She had both hands on her bike lock, tongue sticking out as she wrestled with the combination, when a shriek split the air. “It’s mine!” a voice yelled. “Give it back! No—you can’t touch that. NO!”
Ollie turned.
Most of the sixth grade was milling on the front lawn, watching Coco Zintner hop around like a flea—it was she who’d screamed. Coco would not have been out of place in a troop of flower fairies. Her eyes were large, slanting, and ice-blue. Her strawberry-blond hair was so strawberry that in the sunshine it looked pink. You could imagine Coco crawling out of a daffodil each morning and sipping nectar for breakfast. Ollie was a little jealous. She herself had a headful of messy brown curls and no one would ever mistake her for a flower fairy. But at least, Ollie reminded herself, if Phil Greenblatt steals something from me, I’m big enough to sock him.
Phil Greenblatt had stolen Coco’s sparkly notebook. The one Coco had closed when Mr. Easton called on her. Phil was ignoring Coco’s attempts to get it back—he was a foot taller than her. Coco was tiny. He held the notebook easily over Coco’s head, flipped to the page he wanted, and snickered. Coco shrieked with frustration.
“Hey, Brian,” called Phil. “Take a look at this.”
Coco burst into tears.
Brian Battersby was the star of the middle school hockey team even though he was only twelve himself. He was way shorter than Phil, but looked like he fit together better, instead of sprouting limbs like a praying mantis. He was lounging against the brick wall of the school building, watching Phil and Coco with interest.
Ollie started to get mad. No one liked Coco much—she had just moved from the city and her squeaky enthusiasm annoyed everyone. But really, make her cry in school?
Brian looked at the notebook Phil held out to him. He shrugged. Ollie thought he looked more embarrassed than anything.
Coco started crying harder.
Brian definitely looked uncomfortable. “Come on, Phil, it might not be me.”
Mike Campbell said, elbowing Brian, “No, it’s totally you.” He eyed the notebook page again. “I guess it could be a dog that looks like you.”
“Give it back!” yelled Coco through her tears. She snatched again. Phil was waving the notebook right over her head, laughing. The sixth grade was laughing too, and now Ollie could see what they were all looking at. It was a picture—a good picture, Coco could really draw—of Brian and Coco’s faces nestled together with a heart around them.
Phil sat behind Coco in math class; he must have seen her drawing. Poor dumb Coco—why would you do that if you were sitting in front of nosy Philip Greenblatt?
“Come on, Brian,” Mike was saying. “Don’t you want to go out with Hot Cocoa here?”
Coco looked like she wanted to run away except that she really wanted her notebook back and Ollie had pretty much had enough of the whole situation, and so she bent down, got a moderate-sized rock, and let it fly.
Numbers and throwing things, those were the two talents of Olivia Adler. She’d quit the softball team last year too, but her aim was still on.
Her rock caught Brian squarely in the back of the head, dropped him thump onto the grass, and turned everyone’s attention from Coco Zintner to her.
Ideally, Ollie would have hit Phil, but Phil was facing her and Ollie didn’t want to put out an eye. Besides, she didn’t have a lot of sympathy for Brian. He knew perfectly well that he was the best at hockey, and half the girls giggled about him, and he wasn’t coming to Coco’s rescue even though he’d more or less gotten her into this with his dumb friends and his dumb charming smile.
Ollie crossed her arms, thought in her mom’s voice, Well, in for a penny . . . , hefted another rock, and said, “Oops. My hand slipped.” The entire sixth grade was staring. The kids in front started backing away. A lot of them thought she had cracked since last year. “Um, seriously, guys,” she said. “Doesn’t anyone have anything better to do?”
Coco Zintner took advantage of Phil’s distraction to snatch her notebook back. She gave Ollie a long look, and darted away.
Ollie thought, I’m going to have detention for a year, and then Brian got up, spitting out dirt, and said, “That was a pretty good throw.”
The noise began. Ms. Mouton, that day’s lawn monitor, finally noticed the commotion. “Now,” she said, hurrying over. “Now, now.” Ms. Mouton was the librarian and she was not the best lawn monitor.
Ollie decided that she wasn’t going to say sorry or anything. Let them call her dad, let them shake their heads, let them give her detention tomorrow. At least tomorrow the weather would change and she would not be stuck in school on a nice day, answering questions.
Ollie jumped onto her bike and raced out of the school yard, wheels spitting gravel, before anyone could tell her to stop.
Acknowledgments
WRITING A BOOK is not the work of one person. Not really. Only one person types the words, true. But what you don’t see when you read a book are the many other people advising, supporting, believing, critiquing. I’d like to thank some of them now.
First and foremost, my editor, Stacey Barney, and her assistant, Caitlin Tutterow, for their incredible patience through the many different iterations of this book. Also to the publicity team for these books, Kathleen Carter, Elyse Marshall, and Jennifer Dee, for the work they put in getting this book out into the world.
To Matt Saunders, most talented of artists, for the splendid cover art, and to Eileen Savage for the design work on this book.
To my agent, Paul Lucas, who got these books out into the world in the first place. And to Eloy Bleifuss and everyone at Janklow and Nesbit, who have done so much for both this series and my career as a whole.
To Vladimir with Mitopeja and Jelena with Dibidus Comics and Books, thank you for being so kind and encouraging about this horror project, and ready to bring the books to audiences in translation.
To the state of Vermont for letting me borrow the winter vibes, and to the staff at the Middlebury College Snow Bowl, likewise. To John, Danya, and everyone at Stone Leaf Teahouse, thanks for letting me put many hours of work in at your tables.
To all the friends who put up with me while I struggled through Dead Voices: Garrett for the jokes, RJ for the constant inspiration (whether you knew it or not), and Pollaidh for the jokes about the constant inspiration from RJ. I love you guys.
Thanks to Peter V. Brett and Cassandra Brett for being awesome friends, for reading this series, and for passing copies along. I am so grateful.
To my parents and to my brother, Sterling, thanks so much, guys. You put up with a lot.
And finally, and most importantly, thanks, Evan. You put up with more than anyone when I’m in the middle of writing stuff, and you do it with such grace. I love you.
About the Author
Born in Austin, Texas, Katherine Arden spent a year of high school in Rennes, France. Following her acceptance to Middlebury College in Vermont, she deferred enrollment for a year in order to live and study in Moscow. At Middlebury, she specialized in French and Russian literature. After receiving her BA, she moved to Maui, Hawaii, working every kind of odd job imaginable, from grant writing and making crepes to guiding horse trips. Currently, she lives in Vermont, but really, you never know.
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Dead Voices Page 17