Velveteen (45 page)

“You stopped it,” he said.

She shook her head. “Maybe. But there’s a lot of work to be done.”

“I’m sorry,” Isadora mumbled as Velvet passed by.

Velvet turned and nodded politely at the girl, but said nothing. Isadora nodded in return.

The courtyard was in the same shambles they’d left it in, but the residents were busy cleaning, righting tables and
chairs and sweeping up debris and ash. When they saw the team enter, they applauded meekly. Some cried.

“What now?” they asked.

“We pull our shit together and start planning,” Velvet said.

“Yeah!” Kipper shouted as sternly as Miss Antonia ever had. “Starting with getting this place back to normal. Salon isn’t going to happen until this place is spotless. Get to work!”

Several of the kids grinned, some grimaced, but everyone obeyed.

Velvet smiled at the boy and nodded. “Yeah. That’s what this place needs. Normalcy. Kick ’em in the balls, Kipper!”

“Done!”

Nick wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled his cheek against hers. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just give me a second. I need to figure something out.”

Velvet swept past the spot where she’d last seen Miss Antonia, up the stairs to the second floor, and into the Salvage mother’s cell. Her movements were automatic; she knew what she was looking for. Velvet pulled out the stool and climbed atop it, reaching for the tiny black box where Miss Antonia had hidden it.

She held it in her palm for a moment and then slipped the first key inside the little metal opening. The hinge opened and a tiny origami bird fell out onto the floor.

She wasn’t surprised. She wished she were.

Miss Antonia had been coming from a visit with Aloysius
Clay on that night they’d run into each other on the streets. She’d never lost contact with him. Velvet couldn’t prove it, but she wanted to believe Miss Antonia was trying to talk the man out of his evil plan.

Only one person would know that for sure.

Velvet held out the other key in her palm and clamped her fist around it. She slipped it into her pocket and turned back toward the open door. Nick stood there, leaning as casually as ever, a half smile on his face, eyes sparkling like stars.

Manny would need to be confronted, but that was a discussion for another time.

“Sooooo,” Nick said, scratching his head adorably. “Can we date now, or is it still against the rules?”

“I wouldn’t call it dating.” She shrugged as she circled him and passed into the hall.

“Would you say …” He cocked his head. “It’s complicated?”

“There’s no Facebook in purgatory.”

Nick slapped his forehead. “Another thing! Jesus.”

Velvet started up the stairs. “Let’s say we’re connected, in some strange way.”

“By a twist of fate?”

“Sure.”

“Say it, then.” Nick jogged up the steps after her, catching her at the landing.

“Say what?”

“That you’re my girl.”

Velvet rolled her eyes and reached for the boy’s hand, pulled him to her roughly, and caught his lips with hers.

The truth was, Velvet didn’t know where she and Nick were going, whether they’d be together forever or a minute. All she knew was that if he stopped kissing her, pulled away, and tried to talk about their relationship or his feelings or something, she’d kill him.

About five years ago, I asked my goddaughter, Delaney Hills, to read a middle-grade novella I’d written called
The Trouble with the Living
, about a spunky—but ultimately doomed—twelve-year-old detective named Luisa Albuquerque and a serial killer called the Green Man. The feedback she gave me was incredibly valuable; it boiled down to the fact that the story was too morbid for the age group. So I put the idea to bed and wrote really morbid stuff for adults for a few years.

But the idea of kids in purgatory clawed at the back of my skull, so, with the help of my always supportive wife, Caroline Henry, my critique group, the South Sound Algonquins, and amazingly talented author Tiffany Trent, I pieced together an even more morbid tale, which became
Velveteen!

Thankfully, I have an agent, Jim McCarthy of Dystel and Goderich, who gets my weird brain and knew other folks who would as well. Namely, Krista Marino, my awesome editrix at Delacorte Press, who whipped my story into shape like I never believed was possible. A huge thanks to the cover-art ninjas who brought Velvet to grim life on the jacket, too!

Because a book doesn’t sell itself, I’m so glad I’ve got a network of folks pulling for me, one that includes such intriguing and
luminary groups as the Apocalypsies, the Harbingers of Doom, the Class of 2k12, the YA Rebels, and the League of Reluctant Adults. Looking at my choice of blogging partners, I am not surprised that people accuse me of being a supervillain.

Muahahaha!

Finally, I would be remiss not to tip my hat to the people who really have to put up with my fits and tangents while I’m writing a book: my friends and family. Caroline, of course, continues to be my reality check; my mother, Edna Henry, always has a book in her hand; the Friday-night dinner folks still hang out despite my moods; and my local writer friends (Synde, Amy, Richelle, to name a few) are always up for some commiseration. Thanks, guys.

And last but certainly not least, to all the online book geeks (booktubers, tweeps, and bloggers), my sincere gratitude, as always, for your support and encouragement!

Until next time …

When Daniel Marks isn’t writing, he’s vlogging his butt off at the YA Rebels and on his personal channel. He blogs regularly at the Class of 2k12, the Apocalypsies, and the League of Reluctant Adults, which he cofounded. Because he has no control over his incessant rambling, Daniel is forced to provide workshops on writing and social networking to scratch that itch. He’s been unlucky enough to witness and survive a number of natural disasters and was a psychotherapist for twelve years (an entirely different kind of disaster). He lives in the Seattle area with his wife, Caroline, and three furry monsters with no regard for quality carpeting. None.