Neal Shusterman - Dread Locks

Table of Contents

IF LOOKS COULD KILL...

So ... youre not going out with her again?

No, was all he said, and offered no explanation. But now I was curious. I remembered what she had done to my friends Dante and Freddy, picking them apart and putting them back together with her words.

Why? I asked. What did she say to you?

She didnt say anything. It was the way she looked at me.

I shrugged. So? She looks at everyone like that.

But Ernest shook his head. No ... not the way she looked at me. He glanced down at his tray for a moment, then back up at me. I dont want to talk about it.

I looked down, too, because I didnt want to meet those cold eyes. Instead I caught sight of his hand on the table. Just like the tone of his voice, and the look of his eyes, there was something strange about his hand, too. Not just his hand, but his skin in general. The awful flickering fluorescent lights in the cafeteria did have a tendency to paint everyone in morgue-tones, but even so, Ernests skin didnt look right. Not so much pale, as gray. Like dolphin skin. Maybe hes sick, I thought. Maybe it has nothing to do with Tara.

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First published in the United States of America by Dutton Childrens Books,
a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2005
Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2006

Copyright Neal Shusterman, 2005

Summary: Accustomed to a carefree existence, fifteen-year-old Parker Baer meets
the girl next door and finds his life taking a menacing turn as he
begins to absorb some of her terrible powers.

eISBN : 978-1-101-00701-3

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any
responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

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For Eric and Jan, may your midnight buffet plate always be full

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Dread Locks would not have been possible without the support and contributions of quite a few people:

Eric Elfman, whose crucial creative input helped to mold many key chapters; Jean Feiwel, for giving me the first shot with this story; Tonya Martin, for her insightful early editorial work; Easton Royce, for knowing when its time for a pseudonym to go away; Andrea Brown, for believing in the Dark Fusion series and bringing it to my market; my assistant, Janine Black, for her tireless efforts running interference and keeping me on task; my kids, who have become so good at critiquing stories, its scary.

And finally, Stephanie Owens Lurie, who has shepherded me from the very beginning of my career. I couldnt hope for a better editor or friend.

MY LIFE AS A STATUE

T here was never anything wrong with my life. Perhaps that was the problem. That was the flawthe crack into which Tara slid like rainwater into a sidewalk fracture, freezing and thawing again and again, widening the crack with each frost. The crack in my life was the fact that I had everything I wanted, or could ever wantand when you have it all, boredom grows like a fungus, coating everything you own and everything you feel.

Youre just a spoiled brat, my older brother, Garrett, would tell me. Him, with his Rolex watch and his designer clothes. Him, with a Lexus in the driveway for his sixteenth birthday. The sad thing is, he was right. By the time I was fourteen, I had a DVD collection that would rival the neighborhood video store. I had three bikes: mountain, racing, and trick. And I knew that whether I wanted one or not, there would be a Lexus in the driveway for me one day, too.

No, there was nothing wrong with my life. But then again, everything was wrong.

On my fifteenth birthday, I came to realize that the expression spoiled rotten meant exactly that. We kids were the apples of our parents eyes, and I, for one, was rotting from the inside out.

I was looking forward to my birthdayI mean, who doesnt. That was when I cared what I would get. That was when I cared, period. I came running down the stairs that morning, like it was Christmas. My parents were already up. In my family, presents never waited; they were there upon waking. Our family has a problem with what they call delayed gratification. We want what we want when we want it, and we always want it now. So birthday presents never waited until afternoon, or even until after breakfast.

The gift was hard to miss. It was this huge box almost four feet tall and wrapped with a giant red ribbon, sitting smack in the middle of the living room.

Mine, mine, mine! yelled my little sister, Katrina. Everything was hers, hers, hers. She was eight, but got attention by acting like she was four.

Katrina, its Parkers birthday, not yours, Mom said patiently.

Its bigger than my present was, Katrina complained, and dont tell me that size doesnt matter, because you got mad at Dad that time your anniversary diamond was too small.

Dad chuckled uncomfortably. Mom sighed.

Maybe youll get something as big for your next birthday, Dad offered.

Christmas, demanded Katrina. Christmas is sooner.

Garrett, whose bed hair looked like something out of a bad science-fiction movie, threw up his hands like my birthday was an imposition on his life. Can we just get on with this already?

I looked at the box on the table, trying to take it slow, relishing the mystery. I had no idea what it was. I had dropped hints that I wanted a motocross bike, but this box wasnt the right shape.