The Mostly True Story of Jack by Kelly Barnhill Page A

air.
    He caught it, and Wendy’s face froze, then fell.
    “What?” Jack asked. “What is it?” But the groundunder his feet still rippled and waved, and Wendy looked at him as though looking at a ghost.
    “How did you do that?” she whispered. She stepped backward, nearly tripping on the sidewalk.
    “Do what? Come on, Wendy, let’s get out of here.”
    “I’ll see you—” she began, taking two more steps backward. “I gotta get home.” She turned and ran, disappearing into the dark.
    “Wendy!” Jack called. “Wendy, come back!” But she didn’t come. And Jack stepped on his skateboard and sped home, listening to the rhythmic whisper of the wheels against the long, dark road.

Chapter Sixteen
Knowing and Not Knowing
    T HE CATS DIDN’T STAY LONG—ONLY LONG ENOUGH TO drive a fearful Mr. Perkins under his desk and give him a nasty scratch below his eye. In a blur of silver fur they were gone.
    Mr. Perkins sighed, shuddered, and crawled out from under the desk.
    “Oh God,” he moaned. “What will Mr. Avery say?” He mopped the sweat off his face with his hand, then reached into his pocket to grab his handkerchief. But instead of the blue hankie, heavily embroidered withmoons and stars by his dear, late mother, he pulled out a small bundle of handwritten sheets of paper. Five pages, copied by hand, from the good Reverend’s diary. “What will he say, indeed?”
    Mr. Perkins smiled.

    Jack never told his aunt and uncle about the theft, and while the touch and weight of the book in his hands gave him some relief, there was, still, in the pit of his stomach, a kernel of dread. And he could feel it growing.
    To ease his mind, he started heading out on his skateboard every day. What was once an awkward jumble of arms and legs barely balanced on four wheels was now an exercise in speed and fluidity. He moved easily from one end of the town to the other, going so fast and smooth, he felt he might be flying. Jack carried the book with him everywhere—sometimes in his backpack but more often tucked into his pants, with the belt cinched tightly. He read it faithfully now, often taking notes, and always sketching as he read.
    This part was written by Clive himself, in his spidery, slanted script, on page 309:
    In the center of the world, where the wide land spreads itself to meet the wider sky,there lived two Ladies, one good and one bad, each one hard at work spinning a magical cloth. Each morning, the good Lady gathered thread made from the excesses of joy. She gathered the shimmering remains of dreams, the debris of abundant hope, and the happy cries of children, echoing across the prairie. Her cloth was beautiful, but the work was painstaking and slow.
    The wicked Lady, on the other hand, thought it was easier to lay traps for men, women, and children in the tall grass. She waited until they cried out in fear and pain, and offered to comfort them with a kiss. She took their souls as payment for their freedom and cast them aside as empty husks. Quickly, Her cloth grew in length and beauty.
Only a few more feet,
thought She,
and I shall have enough cloth to cover the hill, the field, the land, and the wide, wide world.
    In his own notebook, Jack wrote:
Clive thinks that people disappear. So does this Reverend guy. And that… something takes their souls. (Probably not true. Maybe people leave out of sheer boredom.)
People keep attack cats. Are there attack cats in San Francisco?
Mr. Avery’s in charge of… everything. And no one likes him. How does he get all that power? What does he have that no one else does? (Clive and Mr. Reverend Guy would say magic. But they’re nuts. What is it really?)
When someone is split into a good half and a bad half, does that mean the person’s brain is cut in half too?
This town makes me itch.
    That last one was becoming more troublesome by the day. It started as a mild irritation at the back of his neck and forearms. Now Jack itched all over. It was as though his skin had