The Secret Life of Lincoln Jones by Wendelin Van Draanen
Also by Wendelin Van Draanen
How I Survived Being a Girl
Flipped
Swear to Howdy
Runaway
Confessions of a Serial Kisser
The Running Dream
The Sammy Keyes Mysteries
Sammy Keyes and the Hotel Thief
Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man
Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy
Sammy Keyes and the Runaway Elf
Sammy Keyes and the Curse of Moustache Mary
Sammy Keyes and the Hollywood Mummy
Sammy Keyes and the Search for Snake Eyes
Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception
Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen
Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway
Sammy Keyes and the Wild Things
Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash
Sammy Keyes and the Wedding Crasher
Sammy Keyes and the Night of Skulls
Sammy Keyes and the Power of Justice Jack
Sammy Keyes and the Showdown in Sin City
Sammy Keyes and the Killer Cruise
Sammy Keyes and the Kiss Goodbye
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2016 by Wendelin Van Draanen Parsons
Cover art copyright © 2016 by Vaughn Fender
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 9781101940402 (trade) — ISBN 9781101940419 (lib.bdg.) — Ebook ISBN 9781101940426
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
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Contents
Cover
Also by Wendelin Van Draanen
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1: An Unexpected Blow
Chapter 2: Spinnin’ Lies into Truth
Chapter 3: The Fling Zone
Chapter 4: The Great Escape
Chapter 5: Kandi Kain
Chapter 6: Classmates
Chapter 7: Followed
Chapter 8: The Crazies
Chapter 9: Zombie Chicken
Chapter 10: The Demon Feather
Chapter 11: Talking in Circles
Chapter 12: Invasion of Privacy
Chapter 13: The Vampire in Room 102
Chapter 14: Messengers
Chapter 15: Hide ’n’ Seek
Chapter 16: Footsteps
Chapter 17: The Silver Cat
Chapter 18: The Dangling B
Chapter 19: The Laundromat
Chapter 20: Magically Delicious
Chapter 21: The Admiral in Undies
Chapter 22: One-Eyed Jack
Chapter 23: Hush-Money Trouble
Chapter 24: Trapped
Chapter 25: Tattletale Toilet
Chapter 26: From Bad to Worse
Chapter 27: Girls
Chapter 28: Catfight
Chapter 29: Walker Wars
Chapter 30: Jailbreak
Chapter 31: A Day Full of Learnin’
Chapter 32: The Bulletin
Chapter 33: Facing the Truth
Chapter 34: Steamed
Chapter 35: Half Sweat, Half Shower
Chapter 36: Good Shirt Math
Chapter 37: The Demon Gasp
Chapter 38: Phantom Flavor
Chapter 39: Ruby’s Family
Chapter 40: Cool Air
Chapter 41: Zombie in a Wheelchair
Chapter 42: Yellow as Jell-O
Chapter 43: Leftovers
Chapter 44: Shot of Knowledge
Chapter 45: Not Alone
Chapter 46: Freedom
Chapter 47: Brave
Chapter 48: Surprises
Chapter 49: I Do Declare
Chapter 50: Opening Up
Chapter 51: Full Circle
About the Author
For the angels
Ruby Hobbs came out of her room, dancing and singing, buck naked, again. “All I want is a room somewhere, far away from the cold night air,” she warbled, her old body jigglin’ and wigglin’.
Ruby being naked may sound funny, but it’s a sight so disturbing even Teddy C can’t take it, and that’s saying something. Teddy C ogles all the oldies. Fat ones, bony ones, doesn’t seem to matter to him. He’s ninety, but his eye is always roving. He does the whistle, too. Or at least he tries. It’s more air than sound, but there’s no mistaking what he’s thinking.
At first I thought the whistle was a joke, but Ma says it’s for real and that his old-guy eyes see what they used to know, not what’s actually there.
Except, I guess, in the case of Ruby Hobbs. “Somebody help!” Teddy C called, like he was being robbed. “She’s at it again!”
“Now, now, dear,” Gloria said, snatching a sheet from one of the monster-eye dryers and rushing over to wrap Ruby in it. “You can’t dance at the ball without a gown on. What would the governor think?”
Gloria sure does have a way with the oldies. Maybe it’s how she can jump inside whatever fantasy or memory they’re in the middle of. Or maybe it’s the fake flower she wears in her hair. It’s the exact same one every day, but every day it seems brand-new to the folks living at Brookside. “Oh, what a beautiful bloom!” someone’ll say, like it’s the first time they’ve seen it. “As pretty as you,” Gloria’ll reply, which makes them blush. Like it’s the first time they’ve been paid the compliment.
It could also be the way Gloria’s voice always seems to calm things down. Her now, nows and there, theres work like she’s castin’ a spell.
Whatever it is about Gloria, her magic doesn’t only work on the oldies. It works on me, too. Ma tells me, “Focus,” but all I can think about is how dumb it is that I have to spend my afterschools here, in an old-folks’ home.
Gloria, though, will give me a little smile and whisper, “Now, now, Lincoln. Remember, the more schoolwork you get done here, the less you’ll have to do when you get home,” and just like that, I buckle down.
But back to Ruby.
I’d been coming to Brookside every school day since September, and even though we were in the middle of November, it was still a surprise to see Ruby bust out her dance moves. Aside from her being naked, which I guess anyone can figure out how to get, the big shock is always seeing her move.
Normally she shuffles. Shuff, shuff, shuff, her slippers go. Shuff, shuff, shuff, slow and tired. All the oldies shuffle. Usually with walkers, or while hanging on the arm of one of the nurses. Or, I guess, “caregivers.” The word seems so stiff, but Ma says I need to use it, seeing how caregivers are not actually nurses. At Brookside, nurses are the ones in white shirts, and caregivers are the ones in purple shirts. Nurses do the pills and the blood pressure and call the ambulance. Caregivers do the meals and the clothes and all the nasties. Like mopping up accidents. And changing diapers. And dressing corpses.
But back to shufflin’.
It’s what all the oldie
This time, though, it was different.
This time, the flower and the sunny sounds from Gloria didn’t help. Ruby cried when Gloria wrapped her up, and she whimpered, “Let me dance. Please. Let me dance.”
This time, seeing Ruby Hobbs was more than just surprising or disturbing or funny. It was sad. And sad on top of everything else that had happened was an unexpected blow. One that knocked the wind right out of me.
The trouble at my new school began the very first day, during the very first recess. It’s bad enough starting a new school when everybody else acts like they’ve known each other since diapers. And it’s bad enough when your new teacher makes everyone read a passage aloud from a story and then fusses over your “darling Southern accent.” Ms. Miller thought she was payin’ me a compliment, but no boy, sixth-grade or otherwise, wants to be put in the same sentence as “darling.”
But worse is recess, when you’ve got nowhere to go. It’s time-tickin’ torture. Ms. Miller had instructed us to “stay within the confines of the blacktop area for today.” I had no interest in making a further fool of myself by handling a ball, so I went to go sit in the shade of a tree off the edge of the blacktop. And I was just fixin’ to sit down when I noticed a stream of miniature black ants windin’ around the tree’s trunk. I stayed standing, studying them. They were nothing like the ants back home—those ants could haul a house away. These were small as fleas, scurryin’ up and down in a thin, winding line.
“Hey!” a kid on the playground called. “We use bathrooms in these here parts!”
The voice seemed off in the distance, barely reaching my mind ’cause I was concentrating on ants.
“Hey!” he called again. “Quit whizzin’ on the tree!”
What he was sayin’—and that his fake Southern accent was aimed right at me—hit like a bolt of lightning. I whipped around quick. I didn’t know him, but he was standin’ near the edge of the playground with a boy I recognized from my class.
“I was just lookin’ at ants!” I hollered, but it was too late. They ran off, hee-hawin’ like donkeys.
Back in class, Hee-Haw #2 spread it around to the guys on his side of the room. I could see them grinnin’ and whisperin’, spinnin’ lies into truth. It was the first day of school and already the beginning, middle, and end of any hope I had for making new friends.
After that I took to hiding out. It was a whole lot safer than opening myself up to the hazards of a new school full of old friends. If they could make such a fuss over me watching ants, I didn’t want to find out what they’d do if they knew where I went after school.
It didn’t take long to settle into the new routine. I ride the school bus to Thornhill School in the mornings and the city bus home from Brookside after Ma’s shift is done at night. To get from school to Brookside, I walk. It’s only about twelve blocks, but it’s a long twelve blocks when you’re tired from school and luggin’ a backpack and you’re on your way to a home for oldies. It’s not exactly a destination to look forward to when you’re eleven.
Or even when you’re ninety, now that I think about it.
If I dawdle, I hear about it from Ma. “What took you?” she whispers, giving a worried look at the wall clock. “You’re not getting mixed up in anything, are you?”
“Ma-ah,” I groan, ’cause I’ve never been mixed up in anything. Her asking me that came on after we moved. Maybe ’cause we’re living in a “rough zone,” as she calls it, but our apartment is a long ways from the route I walk from school to Brookside, so her frettin’ like she does makes no sense to me.
Finally, she’ll see that I’m just tired and hungry and say, “Let’s get you a snack.”
Snacks at Brookside are okay. Not great, but okay. They’re for old folks, so they’re low in fat and sugar and salt, which adds up to them being low in flavor, too. They’re still better than the snacks marked D, which are for the diabetics and made with fake sugar, since real sugar could send them into a diabetic coma.
But the snacks are free and the juice is usually cold, which is mostly what matters. And after I’m parked at my regular table with my snack, Ma can quit worrying about me and what I might have been doing on the walk over and get back to work.
I don’t tell her this, but it’s not the walk she should be worrying about.
It’s the bus.
I don’t mean the city bus, either. She’s with me on that one, so she knows what I see there. She always has advice for me when we’re on it, too. “Don’t stare, Lincoln,” she’ll whisper. “He’s drunk.”
Like I haven’t seen drunk enough to recognize it? Like I haven’t figured out it’s the whole reason she dragged me halfway across the country? I know drunk, and I can usually ditch drunks. Ma…well, that’s a different story.
But back to the bus.
On the city bus, we’re allowed to sit anywhere. We can move away from trouble if it starts up, and that makes the city bus a safe zone compared to the school bus.
The rule on the school bus is little kids up front, big kids in back. And the first couple of weeks I followed that rule because it made sense to me.
Besides, what sixth grader wants to sit with first graders?
Before we moved, I used to walk to school, so I never knew how rough the back of a school bus can get. Ma doesn’t want me watching R movies or playing violent video games, but the back of a school bus is as bad as both.
Usually when there’s trouble brewin’, I find a way to sidestep it. I hush up, duck out, and live to see another day. So that’s what I tried to do on the school bus. I started bending the seating rule a little, not going all the way back when we piled on. I’m not exactly big for eleven, and I’m new, so the younger kids didn’t really know any different, and they didn’t seem to mind.
But the kids at the back of the bus sure did.
“Dude, ain’t you in Miller’s class? Why you sitting way up there?”
“Yeah, whatsa matter? You got a problem with us?” It was Hee-Haw #1. The one who wasn’t in my class.
I waved at them like, no hard feelings, but I guess there were hard feelings anyway, ’cause as the bus roared along, the teasing started. First they picked on my “drawl” and how I was “a Southern boy.” Then the names began flyin’. Hee-Haw #1 started off callin’ me the Wiz, but one of his herd thought that was a cool name—like I was smarter’n them, or a wizard. So he moved on pretty quick from that to messin’ with my name, calling me the Missing Link and the Weak Link and then just Link for short.
I knew they were trying to make me say something so they could make fun of the way I’d said it, but what it did instead was make me face forward and keep my mouth shut tight. But over time the names went from mean to meaner, ’til they were so bad I’d’ve been whupped to Sunday if I’d said them at home.
When they ran out of new names, they added shoving.
And when they got bored of the shoving, they added spitting.
By October they were up to spoon flinging. I got hit with grape bombs and tuna fish and Jell-O and whatever part of some other kid’s lunch they didn’t mind wasting. They were sly about it, so the bus driver never saw them, and everyone else was too afraid to do anything. Instead of trying to get rid of the flingers, the little kids tried to get rid of me. “You can’t sit here,” they told me, and who could blame them? I was the target, but with spoon flingin’ there’s lots of hits outside the bull’s-eye.
I didn’t know what to do about it. It’s not like I could tattle. I knew where that’d get me. And it’s not like I could change my mind and start sitting further back. Either way, I’d get murdered.
So I was stuck.
Stuck in the fling zone,
Maybe I was willin’ to put up with tuna and Jell-O flying at me ’cause they were nothing compared to what I’d been hit with before the move. For Ma it was even worse.
Then on New Year’s Eve almost a year ago, Ma made a resolution: we were moving.
Escaping Cliff.
Starting over.
She whispered it to me with a bloody lip and a puffy eye while I was in my hiding place, under my bed.
Ma’s escape plan included stashing away cash, which meant meager eats and no extras for a good six months. It also included two small duffels and two one-ways on the Greyhound bus.
The night of the great escape I didn’t sleep a wink. I had my duffel packed light, like Ma had told me—spare clothes, travelin’ food, and a toothbrush, plus the only things I couldn’t stand leaving behind: my secret notebooks.
When it was finally time, we walked the three miles to the station like our unders were on fire. In some ways they were, ’cause it was late July and swelterin’, even at five in the morning.
Ma kept looking over her shoulder, but we made it to the station without being stopped. The only worry I had was the worry I caught from Ma, who was oozing with it. The way I saw it, Cliff was on whiskey time. He wouldn’t be up ’til noon.
I’ll never forget Ma’s face, reflectin’ in the bus window as we pulled out of the station. She didn’t know I could see or she’d have hid it better, but she was one scared rabbit. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered, clutchin’ her bag tight. “Lord, oh, Lord.”