped out of the crowd and began snapping pictures of the suffering mascot and the two culprits who’d made her that way.
Amid all the faces, my eyes picked out one—Raina. Her disappointment washed over me like a direct hit from a high-powered water cannon. I’d always known my hero status with her was temporary, but I hadn’t expected it to expire so fast.
Suddenly, Porquette began to writhe and squeal. In spite of the trouble we were in—and it had to be a lot—I felt flattened by pure guilt. First, we poisoned her with our elderberries. And just to save our own skin, we hid her away until it was too late to save her.
That was when the first piglet popped out, dropped to the shower curtain, and lay there, wriggling.
Noah and I exchanged a look of amazement. Porquette hadn’t been poisoned and she’d never been sick. All this time she’d been pregnant!
“We’re a father!” I croaked.
“Well, actually—” Noah began.
His explanation was drowned out by a roar of excitement from over four hundred throats.
Porquette wasn’t finished yet. Less than a minute later, the second piglet hit the shower curtain, followed by a third and then a fourth. Each new birth drew a fresh “Oooh!” or “Aaah!” from the rally-goers.
There were six piglets in all. Several Ag students ran out of the crowd to tend to mother and babies. One of them ripped down the Never Forget Porquette banner and used a corner to clean off the newborns. Almost immediately, the piglets cuddled up to Porquette and began to nurse.
I turned to Noah. “I guess a 206 IQ can’t tell the difference between a sick pig and a pregnant one.”
He beamed. “The world can still surprise me. First AIDAN and now Porquette. Do you realize what this means? I don’t know everything.”
He seemed really thrilled about it, but I wasn’t impressed. When it came to not knowing things, I was a grand champion.
31
Hyperhomecoming
President Aberfoyle
I was getting too old for this job of university president.
My sabbatical was fascinating, but travel and living out of a suitcase was for much younger people than me. By the time the limo dropped me off, I was pretty well played out. I needed a sabbatical from my sabbatical.
Perhaps it was time to think about retirement. Dean Kendrick had done an excellent job in my absence. I’d be leaving Wilderton in good hands.
I stepped inside the house and set down my bags, hungry for the peace and quiet of home.
A babble of excited voices exploded into the hall. What on earth? It couldn’t have been a homecoming party. I was two days early.
I rushed to investigate the disturbance. My dining room was a mob scene. My wife, Gwendolyn, was there, with several of her friends. But there were also nine children—six young ones and three adolescents. I recognized my grandson Jalen and the Overbrook girl, the daughter of two faculty members.
A spirited poker game was in progress, with dried lima beans as stakes. A mound of hundreds of them covered the table.
“Arthur!” Gwendolyn exclaimed. “Welcome home! Meet Baloney!”
“Baloney?”
It took some explaining, but I finally got the gist of it. Jalen’s summer camp group had somehow become regular players in my wife’s poker club. Jalen introduced me to Claire, Manny, Luna, and Victor, and to the older kids, Raina, Donovan, and Noah.
“Noah!” I repeated in recognition. “You’re Noah Youkilis. Dean Kendrick has been sending me updates on your remarkable achievements in artificial intelligence.”
“My AIDAN system went rogue for a while,” Noah admitted, “but I corrected the problem as soon as Porquette revealed it.”
“Fine swine, top of the line,” murmured half a dozen people around the room—and I admit to being one of them, complete with the nose push. I’d been doing it since I was a freshman here, back in prehistoric times.
“And thanks to that, Donovan has his own fan club on YouTube,” Noah went on.
Donovan held his head. “Don’t remind me.”
I addressed Noah’s roommate. “On behalf of the university, I want to thank you for coming here to support your friend. But I suppose you’ll be leaving us at the end of the summer.”
“Actually,” Noah began reluctantly, “I think I’ll be leaving you too.”
“Really?” That was a blow. Having Noah here was a major feather in Wilderton’s cap. “May I ask why? You’ve more than proven that you belong.”
“Oh, the classes are supereasy and all,” Noah agreed. “But I don’t think I’m ready to live on my own without Donovan. I was only here a couple of months, and I almost got eaten by a honey badger. It’s just that—I guess I’m a little immature for my brains.”
“That’s very clear thinking, Noah,” I approved. “I’ll have to discuss it with your parents, but I’m sure we can design a very workable remote learning plan for you. You can start at home and gradually transition to spending more time on campus as you feel comfortable.”
Raina spoke up. “You can stay with my family while you’re here,” she added, blushing. “Donovan’s going to be visiting a lot.”
Gwendolyn stood up. “It seems like it’s all set, then. Let’s have tea. I’ve baked some lovely elderberry scones.”
Two loud snorts of laughter escaped from Noah and Donovan.
Kids today. What was so funny about scones?
32
Hypergift
Donovan Curtis
My folks came back from their second honeymoon in Europe. They said they didn’t want to, but they did anyway.
Dad blamed it on me. “We had to get home to pick up our son from one of the top colleges in the country. Otherwise, we’d still be on the Champs-Élysées, at a sidewalk café.”
“Admit it, Mom,” I teased, packing up the last of my stuff, including the waffle iron, which hadn’t been used once—at least not to make waffles. “You guys missed me.”
“Of course we did,” my mother admitted. “But we were just so happy to know that you were having a meaningful experience at Wilderton.”
Oh, sure. We didn’t shower for six weeks because there was a pig in the bathtub, thanks to the elderberry experiment. Noah practically melted down the entire Wilderton computer system and made me a fake video star in the process. And my summer job became chasing after a missing kid, who turned out to be at his grandmother’s house.
On the other hand, if none of it had happened, I never would have gotten to know Raina. So I guess I was having a meaningful experience after all.
Noah appeared, carrying a shoebox full of envelopes. “Here’s the last of our snail mail from the front desk.”
I riffled through it. It was all for him. He was the registered student. There was no solid proof I’d even been here. Story of my life.
Noah insisted that we stop by the sty to say goodbye to Porquette and the piglets. I stayed in the car. I’d already had my fill of pig exposure for one summer. JoJo said the university would send us a bill for all the hoof scratches in the bathtub. I already had an answer for that. Wilderton gave us one pig and we gave them back seven. So call it even.
On the drive home, Noah went through his shoebox of mail, which was mostly junk. “Why are there so many credit card applications?” he wondered. “All the college students I met complained about being broke.”
“Maybe the banks want to lock in future customers,” my mom suggested.
He opened the last letter, a blank envelope bearing just his name and no return address. I could see his grip tightening on the paper as he read the contents printed in a simple font on a plain white page:
Dear Noah Youkilis:
We the Society of the Gavel search for the most extraordinary people to join our hallowed order. You have been deemed worthy. Think long and hard before accepting this offer. The way of the Gavel is a commitment for life . . .
As he read, his shoulders hunched, his head came down. He turned his body away from me for privacy as he began to tremble with excitement.
. . . The Gaveler’s existence is one of absolute secrecy. You may discuss your membership with no one. If you accept this responsibility and honor, tear this letter into 256 pieces and flush them down the nearest toilet. So must it be.
Let the crack of the Gavel echo throughout the world!
Suddenly Noah looked up from the letter and bellowed, “I have to go to the bathroom!”
“We’re almost home,” Mom told him. “Another twenty minutes or so.”
“I have to go now!” Noah exclaimed. “Look—there’s a gas station! Pull over! Pull over!”
With a squeal of tires, we swerved into the station lot. Noah barely waited for the car to come to a stop. He was off like a shot, scrambling across the pavement, the paper waving in his hand. His expression was pure purpose and pure bliss.
Dad peered at me through the rearview mirror. “Is he always like that?”
“No,” I deadpanned. “Sometimes he can get weird.”
“What was in that letter that set him off?” my mother wondered.
I shook my head. “I couldn’t see.”
And I was telling the truth. I didn’t see the page that Noah was trying so hard to keep from me. But I knew exactly what it said—because I wrote it.
I didn’t have a hope of understanding what it was like inside a superbrain like Noah’s. But it was pretty clear that his biggest disappointment this summer was not getting into the Society of the Gavel. Even his AI couldn’t figure it out. It was the only goal that had eluded him.
Now he was in. At least, he thought he was. And the beauty of it was the whole business was so secret there was no way to tell the difference—not even for him.
It was the one thing an ungifted guy like me could do for a genius.
About the Author
GORDON KORMAN published his first book at age fourteen and since then has written more than one hundred middle grade and teen novels. Favorites include the New York Times bestselling-gifted series, Slugfest, Old School, and the Masterminds series. Gordon lives with his family on Long Island, New York. You can visit him online at gordonkorman.com.
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Copyright
Hypergifted. Copyright © 2026 by Gordon Korman. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
Without limiting the exclusive rights of any author, contributor, or the publisher of this publication, any unauthorized use of this publication to train generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies is expressly prohibited. HarperCollins also exercises their rights under Article 4(3) of the Digital Single Market Directive 2019/790 and expressly reserves this publication from the text and data mining exception.
first edition
Cover art © 2026 by David Miles
Library of Congress Control Number: 2025937687
Digital Edition FEBRUARY 2026 ISBN: 978-0-06-342932-1
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-342929-1
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Gordon Korman, Hypergifted
