Misfit

U n c o r r e c t e d p r o o f

this is an advance, uncorrected proof. not for resale.

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a m U l e t b o o k s

n e w Y o r k

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.

ISBN 978-1-4197-0021-7

Text copyright © 2011 Jon Skovron

Book design by Chad W. Beckerman

The text in this book is set in 11.5 Cochin.

Published in 2011 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. Al rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

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for my grandmother and staunchest

supporter, leokadjia “lil ian” b. kel ey, whose indomitable strength came at such a high cost.

— j . s .

CONTENTS

1

taking medicine

2

Half truths

3

the Gift

4

confessions

5

pure chemistry

6

the avenging love

7

a date and destiny

8

birth

9

rebirth

10

life as a succubus

11

a bad Hair day

12

a lesson in the elements

13

the fifth element

14

Voodoo child

15

catalyst

16

exorcising Independence

17

straight to Hel

18

trip trap

19

Healing

“the gods of the old religion become the demons of the new religion.”

— m a r g a r e t m u r r a y

“Gods can turn into evil demons

when new gods oust them.”

— s i g m u n d f r e u d

Jael thompson looks at her reflection in the bathroom Jael thompson looks at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and frowns. She pushes back her curly black hair and stares into her green eyes so hard that the rest of her features blur.

“You know what I heard?” she says. “That what you see in the mirror isn’t what you real y look like. That since mirrors flip everything, you’re looking at a flipped version of your face.

Like, the exact opposite.”

“What?” says her best friend, Brittany Brougher. She walks into the bathroom armed with several bottles of hair product, plastic gloves, and a towel. “Where do you get this stuff, J?”

Jael shrugs, pushing the tip of her nose to one side, then the other.

“Some NPR show,” she says.

“Seriously,” says Britt. She elbows Jael away from the mirror and lines up the bottles on the sink. “Your dad needs to get you guys a TV.”

“Right, like that’l happen,” says Jael. “He won’t even get me leave-in conditioner.”

“And so, my gift to you,” says Britt, spreading her hands to present the bottles. “Happy early birthday!”

“Thanks, Britt,” says Jael, turning the bottles so that she can examine the labels.

“Wel , honestly, I hope this is the right stuff,” says Britt.

She takes a moment to adjust her own perfectly styled honey-blond hair. “I tried to describe your hair to the lady at the store, and she was al , ‘So is she black or mixed?’ Which I thought was kind of a lame thing to say. Mixed.”

“What did you tel her?” asks Jael.

“I said I didn’t think you were black, but maybe like Middle Eastern or something but I didn’t real y know for sure. And she was al , ‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’ and I said you didn’t real y know either and why’s she so hung up on the labels anyway and she just kind of gave up and shoved this stuff at me.”

“Yeah, wel it definitely can’t make things worse.” Jael grabs a fistful of her hair. “I can’t even run a comb through this anymore. It’s like a giant black cotton bal on my head.”

“So did you real y ask your dad to get you something and he said no?”

“Yep,” says Jael. “He gave me this look, you know, like I was asking for some bizarre extravagance.”

“Oh my God, I can total y see it,” says Britt. She scrunches her face into a frown and glares at herself in the mirror. “Jael . .

. ,” she says, in a pretty good imitation of Jael’s father’s flat, gruff voice. “Jael, money is tight. Do you real y need these things?”

“No, you’re right, Dad,” says Jael in a chipper, squeaky voice. “It’s actual y real y convenient that I can store al my pens

and pencils in my hair. In fact, you know what? I’l just grow my hair a little longer so you don’t even have to get me folders this year!”

Britt breaks into a laugh. “I would pay you so much money to say that to him!”

“Oh yeah, ’cause that would go over real y wel ,” Jael says.

“Whatever,” says Britt, turning away from the mirror to look at her friend directly. “What’s he going to do, take away your al owance?”

“Ha, what al owance?”

“Exactly! So stand up to him for once.”

“It’s just . . .” Jael stops and looks down at her hands, opening and closing them. “Whatever. It’s no big deal.

. . .”

Britt raises an eyebrow. “It’s just what? You’re scared of him.”

“No!” says Jael. “I mean, sort of. Look, he’s al I’ve ever had, you know? And when I piss him off, he total y shuts down on me. And it’s . . . it’s real y lonely.”

“You know I get that, J,” says Britt. She sits Jael down on the toilet seat and begins to work the conditioner into her hair.

“I feel the same way about my mom. It’s always just been me and her against the world. But that was when I was a helpless little kid. Then I started growing up and we went through this bad period where we were always fighting. But we got through it, and now we have respect for each other, you know?”

“My dad actual y respecting me?” says Jael. She winces as Britt’s fingers catch a snarl. “I’m pretty sure that’s never going to happen.”

The next morning is Septermber 23rd, Jael Thompson’s sixteenth birthday. She climbs out of bed and nearly trips over the pile of clothes on her floor.

Not that she has many clothes.

Not that she has much floor. In fact, between the twin bed, the dresser, and the desk with her ancient computer, there’s just enough room to turn around.

She pul s out her school uniform from the pile of clean clothes: white blouse, a navy-blue plaid skirt, and these god-awful knee-high navy-blue socks. She’s supposed to pul the socks al the way up, but that itchy feeling on her shins drives her nuts, so she only does it when she has to. She’s gone to Catholic schools al her life and she knows how to play the game.

She heads down the narrow metal spiral staircase to the bathroom on the main floor. The house used to be a one-bedroom ranch with a storage attic, but at some point the landlord converted the attic to a second bedroom. Her room is tiny and drafty, and it sucks to go down the twisting staircase in the middle of the night to pee, but she loves it anyway. Because when they moved to this house two years ago, she and her dad each got their own room for the first time.

Downstairs she checks her hair in the hal way mirror.

The conditioning treatment Brit put in seemed to work last night, but her hair ral ied overnight and came back crazier than ever this morning. She gives it a few halfhearted scrunches, then sighs and heads for the kitchen.

She pours herself a bowl of generic cereal. Her dad is convinced that it tastes as good as the brand-name stuff. Of course, he doesn’t eat it. He’s already at school, contemplating how best to bore the students of Our Lady of Mercy High School with obscure points of Church history. Next year, Jael wil have to take his class, and she real y can’t imagine anything worse than that—except sharing a bedroom with him again.

But the only reason she can afford to go to Mercy is because the children of faculty members don’t pay tuition.

She sits down at the kitchen table and starts to slurp up the cereal, which has already turned to mush. Then she notices a yel ow Post-it note stuck to the center of the table. In her dad’s blocky, al -caps handwriting it reads come home right after school. we have to talk.

Jael peels the note off the table and stares at it for a moment, fighting the hot, heavy feeling it creates in her stomach. She’l be damned if she’s going to let this rattle her, today of al days.

“Oh yeah, and happy friggin’ birthday, daughter,” she says aloud. Then she crumples up the note, drops it into her soggy cereal, and dumps the whole mess into the sink.

Our Lady of Mercy High School looks like it belongs in some grimy, low-income neighborhood in New York or Boston rather than next to the cute, craftsman-style houses of northwest Seattle. Jael finds that kind of endearing. She doesn’t real y fit in either.

She crosses the school parking lot and weaves her way through the brand-new SUVs and sports cars owned by unappreciative overprivileged students who wil probably wreck their vehicles before they graduate. She pul s up the hood on her red sweatshirt and jams her hands into her pockets as a prickle of jealousy climbs up her throat. She turns sixteen today, and whatever the “We Have to Talk” note that her dad left is about, she’s positive it’s not “Let’s Talk About Getting You a Car!”

Jael hops up the front steps and through the main doors.

Then she hears “Miss Thompson!”

It’s Father Aaron, the dean of discipline. He stands just inside the front door, where he stands every morning so that he can glare at every student every day as they arrive at school.

He’s committed like that. The harsh fluorescent lights glare off his bald head. He takes a slow bite of an apple. As Jael listens to the crunching sounds, she notices little white flecks of apple bits trapped in Father Aaron’s walrus mustache.

“Socks, Miss Thompson,” he says.

“Yes, Father.” She drops her bag on the floor and yanks up her socks to her knees with both hands.

“We want to present a ladylike appearance, don’t we, Miss Thompson?” A few flecks of apple land on the floor next to Jael’s black leather buckle shoes.

“You bet, Father,” she says. “I strive for ladylike at al costs.”

Father Aaron munches his apple and frowns at her for a moment, like he’s debating whether to nail her for her snarky tone. He is not a fan of sarcasm. But then he just shakes his head and says, “Get to class.”

“Yes, Father.”

She picks up her bag and walks down the hal way past a long line of dark mahogany doors with frosted windows until she gets to her homeroom. Most of the students are already in their seats, scrambling to finish last night’s homework, chatting with neighbors, or texting on their cel phones. Ms. Spielman, the geometry teacher, sits at her desk at the front of the class, shuffling through some quiz papers. Her long brown hair is shot through with streaks of gray, and she wears flowy earth-tone cottons and a bright purple scarf. It’s that Earth Mother look that’s so popular in Seattle. It can look frumpy, but Ms. Spielman somehow pul s it off.

Jael makes her way to her desk at the back of the classroom.

As she sits down, she hears “Hey, Betty.”

Rob McKinley has cal ed her “Betty” practical y since they met. He claims it’s a term of endearment that skaters give girls.

“Hey, Rob,” she says.

“Happy b-day,” he says, giving her that crooked grin he does so wel .

“Thanks.” She almost mentions that he’s the first person to wish her a happy birthday today, but decides that makes her sound truly pathetic.

“So,” he says, “are you doing anything cool for your b-day?”

“Oh yeah,” says Jael. “I’m having a pizza party. There wil be a sack race, a water-bal oon toss, and fabulous door prizes.

Wanna come?”

“Uh . . . ,” he says, giving her a slightly baffled look.

Rob is a total airhead skater boy, complete with blond bangs and an effortless sunny smile. In Jael’s experience, those types are usual y incapable of talking about anything other than sports or video games. But Rob is also some kind of math and science genius, and she hasn’t figured out how skater boy and math wiz fit together yet.

“Joking, Rob,” she says. “Just joking.”

“I knew that,” he says, a little defensively. “So what are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

The PA system crackles.

“Good morning, students,” Principal Dawson’s voice announces over the speaker. Everyone cal s him Principal Oz because the only time students see him is at graduation. The rest of the year, he’s just a scratchy, metal ic voice over the PA.

“Please stand and join me in prayer. Our father, who art in heaven . . .”

He drones on with the Our Father while everyone gets to their feet. His voice is barely audible over the squeak and groan of chairs, and he goes so fast that he’s done by the time most people fold their hands.

Everyone then switches to the Pledge of Al egiance.

“One reminder,” the PA says after the Pledge is finished.

“Don’t forget that fifth period wil be canceled tomorrow for Al -School Mass. That is al . Thank you and have a good day.”

Chairs and desks squeak and clank as everyone sits back down.

“Real y, Bets,” says Rob. “You should do something for your b-day.”

Jael thinks about the “We Have to Talk” note again.

“Trust me,” she says. “Doing nothing on my birthday is way better than some of the alternatives.”

“Like?” he chal enges.

“Like on my eighth birthday, when my dad put me in the car and told me we were moving from Tucson, Arizona, to Buffalo, New York. Immediately.”

“Buffalo? Is that where you lived before you moved to Seattle?”

“No, I lived in London before I moved here.”

“Got it. So were you born in Arizona, then?”

“No, I was born in Siberia.”

“Okay, wait,” says Rob. “So you were born in Siberia?

And then you moved to Tucson, and then—”

“No, I lived a few other places before we moved to Tucson.”

“A few?” Rob squints at her, like he just can’t even conceive of it. “How many places have you lived?”

“You know,” says Jael, “I’ve never real y counted.”

“Why did you move so much? Was your dad military or something?”

“He was a monk,” Jael says.

“Um . . .” Rob rubs his temples. “I’m total y lost now.”

“That’s okay,” says Jael. “I’ve pretty much been lost my whole life.”

Rob grins at her. “So, okay, let me see if I’ve got this right.

First, you—”

A voice cuts in. “Miss Thompson and Mr. McKinley.”

It’s Ms. Spielman. “Whenever you’re ready, we can begin geometry class.”

“Sorry, Ms. Spielman,” says Rob. “I got it. Lock and load.”

And just like that, Rob is completely engrossed in the wonders of geometry. Like someone flipped the switch from chatty skater boy to math geek and now nothing exists but angles and algebra. Jael is always amazed at how he can change focus like that. It’s irritating, sure, but there’s something about it that she also finds impressive.

The buzzing fluorescent lights work their drowsy magic on Jael as Monsignor Francis Locke drones on about the life and times of Jesus. The Mons, as students refer to him, is a sweet old guy, more or less the exact opposite of Father Aaron.

Jael isn’t sure what someone has to do to go from

“Father” to

“Monsignor.” She just knows it’s some kind of honorary thing that the bishop gives out. But even though the Mons is so nice and so holy, or maybe because he’s so nice and holy, Jael also finds him incredibly boring.

“For Jesus had said to him,” the Mons reads from the Bible,

“ ‘Come out of this man, you impure spirit!’ Then Jesus asked him, ‘What is your name?’ ” The Mons looks around the class with a slight smile on his face, as if to say, Oh boy, here comes my favorite part!

Then he continues.

“ ‘My name is Legion,’ he replied, ‘for we are many.’

And he begged Jesus again and again not to send them out of the area.

“A large herd of pigs was feeding on the nearby hil side.