How did he find me?
Not as Nico. But even in different clothes and a new role as teacher, his smile was the same. Just for me and me alone, ignoring the other girls in the room, finding his special one with his eyes. His slow wink. What a bitch, he’d said that day, about Mrs Ali. Still on my side. No matter that I couldn’t remember who he was, then. He tried to push me, I see now, being so horrible about Ben. He was trying to make my memories come out from where they were hiding.
However he found me, he or some terrorist friend of his must have put Miss Fern in hospital so he could take her place at my school. Nico – or Hatten, as he is now – has gone to a lot of trouble, and there could only be one reason. To be in Kyla’s world. My world. But why?
My eyes widen.
What does he want with me?
The question barely forms before the images begin, tumbling through my mind one after another, faster and faster. Death and instruments of death: explosives and blasting agents, guns and incendiaries, where best to aim a hidden blade. Nico taught me so many ways to end life. Even with my bare hands.
No!
Yes. Just ask Wayne.
I spring up and start to run through the trees, away from Wayne’s body and back towards the road. NO, NO, NO, NO, NO screaming through my brain, pounding with my feet. I won’t! I can’t. I’m not that person, not any more.
What about Ben?
Ben. My steps falter. I look down at my Levo, so like the one we cut out of his life; perhaps taking his life along with it. 6.2? I twist it, hard, on my wrist: nothing. It should at least cause pain. With what I did this afternoon, I should be dead, zapped in my brain by this thing that has ruled my life ever since I was Slated. It is still on my wrist, but somehow blocked by new barriers in my mind.
What Ben tried to do was be free of his Levo, so he could make a difference. Do something.
And here I am. Free of my Levo.
Goose bumps tingle up my arms.
I lean against a tree and close my eyes. There are his: warm and brown. The ones that cared for me, no matter who or what I once was. Would he feel the same if he knew the truth?
I can’t believe he is stopped, has gone forever. Still and silent like the metal owl.
I WON’T believe it.
Nico might think I’m here to do what he wants, but he is in for a surprise. There is a price he must pay. He will help me find Ben, or I’ll have nothing to do with him or his schemes.
I whisper a promise to the trees and the wind, to the rain starting to fall from the sky, to the owl whose flight brought me to this place.
‘Ben, I’m going to find you.’
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Teri Terry has lived in France, Canada, Australia and England at more addresses than she can count, acquiring three degrees, a selection of passports and an unusual name along the way. Past careers have included scientist, lawyer, optometrist, and, in England, various jobs in schools, libraries and an audiobook charity. The footpaths and canal ways of the Buckinghamshire Chilterns where she now lives inspired much of the setting of Slated. She hates broccoli, likes cats, and has finally worked out what she wants to do when she grows up.
Say hello on Twitter: @TeriTerryWrites
Visit my Facebook fan page: TeriTerryAuthor
Website: http://teriterry.com/
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Big thanks to my agent, Caroline Sheldon, for taking a punt and getting Slated on all the right desks; to Megan Larkin, for taking it off her desk and running with it, and helping make it better; and to Thy Bui and everyone at Orchard Books who took my dream and turned it into something beautiful I can hold in my hands.
I owe a huge debt to all my Scooby friends at the SCBWI, and crit group buddies, past and present. Candy Gourlay and Paula Harrison were always there through the highs and lows: thanks for all the lunches and good advice! Candy, Jo Wyton, and Amy Butler Greenfield read and gave valuable comments on early versions of Slated. And thanks, also, to Lesley McKenna of the University of Bedfordshire, for asking so many really annoying questions, and making me look closer and deeper at what I was creating.
Stepping back, my high school English teacher, Cher McKillop, said I could be a writer. I didn’t believe her. Years later another friend, Kim Walsh, said the same thing. Other voices and circumstances along the way conspired to convince me to try, and then to keep on trying.
Before Slated there were all the other books: learning to write is a long and bumpy process, one where it is often difficult to see over the next obstacle. Anne Fine’s generous advice on my very first attempt went a long way to sorting me out. Jude Evans’ encouragement and input likewise.
I owe a special thanks to students at Lord Williams’ School in Thame, and also my Chatterbooks groups at Princes Risborough Library, for reminding me who I write for, and why I want to do it in the first place.
And, in the beginning, my parents: they put books in my hands when I could barely hold them. Libraries kept them full when they couldn’t keep up. I was that kid who was always falling asleep on her desk at school after reading all night with a torch so I wouldn’t get caught. Without libraries, could I have got to this place? I don’t think so.
Finally, behind the scenes: living with a writer isn’t easy. To Graham, Banrock, and muses everywhere: cheers!
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Table of Contents
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter Thirty Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty One
Chapter Forty Two
Chapter Forty Three
Chapter Forty Four
Chapter Forty Five
Chapter Forty Six
Chapter Forty Seven
Chapter Forty Eight
Chapter Forty Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty One
About the Author
Acknowledgements
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