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  Scotch has never quite fit in. With her white Jamaican father and black Canadian mother, she doesn’t belong with the Caribbeans, whites, or blacks. Though recently she feels different for stranger reasons—her skin is being covered in spots of black stickiness that won’t go away no matter what she tries. Not to mention that she sees floating, bodiless horse heads that no one else can.

  But soon Scotch has even bigger problems. She’s out for a night with her brother when a bubble of light appears. Scotch dares her brother to touch it. He does, and then he disappears. A moment later a volcano emerges in Lake Ontario, and all Toronto is invaded by the Chaos.

  Scotch is desperate to find her brother, but she doesn’t know where to begin searching in a city gone mad. Mythical creatures such as Sasquatches are walking down the streets, and ordinary people are transforming in truly weird ways. Scotch herself is getting blacker and blacker. Can she find her brother before she becomes completely unrecognizable?

  Renowned author Nalo Hopkinson mixes fantasy and Caribbean folklore in this rollicking story of identity and self-acceptance in a world given over to Chaos.

  NALO HOPKINSON is the award-winning author of numerous novels and short stories for adults. Nalo grew up in Jamaica, Trinidad, and Guyana before moving to Canada when she was sixteen. This is her first young adult novel. To learn more, visit Nalo online at nalohopkinson.com.

  Margaret K. McElderry Books

  Simon & Schuster

  New York

  Watch videos, get extras, and read exclusives at TEEN.SimonandSchuster.com

  THE CHAOS

  MARGARET K. McELDERRY BOOKS

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Nalo Hopkinson

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  MARGARET K. MCELDERRY BOOKS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Book design by Debra Sfetsios-Conover

  The text for this book is set in Electra LT Std.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hopkinson, Nalo.

  The Chaos / Nalo Hopkinson.— 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Toronto sixteen-year-old Scotch may have to acknowledge her own limitations and come to terms with her mixed Jamaican, white, and black heritage if she is to stop the Chaos that has claimed her brother and made much of the world crazy.

  ISBN 978-1-4169-5488-0 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-4424-0955-2 (eBook)

  [1. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 2. Supernatural—Fiction. 3. Identity—Fiction. 4. Racially mixed people—Fiction. 5. Brothers and sisters—Fiction. 6. Family life—Canada—Fiction. 7. Toronto (Ont.)—Fiction. 8. Canada—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H778127Ch 2012

  [Fic]—dc23

  2011018154

  Deepest love and thanks to David,

  for powering me through the last rough patch of years

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks to David C. Findlay for creating the lines of spoken word poetry that Richard recites during the open mike.

  This book became stalled when a combination of new and chronic medical conditions overwhelmed my life partner and me, made us both unable to work, and tumbled us into four years of destitution and eventually homelessness. While we were struggling to regain some kind of balance and self-sufficiency, so many people looked after us in one way or another! I still tear up when I think of it. I’m enormously grateful for the wealth of love and support that helped me regain my strength and my ability to write. There are so many people to thank that I’d probably run out of space if I tried to do it here. Just know, each and every single one of you, that you’ve helped to give me the most precious gift: my life back.

  Thank you.

  NALO HOPKINSON

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Okay, people,” Mrs. Kuwabara called out cheerfully. I’d been back in school barely two weeks since summer break, but I’d already learned that our new English teacher was cheerful about everything. “The bell’s going to go in about fifteen minutes. Finish up the questionnaire you have in front of you now, because I have one more for you.”

  Beside me, Ben sighed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, God,” he muttered. “I don’t want to know myself this well.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Don’t people go blind that way?”

  Ben chuckled. Mrs. Kuwabara had decided that it would be a good idea to spend the first weeks of eleventh grade doing this boring old self-knowledge questionnaire, a little bit every English class. She’d told us that no one was ever going to read them unless we gave them permission, not even her, so we should write whatever we wanted. I ask you, what was the use of doing all that work in school if you couldn’t even get a grade for it?

  Mrs. Kuwabara handed Jimmy Tidwell a stack of sheets of lavender-colored paper. He blushed. He was all elbows and angles and zits, and he fell over his own feet as often as he walked on them, and he blushed at everything. He was mad good at trig, though. And a decent private tutor, once he got absorbed in the work and stopped blushing and stammering. His face crimson, he stood up and started handing the sheets out to the class. He was cute, in a skinny white boy kinda way. He always tried really hard to talk to my face, not to the front of my sweater. That earned him extra points in my book.

  I reread the part of the last questionnaire I’d just spent thirty-five minutes filling in. Mrs. Kuwabara had copied the questionnaire onto sunshine yellow paper. Mrs. Kuwabara was big on colors. At the top of the sheet, printed in swirly black letters surrounded by scrollwork, were the words:

  FIVE THINGS THAT MAKE YOU HAPPY

  The rest of the sheet had five boxes, made up of more swirly scrollwork, for filling in the answers. I’d written:

  1. Wine Gum jelly candies, but only the black ones. I think they’re supposed to be licorice flavored, so I should hate them because I hate licorice, but black Wine Gums don’t taste like licorice at all. Wine Gums don’t even have any wine in them, either. I know, because when I was little, my parents checked the list of ingredients before they’d let me eat any. Maybe those black ones aren’t licorice at all. Maybe they’re meant to be black currant, or something. The other colors taste like ass. Can I say that? Oh, right; Mrs. Kuwabara won’t be reading this, so I can say whatever I like. Problem is, you can’t buy a roll of Wine Gums of just one flavor. So I get Glory to buy them and give me the black ones. At least, that’s what I used to do back when Glory and I were still friends. Ben doesn’t eat candy. He’s watching his figure. Really, it’s weird how much I love black Wine Gums, seeing as other gummy things freak me out.

&nbs
p; 2. Hailstorms in the middle of summer. First time I saw one, I was a little girl. Maybe eight years old. I stepped outside our house in the middle of a boiling hot summer day, and little stinging things were pelting my skin. At least, that’s what I thought they were at the time. They lay there, sparkling clear in the green grass, melting even as I watched. I went inside and told my dad that there were diamonds on the ground outside. He’s the one who explained hail to me, but I still like to think of it as diamonds falling from the sky.

  3. Hanging out with my friends Gloria and Ben. At least, I did like that. I still like it now, even though it’s only me and Ben any more. We can talk about anything—why boys are so dumb (Ben thinks boys can be dumb, too, even though he is one); why girls are so dumb; whether you should keep your eyes open or closed when you kiss someone, and if you keep your eyes open, how you stop yourself from laughing at how funny someone looks that close up with their pores showing and their eyes crossed from trying to look back at you; whether it’s better to have a happy life and die young or to have a miserable life and die old. I met Glory and Ben when I transferred to this school in grade nine. We hang out together, but not like the Thompson Twins. Ben’s on and off dating this boy named Stephen, and Glory’s trying to steal my boyfriend. Okay, he’s my ex. But that’s why I’m not talking to her anymore, ’cause she turned out to be such a big skank. I used to think that together, me, Ben, and Glory could do anything. Now I think that about just two of us. I mean, right now, it’s kind of like a three-legged stool with only two legs, you know? But Ben and me, we’ll figure it out. Human beings can walk and run, and we only have two legs. Right? It’ll be okay.

  4. Dancing. Even though I’ve been missing practice lately, and I can’t get that new move that stupid ol’ Gloria came up with for the life of me, but I’m still the only one on our team that can do that move where you lean backward until your upper body is parallel to the ground. It’s because of my thunder thighs. They’re strong enough to hold me up, no matter what I do. To me, all kinds of things dance. The words of a poem are a dance. My dad’s Jamaican accent is a dance. I can memorize anything, if it dances. That’s how I used to be able to make fun of the way my dad speaks, even when I didn’t understand all the words. I don’t make fun of him anymore, though. There’s no fun at all in our house anymore. And it’s Dad’s and Mum’s fault.

  5. Boys. The geeky, awkward kind that never seem to know where to look, but they always end up staring right at your chest and then they’re embarrassed they did that so they try really hard not to but it’s like they can’t drag their eyes away, and all the time they’re going on and on at you about the coefficient of a polynomial or how many rare issues of the very first Dolphin Man comic they have, or something else that no one cares about but them. And the first time you kiss them, they think it was an accident, and they always ask you if it was good for you, too, and yeah, that’s a total cliché. But they mean it, and I think that’s sweet. Don’t get me wrong; I like the fine-looking guys too, with their muscles and their baggy jeans and their swagger. But with them, it’s like you’re seeing a package in a pretty wrapper; you’re never sure whether you’re going to open it and find the bestest present you ever wanted, or something that totally sucks. The geek boys wear their insides all on the outside, you know? With them, you know what you’re getting, because they have no talent for hiding who they are.

  Mrs. Kuwabara had said we should keep all the sheets in one place, to review when we’d filled them all out. So I folded the piece of paper and stuffed it into the front pocket of my knapsack, where I’d put “My Five Favorite Colors and Why I Like Them” (one of them is kelly green, because it’s the color of that amazing dress that Lil’ Bliss wore on the BET Awards this summer) and “Five of the Best Things I Did on My Summer Vacation” (I’d crossed out things one, three, and four because they were all things I’d done with Glory, so now when I thought about them, the happy was spoiled by knowing what a bitch she was being). I pushed the three sheets down to the bottom of the knapsack pocket, ignoring the rustling sound they made when I crumpled them. Jimmy Tidwell held a sheet of paper out to me. I reached for it, but took him by the wrist instead. I swear his face went purple. “Hey,” I murmured, “wanna hang out during break?”

  “Uh, you mean, like, with you?”

  “Yeah, with me. What’d you think?”

  “But we already worked on next week’s math homework.”

  “So, what; we can’t just hang out?”

  From behind me, I heard Gunther Patel snicker. I turned in my seat. He was leering at me.

  “What’s with you?” I asked, sneering.

  He used his tongue to puff out the side of his cheek, twice. He hated it that I laughed whenever he whistled at me in the parking lot. I said, loudly, “You wish.” Mrs. Kuwabara heard me, just like I’d planned. She looked up from her desk.

  “Is something the matter, Sojourner?”

  Gunther scowled. I smiled sweetly at him. “Nothing at all, Miss,” I said.

  Ben whispered, “Good for you.” I grinned my thanks. He’d coached me well.

  Gunther mumbled, “What do you know about it, you fag?”

  Ben picked his pencil up and started writing on his sheet, but I saw the devilish grin on his face, and I knew that Gunther was going to get it good. “Honey,” Ben said, squeezing every ounce of his blackness into that one word and speaking just loud enough for the few people around us to hear, “I’m more man than you will ever be, and more woman than you’ll ever get.”

  Panama whooped. “Lord have mercy! Sorry, Mrs. Kuwabara. I’ll behave myself now, Miss.”

  For the umpteenth time I envied Panama’s strong Jamaican accent. Mrs. Kuwabara called out, “Jimmy, now’s not the time to be talking with your friends, dear. Please keep handing those sheets out.”

  Panama looked up in mock alarm. “Me, Jimmy’s friend? As if.”

  God, girls can be so mean. Jimmy’d been kinda gaping stupidly at us. He blushed and scurried along on his task. Gunther pressed his lips together and stared furiously down at his paper. Served him right. When boys try to embarrass you like that, it’s easy to stop them. So long as the girls don’t get into it. Because once the girls decide to turn against you, next thing you know, you’re the school slut and everybody’s spreading these insane rumors about you blowing the whole basketball team in the locker room, and people are throwing rocks at you when you’re trying to walk home from school. I took my sheets out of my knapsack and erased my answer to number five on the “Five Things That Make You Happy” sheet and wrote:

  5. I am thrilled to pieces to not be in my old school anymore.

  I looked at the new questionnaire, and groaned under my breath. This one read, “Five Things That Scare You.” I sighed and started filling it out. I wrote:

  1. Gunther Patel’s haircut. Didn’t that bowl cut thing go out in the old days with, like, the Beatles?

  2. Getting someone else’s chewed-up wad of gum on me. It really freaks me out. I’m terrified it’s going to get into my hair. With all these curls I have, I’d never get it out.

  3. Letting my big brother, Rich, down.

  I tugged my right sleeve down over my wrist. Last night’s dream had been the usual kind of odd dream I’d been having lately. I was walking in the sun on someone’s crop acreage, past beds of spinach, vines of beans climbing wire cones, knee-high eggplant bushes weighed down with shiny purple eggplants. Daddy’s voice was murmuring something indistinct in my ear, although I couldn’t see him. His happy voice, not the fretful, angry one in which he spoke almost all the time nowadays since we’d moved. But then his voice started getting a little angrier and a little more fretful every second as I trudged past stalks of corn, beds of tomato bushes. And I knew that when I went around the next patch of tomato bushes, there would be something horrible waiting for me. . . .

  4. This stupid skin condition I’ve got. Just when everything was starting to go great. I thought I’d finally figured out thi
s school, and Rich was finally back home. And then this crap started happening. I don’t think the ointment is working.

  What else was I really scared of? I gave the classroom a quick scan. It looked perfectly normal at the moment. Whew. On the lavender sheet, I wrote;

  5. None of your damned business.

  If I’d been being honest, I would have written, People finding out about me.

  The bell rang.

  “Thank God,” growled Ben. I think the whole class probably felt the same way he did. You could almost hear the relief in how quickly the chairs scraped back as people gathered their things and leapt up. Second to last period of the day! One more class, and then it was hello, weekend.

  “Okay, people,” said Mrs. Kuwabara. Cheerily. Again. “Hang on to that sheet, and we’ll finish filling it out on Monday.”

  Ben whispered into my ear, “Which ‘we’ she talking about? She not filling out this blasted questionnaire.”

  I giggled. “It’s teacher speak. You know how it is.” As we stepped out into the hallway, we were hit by the deafening noise of hundreds of teenagers laughing, arguing at the tops of their voices, banging locker doors, shouting greetings to each other in the last precious fifteen-minute break of the school day.

  Ben asked me, “Did you just invite Jim Tidwell to hang out with us during break?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ben looked incredulous. “But he’s such a dork!”

  “A sweet dork. Sweet counts for a lot.”

  Jimmy was standing by one of the water fountains, trying to look casual. I waved at him. “Hey, Jimmy!”

  Ben sighed.

  Jimmy came over. “Uh, look, I gotta meet my friends. We have this, uh, thing . . .” He stared shyly at the ground.