Only a Monster(Monsters #1)(6)

‘Joan,’ Gran said.

Joan gripped the edge of the table. She shook her head again. She didn’t even know what she was trying to deny.

Gran held out something. It was Joan’s phone, the one she’d dropped in the scuffle with Mr Solt. The screen was cracked.

‘Don’t forget the rule,’ Gran said. ‘No one can know what we are. What you are. You must never tell anyone about monsters.’

Upstairs, Joan’s room was just as she’d left it that morning—bed unmade with her pajamas strewn over the pillow. She stared down at her phone, at the long, jagged crack across the screen. Someone had turned it off. Gran had known to wait up for Joan tonight, and apparently she’d known to retrieve Joan’s phone as well. Joan swallowed.

She turned her phone back on. When it lit up, she felt like a bucket of cold water had been thrown over her. There were messages from Nick.

She wanted to cry suddenly. She’d wanted to spend the day with him so much, and she’d missed their date. Not only that, but she’d hurt him. She’d stood him up.

Throat tight, she scrolled through the messages. The first was the one she’d seen that morning. She’d been about to answer it when Mr Solt had arrived.

I’m on the Tube!

I’m here!

Everything okay? Are we still having breakfast?

Joan, are you okay?

Joan swallowed around the lump in her throat. The first message had been sent at seven thirty-nine a.m.; the last at six twenty-three p.m. She stared at her phone, not sure what to say. In the end, she went with:

I’m so sorry. I’m okay. A family thing came up.

You stole time from that man, Gran had said, and then you used it to travel from this morning to tonight. You travelled in time.

Joan sat heavily on her bed. Her first terrible instinct was to put her arms over her head and block everything out. This couldn’t be real. She couldn’t bear it to be.

Gran had said that Joan had stolen time from Mr Solt, that he was going to die earlier than he would have because of her. But that couldn’t be true. Joan wouldn’t hurt him. She never would.

And the rest of it was . . . just impossible.

But the alarm clock said one fifteen a.m. That was real. And Joan had left for the café not an hour ago. That was real too.

Monsters. Joan’s family had always called themselves that. Why hadn’t Joan ever asked why?

She watched the alarm clock blink. The minutes ticked over at the same speed they always did. One forty-five a.m. Two thirty a.m. It felt unnatural to be this wide awake so deep into the night. It felt like being jet-lagged.

And that thought brought memories with it. Like how Ruth sometimes seemed hyper and then an hour later exhausted enough to fall into bed and sleep all night. Like how Bertie could change outfits five times in a day.

Ruth and Bertie . . . If this was true, then they’d known all along. They’d stolen life from people. He’ll die half a day earlier than he was supposed to, Gran had said about Mr Solt. Gran hadn’t even seemed to care. Like she really was a monster. The thought was unbearable.

Six thirty a.m. Seven thirty a.m. Sometime after that, Joan must have fallen asleep.

She dreamed that she was outside the café again with Mr Solt. Only this time, when he pushed her, she turned and put her hands around his neck and squeezed. He choked and struggled, but as big as he was, she was somehow stronger than him this time.

And then, like a flicked switch, day turned into night.

Mr Solt’s voice came out of the darkness. You’re a monster.

Joan woke up with a start. The curtains were open, and the sky outside was startlingly white. Joan reached up to cup her own neck, and felt the fragile flex of it when she swallowed. What kind of a dream was that? What kind of a person would have a dream like that?

Downstairs, in the kitchen, Ruth was eating toast with Marmite. The kitchen clock said three thirty. Joan couldn’t make sense of it. Ruth was eating breakfast. It was bright outside. The clock said three thirty. Those things didn’t go together. And then her sense of time abruptly reoriented: three thirty in the afternoon.

Ruth looked up. ‘Hey!’ she said. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t wake me up when you got home! Tell me about your date with the hot nerd! Tell me everything.’ She sounded so normal that Joan felt another swoop of disorientation. ‘Was it amazing?’ Ruth said. ‘Did you . . .’ She pursed her lips in an exaggerated kiss.

‘I missed it,’ Joan heard herself say.

‘You missed it?’ Ruth’s amusement faded. ‘You missed your date? What do you mean? You were so excited.’

Joan stared at her. Ruth’s hair was all teased up. Her jacket had big shoulder pads, and her makeup was a little smeared. She looked like she’d just come home from a 1980s costume party.

Or from the 1980s.

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Joan said slowly.

Ruth was starting to frown. ‘What’s true?’

‘We’re monsters,’ Joan said. ‘Real monsters. Our family steals life from humans.’

Joan couldn’t look away from Ruth’s familiar face. She’d known Ruth her whole life—since before she could talk. Sometimes, in the summers, they’d shared a room. She’d argued with Ruth over stupid things, and made up with her again. Stayed up with her all night, talking about everything. Joan’s throat felt chokingly tight. Laugh, she thought to Ruth. Please. Or be confused. Or deny it. Tell me I’ve lost it completely.