The Lonely Ones

P
HILOMEL
B
OOKS

an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

Copyright © 2016 by Kelsey Sutton.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

Philomel Books is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Sutton, Kelsey.

Title: The lonely ones / Kelsey Sutton.

Description: New York, NY : Philomel Books, [2016].

Summary: The stress of her father's job loss causes Fain to feel invisible at home and in her new school, but she escapes with the monsters of her imagination until a family crisis and a human friend cause her to reconsider.

Identifiers: LCCN 2015029562 | ISBN 9780399172892 (hardback)

Subjects: | CYAC: Novels in verse. | Loneliness—Fiction. | Family problems—Fiction. | Interpersonal relations—Fiction. | Imagination—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Monsters. | JUVENILE FICTION / Stories in Verse. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Physical & Emotional Abuse (see also Social Issues / Sexual Abuse).

Classification: LCC PZ7.5.S88 Lon 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015029562

ISBN 978-0-698-18311-7

Edited by Liza Kaplan.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

COVER IMAGES: MARK VOLK/GETTY IMAGES,

POLAR LIGHTS/ISTOCKPHOTO

COVER DESIGN BY THERESA EVANGELISTA

To Grace Slaubaugh and Randi Georges,
for locking my window.

Claws scrape

against my windowsill.

Then, a voice,

raspy, childlike, familiar.

It calls my name

and becomes a symphony.

“Fain, are you coming?”

“Come with us, Fain!”

“Wake up!”

“Open your eyes, Fain!”

I try to be firm,

I try to say no.

There's a voice in my head

that whispers I'm getting too old

for these games and adventures.

The ground is so thick with mud

that someone could notice

my tracks.

But my little friends persist

again and again.

Their pleas batter

against my resolve,

until debris crashes down

and I am too weak to resist.

The unbearable truth is

no one will notice my tracks

because no one notices anything.

I take one of their scaly hands;

a feather tickles against my cheek.

Then I climb outside

and disappear into the night.

We run through the woods,

more magical

than fireflies or fairies.

“We love you, Fain,” they croon.

“You are beautiful.”

“You are a queen.”

Their eyes

so adoring,

I can't help but believe them.

They put a scepter in my hand

that glitters with rubies and diamonds.

They place a crown on my head

that feels so light and perfect.

I clutch their talons and hooves and claws,

dance around the fire with wild abandon,

laugh so loud and hard

my lungs burn hotter than the flames.

They are not the frightening ones;

everyone else is.

The moon fades,

my friends retreat,

the day begins.

Sunlight spills into my room,

paler and colder

than yesterday

and I know that

summer is officially over.

I sigh,

leave my bed,

face the fall.

Breakfast is chaotic:

the kitchen becomes

a street fair

zoo

grocery store

everyone clamoring and fighting

for themselves.

The Fredericks are a family

bound only by blood.

Dana smears on lip gloss,

Tyler adjusts his jersey,

Peter shrieks for juice.

Dad holds the paper

in front of his face,

searching the want ads

for someone who will want him back.

Mom pours milk,

so distracted

she does not notice

my dirty feet.

I'm not even trying to hide them.

Beside me

my younger brother frowns,

reaches for the glass

our mother gave him.

It slips off the table—

glass shatters,

liquid runs across the tiles.

Peter blinks,

as if he's surprised and confused

by its fragility.

Someday he'll realize

that anything can break.

Not so long ago,

Dad was a car salesman.

He put on a tie and a smile

went to the dealership

stood in a parking lot

talked about Hondas.

A coffee mug rested by his hand

cold and forgotten

as he showed his customers

where to sign on the dotted line.

Not so long ago,

Mom was a grad student.

She went to class

sat at a desk

put pencil to paper

listened to lectures.

Textbooks rested in her lap

thick and heavy

as she sat on the couch

learning how to run a business.

Not so long ago,

Dad came through the door

whistling and cheerful,

throwing down his briefcase

to smother us with hugs.

Not so long ago,

Mom devoured words,

smiling and sharing,

putting books aside

to play games or cook.

Then people stopped

buying new cars

and Dad stopped

going to work.

Bills arrived

in the mail

and Mom stared at them

with worried eyes.

No more whistling,

no more hugging,

Dad's briefcase as forgotten

as that cooling cup of coffee.

No more studying,

no more playing,

Mom's smile gone and put away

with those textbooks.

Her notes and classes traded

for a pen and ordering pad.

Dad's office and contracts traded

for the table and job applications.

Now he asks

instead of tells,

sounds desperate

instead of certain.

She smells like grease

instead of books,

looks tired

instead of thoughtful.

Not so long ago,

my mother was a student

and my father was a salesman.

Now

I'm not sure

what they are.