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 © 2021 by Diana Rodriguez Wallach
Cover art copyright © 2021 by Nicholas Moegly
Prom House excerpt text copyright © 2021 by Chelsea Mueller. Cover art copyright © 2021 by kid-ethic. Cover art used under license from Shutterstock.com. Beach house copyright © 2021 by Oleg Albinsky/Getty Images.
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Underlined, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Wallach, Diana Rodriguez, author.
Title: Small town monsters / Diana Rodriguez Wallach.
Description: First edition. | New York : Underlined, [2021] | Audience: Ages 12 and up. | Summary: “Outcast Vera and popular jock Max are up against dark forces that stretch much further than their small, coastal town—and into the very heart of evil.”— Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020056816 (print) | LCCN 2020056817 (ebook) | ISBN 978-0-593-42751-4 (trade paperback) | ISBN 978-0-593-42752-1 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Demonology—Fiction. | Demoniac possession—Fiction. | Cults—Fiction. | Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. | Popularity—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.W15885 Sm 2021 (print) | LCC PZ7.W15885 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
Ebook ISBN 9780593427521
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One: Vera
Chapter Two: Max
Chapter Three: Vera
Chapter Four: Max
Chapter Five: Vera
Chapter Six: The Gift
Chapter Seven: Vera
Chapter Eight: Max
Chapter Nine: Vera
Chapter Ten: The Swim
Chapter Eleven: Vera
Chapter Twelve: Max
Chapter Thirteen: Vera
Chapter Fourteen: Max
Chapter Fifteen: Vera
Chapter Sixteen: Max
Chapter Seventeen: Vera
Chapter Eighteen: Vera
Chapter Nineteen: The Crash
Chapter Twenty: Max
Chapter Twenty-one: Vera
Chapter Twenty-two: Max
Chapter Twenty-three: The Storm
Chapter Twenty-four: Vera
Chapter Twenty-five: Max
Chapter Twenty-six: Vera
Chapter Twenty-seven: Max
Chapter Twenty-eight: Vera
Chapter Twenty-nine: Max
Chapter Thirty: The Explosion
Chapter Thirty-one: Vera
Chapter Thirty-two: Max
Chapter Thirty-three: Vera
Chapter Thirty-four: Max
Chapter Thirty-five: Vera
Chapter Thirty-six: Vera
Chapter Thirty-seven: Vera
Chapter Thirty-eight: Max
Chapter Thirty-nine: Max
Epilogue
The Truth
The Truth Sources
Acknowledgments
Excerpt from Prom House
To everyone who stands up to monsters
And to Jordan, who believed I could write about them
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
Lord Byron, “The Destruction of Sennacherib” (1815)
CHAPTER ONE
Vera
A darkness surged through Roaring Creek, casting a shadow upon its modest homes and oozing onto Vera Martinez’s hands—and it all began, at least for her, the day that Maxwell Oliver’s pale brown eyes turned her way.
He was staring.
Vera flipped a fistful of curls in front of her face and pretended not to notice. This was an unfamiliar situation. Boys never looked at Vera, and certainly not like this.
She opened an eight-hundred-page novel, reduced to the five-inch screen on her phone, and pretended to read. Discreetly, she scratched her scalp with a nail chipped of black polish and let her gaze slip between her wavy strands. Yup, he was still looking.
“All right, class!” Ms. Spuhler cleared her throat to begin their last day of eleventh-grade English. “Settle down.” The teacher grabbed the TV remote, the only tool necessary on the final day of classes.
Roaring Creek High School had the feel of an iPhone powering down one app at a time. Science teachers cleaned lab equipment, jocks threw out ratty sneakers, and theater kids sobbed over the end of another magical season. Vera, however, was the app that no one clicked. She was “Keynotes” or “Numbers,” an icon you couldn’t delete due to manufacturer settings but was rarely engaged.
So why was Maxwell Oliver suddenly taking notice?
“We’ll be picking up Jane Eyre right where we left off,” said Ms. Spuhler. So far today, Vera had watched Saving Private Ryan in AP History; Hidden Figures in precalculus; and now Jane Eyre in Advanced English.
He’s not looking at me, she reasoned. Then, because she had to prove herself right, Vera glanced at the window behind her, expecting to see a flying squirrel or mating robins drawing Maxwell’s attention. But there was nothing. Not even a breeze.
Her brow furrowed. Vera and Maxwell had never spoken, not directly, or at least if they had, she couldn’t remember it. They’d never been partners on a project or run into each other at the beach. To say they moved in different social circles would imply that Vera had a circle, which she didn’t. Unless you counted her family, and that was just sad. Vera preferred to be thought of as sans-circle. The loner. The outcast. The…well, all the other names that people called her.
Her parents had unconventional careers, the kinds that caused dog walkers to cross the street when they passed the Martinez home and mothers to refuse to let their children go over for playdates. Vera had long since accepted this, because what other choice did she have? Hating her reality would mean hating her mom and dad, and she refused to go there.
Maxwell Oliver, on the other hand, was an athlete, an honest-to-goodness I competed in the Juni
or Olympics sprinter. He was beloved. Janitors high-fived him in the hallway, and girls, if given the option, would line up in formal wear for a chance to accept his thornless rose.
Vera was different, for a slew of reasons that added up to her not being the type who’d catch Maxwell Oliver’s eye. Yet he was staring, almost like he had something to say. It made no sense. Every cell in her brain screamed Don’t fall for it, it’s a trick! But still her stomach twisted with the toxic taste of hope. A shoved-down piece of her soul longed for someone to look at her and see something other than the five-year-old everyone avoided on the playground.
Vera tucked a thick lock of hair behind her ear and gnawed on her lip. She was under no obligation to pretend she didn’t notice. He was staring at her. So technically he should be embarrassed.
She steadied herself, preparing to meet his gaze head-on. What was the worst that could happen? After today, she wouldn’t see Maxwell again until the start of senior year.
Vera inhaled, summoning all her courage from down deep, when Jackson Johnson stumbled into the classroom. He tripped in a walloping belly flop onto the linoleum floor, and the room erupted into laughter. Jackson immediately bounced up, milking the crowd with his arms spread in a victorious V. “We’re almost out of heeeere!” he shouted.
Applause broke out, everyone whooping and giggling as he danced about as if in a training montage. Even Vera chuckled as she stole another peek at Maxwell. His gaze still lingered, lips parted, and he was prepared to mouth something. Then both his friends abruptly turned her way. They whispered, chuckled, clearly talking about her. Vera’s cheeks flushed, and she let her eyes flit about the room until the heat in her face subsided. When she glanced back, Maxwell’s focus hadn’t shifted. Only, before he could speak, Jackson snatched a notebook and smacked Maxwell on the top of his head. Ms. Spuhler dimmed the classroom lights.
And the moment was shattered.
But it had been a moment. Vera was certain of it.
She just didn’t know what it meant.
She would soon.
The darkness hanging over Roaring Creek was inching closer to Vera Martinez.
And it all began with a single look.
CHAPTER TWO
Max
“Oh my God! You are so dumb!” yelled Leo Rambutan, thrusting his hands in frustration.
“Why the hell would I know where Indonesia is?” Jackson scrunched his eyes. “It’s an island. I thought it was in the Caribbean.”
“It’s thousands of islands, and because I’ve been your friend since preschool!” Leo slammed the door to his empty locker.
Max Oliver watched as his best friends bickered, shoving one another, but didn’t intercede, because (1) Jackson was that clueless, and (2) Max hadn’t slept more than a couple hours a night for the past two weeks and he didn’t have the energy to referee. His brain throbbed behind his eyes, and it took all his effort to fake some end-of-year enthusiasm.
“Max, please tell me you know my dad’s Indonesian.” Leo slapped his back as they trudged toward English. Only two hours left before the final bell.
Max debated staying home. It was a blow-off day, movie after movie after movie. He tried to get some sleep when the teachers dimmed the lights, but his classmates kept interrupting with invites to parties and flyers for bonfires. Man, I sound pathetic. It was the last day of eleventh grade, which meant it was almost the first day of senior year. He and his friends had been looking forward to this moment since they first stepped into the building, and now he was whining about going to parties? Nothing felt right anymore.
“Yeah, your father was born in Indonesia,” Max said. “Which is somewhere in Southeast Asia. And your mom is, like, Polish?” It sounded like a question.
“Czech, but close enough.” Leo nodded.
“Max got that wrong,” Jackson huffed.
“Poland and the Czech Republic are right next to each other.”
“Why would I know that?”
“Because one day, believe it or not”—Max wrapped an arm around his friend’s broad shoulders—“you might actually leave Connecticut.”
“Says the guy who’s taking over his dad’s business,” Jackson quipped.
Max shut his mouth. Touché.
His family owned Oliver Seafood, one of the town’s only restaurants on the waterfront. Max grew up waddling around picnic tables full of lobsters in plastic tubs, while his dad worked the kitchen and his mom kept the books.
Then, just like it had for many people in Roaring Creek on that same hideous, unforgettable day, his world changed.
“Sorry, man, didn’t mean to bring it up.” Jackson caught the change in Max’s face, or the laser stare from Leo; either way, he shifted to pity mode. It always came back to the dead dad.
“Bring what up?” Max tried to brush it off. He didn’t want to talk about his father, and thankfully, the moment shifted.
Jackson’s gaze pointed across the hall. “Hey, Bridget! You comin’ today? Devil’s Pool!” Jackson strutted over to the redheaded volleyball captain, his arms spread like Bridget might actually hug him.
“That’s never gonna happen.” Max snorted.
“I know, right?” Leo smiled. “He’s got about as much of a shot at hooking up with Bridget Levandowski as I do of getting into Harvard.”
“What, Harvard doesn’t take C students?” Max quipped.
“I’ll have you know I ended with a C-plus.” Leo pumped his brow.
They strode into English, and Max’s eyes caught on a swish of wavy dark hair across the room—black locks to match her black outfit and black nail polish, as though there were a funeral about to commence.
Vera Martinez.
He’d never thought much about her. He’d heard the rumors—about what her parents did for work. And he’d laughed along with everyone else in grade school when they pretended that touching Vera would give you “the death disease.” But lately, after tucking his sister into bed and trying to ignore the chill on his skin, he couldn’t help but think of all the possible explanations for what was happening at home. Dark ideas sprang to mind, ones he was too afraid to say aloud but he knew existed, because of the whispers that followed one of the most infamous families in Roaring Creek.
Vera glanced up, and Max kept staring as he took his seat. He’d spent a lifetime avoiding the creepy girl with the bizarre parents, yet now he found himself parting his lips and searching for the nerve to say hi. Only, Jackson stumbled in behind them. His friend tripped over his feet and landed face-first in front of the teacher’s desk, popping up to a standing ovation, arms spread overhead.
“Always classy,” Leo joked when Jackson finally stopped milking the applause and plopped beside them. “You convince Bridget to come?”
“Of course,” he gloated, then cocked his head. “And she’s bringing Delilah.”
“Great.” Max grunted. They’d hardly spoken lately, which was fine with him. He had too much going on to worry about some girl screenshotting his text messages and sending them to all her friends for analysis. What do you think he means by the word the?
“Poor Max, the hot girl just won’t leave him alone.” Jackson pretended to pout, and when Max didn’t react, his friend followed his gaze. “Dude, are you staring at the Wicked Witch of the Creek?”
“No,” Max lied, shaking his head, though it was obvious he was looking at Vera.
“Seriously, that girl creeps me out,” Leo added. “She’s like a walking haunted house.”
“No, she lives in a haunted house,” said Jackson. “That’s legit.”
“Have you ever walked by there at night? I swear I saw lightning coming out of it once.”
“Shut up,” said Max, rolling his eyes.
“Ooh! You defending her now? Maxwell loves the frea-eak!” Jackson singsonged, stealing Max’s notebook and swa
tting him on the head. Max shoved him off.
“Hey, I’m just sayin’, be careful, man.” Jackson raised his palms. “She might be undercover hot, but she’ll make a voodoo doll of you.”
“I’m not defending the freak,” Max said. “I just…Could you imagine growing up like that?”
“Nope.” Jackson shrugged. “And I can’t say I’ve thought about it much.”
Max peered at her again, his eyes hovering until she caught him staring. He didn’t look away, because the truth was, he had thought about her a lot.
He just couldn’t tell his friends why.
* * *
“Wanna beer?” Leo reached into the cooler and pulled out a dripping can.
Max shook his head. “Nah, I’m good.” He knew it went against the rules of teenage coolness, but Max thought beer tasted like gym socks. Sometimes he pretended; sometimes it wasn’t worth it.
He stretched his legs as he lay in the back of his pickup truck, his bare heels kicking at dried leaves. All he wanted to do was sleep, curl in a ball, close his eyes, and forget everything.
“You cool?” Leo asked, reading his face.
“Yeah. Fine.” Max cleared his throat.
As soon as the last bell rang, they’d headed to Devil’s Pool for the first real day of bathing suits and beers. All the tourists in Roaring Creek clogged the beaches—at least, they used to back when it was a more popular vacation destination. The locals (or the local teens) took ownership of the creek. Devil’s Pool was the nickname for a stone bridge that crossed over the deepest section, which was only about twelve feet, but that was enough for kids to cliff-dive like they were in an ad for the Bahamas. Max had taken the plunge only once—early last September, on a dare. His toes torpedoed all the way to the murky weeds on the creek bed, slamming onto a rock. He thought he broke a toe; his entire track season dimmed behind his eyelids. But it was only jammed. Still, it was enough for him to never do it again.
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