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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2020 by Chelsea Ichaso
Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Kerri Resnick
Cover image © Tony Watson/Arcangel
Internal design by Danielle McNaughton
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Ichaso, Chelsea, author.
Title: Little creeping things / Chelsea Ichaso.
Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Fire, [2020] | Audience: Ages 14-18. | Audience: Grades 7-9.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019045289 | (trade paperback)
Subjects: CYAC: Murder--Fiction. | Best friends--Fiction. | Friendship--Fiction. | Brothers and sisters--Fiction. | High schools--Fiction. | Schools--Fiction. | Mystery and detective stories.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.I1158 Lit 2020 | DDC [Fic]--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019045289
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
For Kaylie, Jude, and Camryn,
with love.
1
“Kill it, Cass!” Tina Robbins yells over the pulsing music. My tank top–clad teammates scramble into position, shoes squeaking across the gym floor.
The ball is a high lob. I take three running steps to the net, inhaling the scent of sweat and deodorant. Adrenaline hums in my ears as I swing my arms, jumping. My palm slices through the air, pounding the ball.
Straight into the net.
I grind my teeth, biting back a curse.
Ever since Coach started trying out new girls in my spot, I’ve been training day and night. But I’m jittery; this practice is my only shot at tomorrow’s starting lineup. Coach’s hand is plastered over her forehead. I’m one screwup away from my new friend, the bench.
Laura Gellman, our setter, crouches in the back row, ready for the next serve. She sneers and murmurs, “You can’t say the K word around Cass. It’s like a trigger. It’ll give her ideas.”
As I find my position, a memory coats my thoughts in a smoky haze. I turn to glare at Laura, but her eyes aren’t small and hazel anymore.
They are massive, like a doll’s. And bluer than the sky.
Not now.
I blink hard, trying to clear my vision.
Stephanie Reed squats beside Laura, up at the net. But her eyes have gone impossibly cerulean too. Long, spidery lashes line her unblinking lids. The smell of smoke tickles my nose, and a swell of heat crawls up my skin.
“Cassidy, pay attention!” shouts Coach. I pivot, wrenching my mind from the hallucination to focus on the ball spinning over the net. Stephanie dives for it and sends a crisp pass to Laura, who sets it up my way again. I skitter into place, my steps timed to the beat of this über-inspirational ’80s song from our practice playlist.
Three, two, one. I jump again.
But the phantom smoke swirls around me, filling my eyes, my lungs. Its tendrils expand into a thick black curtain as I soar through the air. Every voice drowns beneath crackling fire and the groan of the buckling gym ceiling. I search for the ball in the thick darkness, but my face collides with something real, and I fall backward. All around me, flames dance and leap and ash rains down.
I land flat on my back, face stinging. Gasps trickle through the buzzing white noise. I rub my eyes to find everyone hovering over me. Laura is in the middle, pink lips tugging at the corners like she’s holding back a smile.
But her irises are back to small and hazel. The smoke has cleared. Not a single flake of white ash clings to my T-shirt or sprinkles the wooden floor.
I get up—much too fast—and shove my way through the swarm of volleyball players. I spot Gideon at the back of the gymnasium, clothed in football practice gear, and rush toward him. The panic starts to fade with each step closer.
Laura scurries ahead of me, flinging her chestnut-colored ponytail and impeding my path. “Cass, are you okay? Do you want me to call the nurse?” Her sugary voice brings on a wave of nausea.
I brush past her, my legs wobbly. Do not lose it. “I’m great.” Other than the total-humiliation thing. In front of the whole team and the boy of my dreams.
When I reach Gideon, my voice barely emerges over the lump in my throat. “Can we get out of here?”
He studies me for a moment, his olive skin flushed, dark eyes concerned. Then he nods and slings an arm around me.
We exit the gym, the chatter behind us fading, and stop at our lockers to grab our backpacks. “What were you doing in there?” I whisper.
“I knew today’s practice was important, so I skipped warm-ups to watch.”
My face ignites. “Pretty impressive, wasn’t I? You know, I’m the only volleyball player to nail the triple-axel double backflip mid-spike.” I tilt my head. “Minus the spike part.”
Gideon squints down at me. “Cass, what happened back there? You can hit that ball with your eyes closed.”
“Nothing. Let’s just go.” Technically, this counts as skipping school because we both have sports for the last period of the day. We sneak down the hall and out the double doors to our bikes. We don’t need to exchange a single word about where we’re going—we’re headed to the underground hideout we built as kids, our one escape.
Any trip to the hideout includes a quick stop at my house for snacks; Gideon
is always hungry. My mom’s car isn’t in the driveway, but we park our bikes against the back gate just in case. The fact that my brother Asher’s car is out front doesn’t worry me. Before he graduated last year, Asher would have ditched school with us. He was an accomplice in all of our shenanigans.
Asher was accepted to UCLA and NYU but turned them down to start a property management company. My parents were skeptical. Everyone was skeptical. It’s difficult to imagine someone with only a high school diploma telling grown-ups how to run their investments. But Asher’s not most people. My parents said he could live and work from home until he got his company up and running.
We reach the kitchen, where the burnt-toast smell of breakfast lingers. My eyes still sting. How did I let that shiny-haired attention fiend get to me again? I browse the contents of the pantry, tossing bags of chips into my backpack.
“Are we ever going to talk about this?” Gideon’s voice is low and gentle. “I couldn’t hear what Laura said, but I can imagine.” He reaches for my shoulder, and I spin into him, a few tears leaking onto his green hoodie. I look up, and his deep brown eyes wear me down.
I can tell him. He’s the one person I can trust with anything. I just don’t exactly know how to tell him. Gideon, I hallucinated flaming doll people. Not quite right.
“Gideon, I think…I might be…” New tactic. “I think I have ‘the shine.’” Gideon arches a brow. “You know how Jack in The Shining sees creepy stuff around every corner, and he’s not sure if it’s really there or if he’s hallucinating?” I take a deep breath and spit it out. “I had a similar premonition in the gym.”
Gideon shoots me a wry look. “You saw demonic twins in the school gymnasium.”
“More like I saw the gym go up in flames,” I say somberly.
“Wait a minute,” he starts, leaning toward me, but the wooden hallway floor creaks and we jerk apart.
Asher saunters in, wearing dark jeans and a crisp gray polo. He stops when he sees us, eyebrows cocked, and gives a curt wave. “I thought I heard voices.” His gaze travels to the wall clock above the counter. “Shouldn’t you two criminals be somewhere?”
“Uh,” I stammer, “yeah. We were—”
“Cass had a rough day,” Gideon cuts in.
“What happened?” Asher’s skin is paler than Gideon’s, but their furrowed brows match.
My face burns as I draw in a slow breath. “Fire stuff.”
Both boys bristle, and Asher’s fingers graze the jagged pink scars on his left hand. He steps closer. “Who was it? Laura?”
“Calm down. I’m fine.”
Asher’s shoulders slacken. He steps closer, peering down at me with those crystal blue eyes we share. “I know what you need. A movie night. Tonight?”
I force a smile. “That sounds good.” As long as it’s not Firestarter.
“Great. Maybe Brandon will stop by.”
A week ago, the thought of sharing a sofa with Brandon Alvarez would’ve sent me deeper into depression. Asher’s former best friend hasn’t been around much since he decided to date Laura Gellman freshman year. Out of loyalty to me, Asher stopped hanging out with him. Then last spring, Brandon and Laura broke up, and Asher got the deluded notion that I’d magically forgive and forget.
It doesn’t help that Asher spied Brandon and me getting on swimmingly together at a party last week. I told my brother the truth about my moment with Brandon: we’d discovered we had something in common.
I’ll never tell a soul exactly what it was. When the buzz wore off, I tried to go back to despising everything about Brandon, down to that stupid dimple. But I couldn’t. Everything’s weird now.
Asher’s head tilts toward Gideon. “Cass, give us a sec, okay?” I nod. They duck into the hall, and I can’t make out a word over the hum of the air-conditioning.
I stand alone in the cold kitchen, backpack heavy in my hands. The whispers floating through the air send pangs into my gut. I hate their guy talk.
Moments later, they slink back in, smiling.
“Okay.” Asher checks his back pocket for his wallet. “I ran out of printer ink, so I’m off to see if Carver’s has anything remotely compatible. If not, I’ll be back in three hours.” He’s exaggerating, but not by much. Maribel, Oregon, is a tiny former lumber town in the rural depths of the state. We have one drugstore, one diner, one dive bar, and one ice cream parlor. If that doesn’t cut it, the nearest shopping center is an hour drive. Though Maribel boasts breathtaking scenery, boredom is the leading cause of death. I don’t plan on sticking around long enough to challenge that statistic.
Asher grabs his keys from the hook by the door. “See you tonight.” He tosses me one last concerned look before the door clanks behind him.
I turn to Gideon. “What was that about?”
He sighs. “What do you think? He tried to pump me for more information. I honored your wishes and kept quiet. He just told me to watch out for you.”
My heart surges and falls. Of course. My brother, the hero. He has a way of making me immensely grateful and astoundingly irritated all at once. “You always watch out for me, Giddy.”
Gideon zips my backpack and takes it from me, shoulders rolling as he hefts it on. “Tell your brother that. And tell me we’re going to exact some sort of vengeance on Laura.”
I follow him out the back door. “Why is she such a terrible person?”
“Please remember she’s not really a person. Laura—demon spawn, alien, whatever she is—is jealous of you.”
“Sure,” I mutter dryly. But we both know why Laura really targets me.
We begin walking through the forested area behind my house. The fragrance of my mom’s perfectly pruned jasmines fades, replaced by fresh pine and earth. A cool wind whips through the trees, and I wrap my arms around myself. Gideon stops suddenly, and grumbles, “I forgot about Dave’s thing tonight.”
Right. Dave Halper’s big party. Gideon and the rest of the football players are supposed to go, which means he wants me to go and keep him company while our schoolmates grope one another until they puke.
I pick at a fingernail. “We already met our quota of things for the year. Wouldn’t you rather stay in tonight and watch movies?”
“Of course. I just promised I’d stop by. But I can text Dave that something came up.”
He starts walking again and I tag along after him. “Gid—”
“Cass, I’m supposed to be making you feel better. Forget the party. Forget Laura. Let’s talk about life’s big questions. Like…what are you going to study in college that combines your academic prowess with your volleyball abilities?” Gideon scratches his head as if in genuine, deep thought. “What sort of profession entails working equations while cramming a ball into someone’s face?” His smile is contagious.
“I’m sure we can think of something,” I joke.
“We’ll have to make a list of those prerequisites and you can give them to the guidance counselor, Whatshername, at your next appointment.”
“Whatshername was always my favorite counselor.”
“Definitely beats out my counselor, Whatshisname, a.k.a. Haymitch, when it comes to counsel.” Gideon’s steps pause. “Though I’m starting to wonder if the Haymitch thing applies to more than his uncanny resemblance to Woody Harrelson.”
“Ahhh, you think there’s a flask behind the desk?”
“His cheeks are so gosh-darn rosy.” He passes me a silly, knowing look, and I punch him in the arm.
We reach the small creek that runs through my family’s property. At this hour in the afternoon, the creek becomes enchanted by the sunlight that bursts through the spaces in the trees, making the water shimmer. We carefully hop over a few stones blanketed in green moss to cross to the other side.
Gideon and I approach the barricade of trees that shelters our sanctuary. We crouch down like forest animals an
d push through the bases of the tree trunks where the leaves thin out. The grass and weeds itch all the way up to our faces.
Once inside the clearing, we kick aside the woven cover of twigs that camouflages the opening. We tug off the large blue tarp, setting it to one side, and use a wooden crate to step down into the roofless, bunker-style hideout. A crumpled math test and a few empty soda cans litter the floorboards. Gideon shoos a stowaway lizard up the wall and brushes aside some cobwebs while I pull out the snacks. Then, using my backpack as a cushion, I settle into a corner, breathing in the musty scent.
This place had been Gideon’s idea. When we were ten years old, I read The Lord of the Rings: Part 1. Gideon, on the other hand, didn’t have the attention span for it. But one day, he appeared before me beaming.
“I saw The Fellowship of the Ring,” he said, his words dripping with excitement and mischief. “My parents were watching it last night. I snuck out of my room and sat behind them in the hallway.”
“You watched a three-hour movie sitting on the hallway floor?” I struggled to imagine Gideon staying silent and still for anything for three hours.
“Mm-hmm.” His eyes had a vacant look that let me know he was somewhere else—in this case, Middle-earth. “Gave me an idea.”
I thought for sure we were in for an afternoon of sword fighting and arguing over who would get to be Aragorn when he simply said, “We’re going to build a hobbit house.”
“A hobbit house?”
“It’ll be our secret hideout. No one will know about it except us.”
It was our first secret.
Now, Gideon digs a hand into a chip bag. “And if Whatshername and Haymitch can’t help—you know who’d love to help you find your true calling? Peter. He can’t stop asking about you when he’s supposed to be helping with my math homework. He’s a smart guy. I’m sure he’ll have some ideas about your unique future.” Gideon is smiling, but his eyes aren’t.
Peter McCallum is Gideon’s tutor. “He’s probably trying a lot harder on your math homework than you are,” I mumble. It’s an old argument, that Gideon could easily get out of the remedial class if he applied himself.
He munches noisily on a handful of chips, reclining against the wooden boards that make up the underground walls. We’d done a decent job for two ten-year-olds, but our hobbit house ended up more of a glorified six-by-six-foot hole. Dirt seeps through the cracks in places, and we have to be careful to avoid loose nails. Rain sometimes trickles beneath the tarp, leaving a perpetual smell of damp wood.
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