Andrew Smith - The Alex Crow

First published in the USA in 2015 by Dutton Books

a division of the Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

First published in Great Britain in 2015

by Electric Monkey – an imprint of Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2015 Andrew Smith

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

First e-book edition 2015

ISBN 978 1 4052 7342 8

eISBN 978 1 7803 1622 2

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Stay safe online. Any website addresses listed in this book are correct at the time of going to print. However, Egmont is not responsible for content hosted by third parties. Please be aware that online content can be subject to change and websites can contain content that is unsuitable for children. We advise that all children are supervised when using the internet.

For Chiara Luciana Smith, my beautiful daughter, who went with me to see the great welcoming mannequin that rises from the water.

THE ALEX CROW

Cover

Title Page

Copyright First published in the USA in 2015 by Dutton Books a division of the Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Electric Monkey – an imprint of Egmont UK Limited The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN Text copyright © 2015 Andrew Smith The moral rights of the author have been asserted First e-book edition 2015 ISBN 978 1 4052 7342 8 eISBN 978 1 7803 1622 2 www.egmont.co.uk A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Stay safe online. Any website addresses listed in this book are correct at the time of going to print. However, Egmont is not responsible for content hosted by third parties. Please be aware that online content can be subject to change and websites can contain content that is unsuitable for children. We advise that all children are supervised when using the internet.

Dedication For Chiara Luciana Smith, my beautiful daughter, who went with me to see the great welcoming mannequin that rises from the water.

Prologue: Here Is a Pinwheel

We Five Boys of Jupiter

The Great Welcoming Mannequin

Mrs Nussbaum, Larry, and the Snore Wall

This Is What We Do at Camp

Scary Stories

Marshmallow Jeff and the Boys from Earth

Demikhov’s Dogs and the Alex Cat

Teacher’s Pet and the Dumpling Man

Francis MacInnes in the Cemetery

So Much for Good Luck!

This Is Probably Why You Don’t Wake Up Sleepwalkers

Sock Puppet Jesus

Red Mercury and Bottled Water

Male Extinction

You Never Know

Crystal Lutz and Igor Zelinsky

The Yoke of Inauspicious Stars

Suck It Up, Iceman

All in the Name of Research, Ariel

Coffee for God

The Vernacular of Max

The Strange Case of Dr Alexander Merrie’s Siberian Ice Man

The Caboose of Natural Selection

SIM

The Book of Max and Cobie

I’m Still the Same Old Guy I’ve Always Been

A Little Game of Stones in a Grid

The Cat and the Mice

Fox in the Snow

Boys in the Woods

Major Knott

The Best Thing To Do with Ariel

Happy Birthday to Me

Something More Like Fondue

Out for a Walk While Our Porridge Cools

Up in the Woods a Way Up There!

American Airspace

Bringing Your Flag Back Home

The Melting Man and the Beaver King

Our Last Day in Jupiter

Sunday in Sunday

Max and His Brother

Epilogue: Mason-Dixon-Brand Sauerkraut

Acknowledgments

About the Author

“Here, kitty-kitty.”

The cat had a name—Alex—but General Parviz always called him in the same generic manner.

General Parviz, all gilded epaulets and clinking medals, a breathing propaganda poster, repeated, cooing, “Here, kitty-kitty.”

The Alex cat, a six-toed Manx, an official gift from the Hemingway estate and the people of the United States of America, swept its head from side to side, walking slow like a drowsy lion. The cat paused at the general’s slippered feet as though considering whether or not it actually wanted to jump up into General Parviz’s lap.

The general patted his thigh softly, beckoning.

“Kitty-kitty.”

The cat leapt soundlessly.

Then cat, general, palace, bodyguards, and approximately one-third the territory of the capital city blew up.

Here, kitty-kitty.

- - -

Here is a handful of dirt.

As far as its use as a medium for sustaining life—nourishing roots—it is perhaps the least capable dirt that can be found anywhere on the planet. To call it sand would be to give it some unwarranted windswept and oceanic dignity.

It is simply dead dirt, and it fills my hand.

I will tell you everything, Max, and we will carry these stories on our small shoulders.

On my fourteenth birthday, Marden and I played outside the village in one of Mr Antonio’s fields with Sahar, Marden’s sister. We would have been in trouble if we had been discovered. There was a funeral that day for Mr Antonio’s cousin who had been killed fighting against the rebels, so it was expected that everyone attend.

At school that morning, we performed a play. I had the role of Pierrot, Sahar my Columbine. One of the boys in our class played a joke on me: At the end of the day when we went to change out of our costumes to prepare for the funeral, somebody had taken all my clothes—everything—so I had to stay dressed as the mute white clown. I didn’t mind so much; the costume was loose and soft and made me feel disconnected, like a ghost drifting above the dead fields we played in.

“This is Mr Barbar’s ram,” Marden said.

Mr Barbar’s ram had been missing for more than a week.

Sahar and I grabbed small handfuls of dirt. We poured our dirt into the eye sockets on the rotting skull. What else would kids do? Playing with dirt and horned carcasses was a good way to have fun.

The thing looked like a caricature of the devil himself.

When the FDJA came to the village that day—it was just after the mourners arrived back from the funeral—four of them took all the boys and made us go up to the third floor of the school building. I was still dressed as Pierrot; nobody would confess as to who the thief of Ariel’s clothing was.

Of course, we all knew what was going to happen next, once the rebels got us into the upstairs classroom. We could already hear gunfire and cries coming from outside the school.