
Welcome to my tour stop! Check out an excerpt and giveaway below...
By Virginia Bergin
YA Dystopian, SciFi
Hardcover & ebook, 352 Pages
November 5th 2018 by Sourcebooks Fire
Summary
She’s been taught to fear him.
He’s been taught to fear her.
What if they’re both wrong?
In River’s world, XYs are a relic of the past, along with things like war and violence. Thanks to the Global Agreements, River’s life is simple, safe, and peaceful…until she comes across a body in the road one day. A body that is definitely male, definitely still alive. River isn’t prepared for this. There’s nothing in the Agreements about how to deal with an XY. Yet one lies before her, sick, suffering, and at her mercy.
River can kill him, or she can save him. Either way, nothing will ever be the same.
Praise for the Book
Winner of the James Tiptree Jr. Literary Award
“A primer for Margaret Atwood’s adult works” –Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books
“The XY explores ideas about stereotypes, power, and personal responsibility within a unique and intriguing world. It will leave its audience questioning the role of gender in social development.” –Foreword Reviews
“Bergin uses a clever premise and vividly sketched characters to illustrate the importance of compassion and inclusion.” –Publishers Weekly
“Bergin’s matriarchal world building is fascinating...Hand to teens thirsting for an original tale.” –Kirkus
Excerpt
Chapter 1
Consciousness
The person leaps up,
there’s a hand across my mouth before I can even scream, the other arm wrapped
tight around me, and my brain is exploding—instantly—with shock and horror and
fear and anger and confusion CONFUSION
CONFUSION because who would just ATTACK another person and—
“Who’s with
you? Huh?!”
The voice! Growling and sick
and deep and broken and stinking.
MAN
MEN
MURDER
GUNS
WAR
KILL
Every strange and scary
thing I’ve ever half heard said about XYs comes bursting into my head, but it cannot be. It cannot be.
“Don’t make me
hurt you, junior!” vile breath threatens.
The grip tightens. The grip
HURTS.
WHY would this person be doing this?!
WHY WOULD ANY
PERSON DO THIS?!
So maybe this person is
crazy, so maybe this person has taken drugs, so maybe whatever sickness this
person has got is causing this madness—
“STOP IT!”
My cry muffled wordless by a stinking, sweaty palm.
“Shuddup!”
I get shaken. I get
squeezed. It HURTS. So who cares who this is and why? So NO WAY. So I kick.
Kick, kick, kick. Boot against shin. Boot against shin. I get another shake and
squeeze, then dragged back so fast my boots can’t get to shins, but I stamp
down hard on a cloven hoof, and the stinking breath lets out a growl that ends
in a moan of pain.
“DON’T MAKE ME
HURT YOU.”
Who would say
a thing like that?!
I plant another kick back
hard. SHIN!
There is a roar of pain. And
words that roar louder:
“Stop-or-I-swear-to-God-I’ll-kill-you.”
I go limp. It’s not that no
one swears “to God”—some of the granmummas still do. It’s that no one, no one… Who would threaten to KILL a person?
“You on your own?”
The grip releases just a
little—and I feel it: I feel how weak this person really
is. One glance down at the bicep on the arm of the hand that’s pinned across my
face tells me this body is used to hard work—but sickness trembles in those
gripping arms.
“Are ya? Well, are ya?!”
I nod my head. My ribs hurt.
My face hurts. My mouth is dry with fear and shock—but my eyes and nose?
They’re running. With anger. I feel angry.
The
strange, sick, nasty, wild person hesitates…then releases me.
I wipe the trail of tears
and snot from my face.
“I do a mile in six point
eight. I press sixty.”
I have no idea what this
means. I have no idea how to respond.
“So don’t you bother trying
to run, and you should definitely not bother trying to fight me. You will lose.”
The creature
wipes my snot off the back of its hand, looking up and down the forest road.
Then it looks at me. “Wait a second—have you got a transmitter in?! Your tag—”
It lurches forward, grabbing
my upper arms and squeezing them.
“What, did they stick it in
your leg? They did that to me once—”
“Get off me!”
I pull away as it grabs at my thighs.
“Shut up! God, you little
screecher! No wonder you’re not tagged. You ain’t even on T-jabs, are you? How
old are you, kid? Hey! You’re okay now! Okay?”
The insane question settles
it. This person is an unknown kind of person. A person who
hurts and scares and then asks how you are. A person I must get away from. I
nod at it, sniffing hard.
“Then quit with the
blubbering, kid.”
No one,
not even Granmumma Kate, would tell another person to stop crying. Anyone who
doesn’t know that is definitely an unknown kind of person. Maybe not even a
person at all.
“Name’s Mason,” the creature
says, holding out a hand.
Courtesy dictates a hand
held out is a hand to be shaken, that the cheek of the person holding out that
hand is to be kissed. I take the hand and, swallowing revulsion with my own
snot, lean in to kiss.
“What the hell
are you doing?!” it says, shoving me away.
It. That’s what this is. No human being I have
ever met would behave like this.
“Where did you ’scape from
anyway? You weren’t hell bound, was you? Come on! What unit you from? What
d’you call yourself? I’m not gonna tell anyone, am I? Who’d I tell?! Why’d I tell?! How long you been out for? You don’t look that
sick. Did you get proper sick yet? Where’d you get that horse from? I mean,
that is an actual horse, right?”
I nod. I have to get away
from it. I have to think. I have to stay calm—and keep it calm,
that’s what I decide—because something in its ranting, in its questions asked
with no wait for an answer, reminds me of my own granmumma, whose temper can
feed like a fire on any sort of disagreement.
“An actual horse… I thought
they’d be smaller…” it says, almost to itself, contemplating in amazement.
“How’d you even steal that?!”
I just smile politely. The
smile feels wonky on my face.
“God’s sake…” It grins at
me. “How are you alive, li’l thief? Hah. How’d you manage it? You’re a walkin’
freakin’ miracle, ain’t you? You got anything to eat and drink in that bag,
have you? You got water?” It holds out its filthy paw, its hand making gimme! baby grabs in the air. “Come on now, little brother.
Don’t hold out on me.”
Little brother. Brother… I slide the backpack from my shoulders and it snatches
it.
“Siddown, bro,” it tells me.
Bro? I crumple to the ground where I stand. It
plonks itself down too—close. Grabbing-distance close.
“See now, we gotta share and
share alike, ain’t we?” it says, ripping open the backpack. “Us ’scaped ones,
that’s what we gotta do. We’re brothers in the face of death now, brothers in
the face of death… Oh, do NOT tell me you’ve been eating this stuff,” it says,
holding up a bunch of freshly dug carrots. “KID! This is goddamn filthy jungle
poison, that’s what. You eat this stuff, you’re dead in two seconds, not ten.
Get me?!”
It shakes the carrots in my
face, then flings them aside. Soil still on them, but Milpy doesn’t care, comes
plodding up to munch, cart trundling behind, and the creature jumps back to its
hoof feet. It looks around, then staggers to grab a branch—a poor choice, so
rotten looking it’ll probably crumble immediately, but still…Milpy, munching.
No one hits her, not even Lenny. She just gets shouted at. She doesn’t often
listen. I have no idea what Milpy would do if someone struck her—only that she
would NOT like it.
“No!” I can’t help myself.
“She won’t hurt you!”
The creature eyes the huge
power of Milpy, chomping.
“She’s just hungry!”
“That so?” it says, watching
Milpy crunch.
Painful seconds tick.
“That’s a she
horse?” it asks.
I nod and watch the creature
watch Milpy—Milpy watching it right back, her nostrils flared, scenting, her
ears unable to decide between laying back in irritation (because—really!—what
is this nonsense on the way home?!) and pricked, twitching, listening (strange it, strange smell, general strangeness). Still: fresh carrots?!
Too good!
“What’s that you got in that
wagon anyway?” it asks, pointing at the cart.
“Apples?”
It picks up an apple. It
examines the apple. It bites it. It spits it out.
“Brother, these ain’t
apples!” it says, shaking its head at me, wiping its mouth. A convincingly
human look of disgust and pity on its face.
With watchful eyes on Milpy,
it sits back down. Places that branch down on the road, and I can see, for
sure, that it is rotten—orange-and-white fungus all over it, wood lice tumbling
out, escaping from its broken ends. I’ve been hit by kisses harder than that.
It rummages again, trying
the next compartment in the backpack. Pulls out a cloth-wrapped package,
unwraps it.
“And what is this?” it asks.
How could
anyone not know these things?!
It’s sniffing the loaf of bread. My cousins’ gorgeous sourdough. Fresh baked.
“Bread.”
“Don’t look like bread.”
It sniffs some more, bites
down slowly, tears away a mouthful. It chews, eyes on me.
“’S disgustin’,” it mumbles,
but it keeps on chewing, biting off more, like it’s ravenous, while the other
greedy hand searches, finds my water bottle, and…suddenly it tosses the loaf at
me, and I catch it.
Regret
that immediately: shows so clearly I am watching, alert.
It eyes me.
“Why doncha take a little
bite of that yourself?”
Terror alone would stop me.
I have also been stuffed full of cake at my cousins’ house, but I have got to
get out of here, so I pull a chunk of bread off—away from the creature’s bread-mauling
area—and take a bite.
It, Milpy, and I chew.
Me and Milpy are watching
it.
It is watching us.
It unscrews my water bottle,
sniffs…
“Water,” I whisper.
It glugs—and glugs.
“Don’t taste right neither,”
it mutters—and my heart skips a beat as it pulls my knife out of the backpack.
My good knife, my favorite supersharp blade that was given to me by Kate.
Belonged to my great granpappa.
It releases the blade—seems
to know just how—and holds it up. The blade of the knife shines true in the
late, dying sun.
I feel my whole body tense
up so hard any fearful shaking stops.
“Was you thinking to stab
someone, little brother? That what you was thinkin’ of?”
That’s a thing men did,
isn’t it? That’s what I’ve heard. Kate says women did too, but Mumma says there
are statistics. Men stabbed people, shot people, killed
anyone. Prisons rammed full of them and still they did not stop.
“’Spect you’d like to stab
me right now, eh?”
It makes a tutting sound and
waggles the knife at me.
“It ain’t the way, li’l
brother. It ain’t the way. I mean…I guess sometimes it maybe has to be the way,
right? We’ve all seen that. But—”
Something in the backpack
catches its eye. It pulls it out, the jar of honey, holds it up with a puzzled
look.
“Honey.”
“Think so?! I’ve heard of
that!”
It drops the knife—blade
open—on the other side of its body and manages to get the jar open. Scoops out
a fingerful and sniffs it. Looks suspiciously at me.
“You first,” it says,
offering the fingerful.
Its hands… They are so
filthy.
It grunts. “Brother, we are
both gonna die anyways,” it says, honey running down its finger. “Welcome to
the jungle.”
With my mouth, I take the
honey from its finger.
The touching of it, the
creature, makes me shudder.
“That good, huh?” it says
and delves another filthy finger into the jar, shoves it into its mouth, and
sucks it.
Its eyeballs roll back.
“Sweet!” it says. “That is good, ain’t it? So, kid, you
gonna talk to me?”
I can see huge beads of
sweat popping out on its forehead. I am sweating too. My sweat is fear; its
sweat is sickness—pouring out of it. It keeps eating though, grabbing the bread
back, dipping chunks into the honey jar, swigging at the water—and all the while
mumbling talk and questions at me. I don’t answer. I see streaks of blood in
the bready mix of chewed-up food in its mouth, and it winces when it swallows,
rubbing at its throat. And its stomach? I hear loud gurgling and churning,
smell the stink of vile farts.
“So how come you ain’t sick?
I been loose FIVE WHOLE DAYS—got sick DAY ONE. Had to drink goddamn filthy
water got green stuff growing in it. Green stuff! Veg-et-able material growing in the freaking water! Brother, come on, might as well
name your unit—and don’t go telling me you’re Alpha material, because I know a
Beta boy when I see one…but how come you ain’t on the T-jabs? You oughtta be by
now! Kid, you got X-S body fat. X-S! Round the ass—and your pecs! Serious!” it
says, jabbing my left breast.
I flinch and shrink and
twitch to run.
“Whoa! Don’t get all like
that! Them flabby pecs is probably what’s keepin’ you alive! You’re probably
digestin’ yourself!” it laughs, ripping off bread and dunking it into the
honey.
It raises its eyes from the
jar, studying me as it chews.
“Hey, it doesn’t matter at
all now, does it?”
I study it right back. I…say
nothing. My mind has landed in a bad place. My mind has landed in a place where
the thought that cannot be is.
“D’you even know where you
are, Beta boy? ’Cause I sure as hell don’t! Hellhole, brother! In-fin-it-y of
it! Know what that means? Endless, my brother. This goddamn jungle goes on
forever.”
It doesn’t. It goes to the
village. I’m no great runner, but I think, if I can remain calm, I can outrun this
sick thing.
“Yup, we is lost…lost and
damned and done for. So this is just great, ain’t it? This is juuuuuuuust
ber-illiant. Two runnin’ dead men sharing a last supper and only one of us got
anything to say.”
“I just want to go home,” I
whisper. I am telling it to myself. I am willing it to happen.
“Yeah, I’ll bet you do. Ah, HELL—it ain’t me you’re scared of at all, is it? It’s the
wimmin, ain’t it? Oh God! You seen them? Have you seen wimmin?!”
I nod the tiniest of nods. I
feel physically sick—but not as sick as the creature. It’s rubbing its belly,
sweat popping, hairy face grimmer than grim.
“You seen wimmin…around
here?”
I nod an even tinier nod.
“Je-sus.” It wipes a shaking
hand across its filthy hair, eyes darting. “They’ll kill you quicker than the
jungle, if they don’t—Kid! Oh God, oh brother mine…did they…mess with you? No
shame here, brother. If them wimmin touched you, it ain’t your fault. We all
know that. We all been told what wimmin’ll do to any ’scaped male they find—and
if they done it to you, IT AIN’T YOUR FAULT. No shame on you, no blame on you.
IT AIN’T YOUR FAULT. You listen to Mason now.”
I shut my eyes, just to make
it STOP for one moment, but the sound of the thing retching makes me open them
again—it’s doubled over, gripping its belly, head sweat falling like raindrops.
“Get out of here,” it says,
voice twisted with pain.
I edge myself up, onto my
knees, then one foot to the ground, knuckles to the concrete, willing power
into my legs. It looks up at me, fighting whatever agonies I can hear battling
in its guts.
“D’you hear me? Don’t let
the wimmin get you!”
It doubles up again with a
horrific groan. My legs tense with sprint intention.
It vomits—bread and honey
and water and…blood? I should run. I should run—but, even in a nightmare, who
leaves a sick person?
“Go,” it says,
wiping its mouth. “Brother: die free.”
About the Author
Virginia Bergin is the author of H2O, which The Horn Book Magazine called “Inspiring.” She lives in Bristol (UK). Visit her online at virginiabergin.com and on Twitter @VeeBergin.
Tour-Wide Giveaway
2 Copies of The XY
Runs November 6th – 30th (US & Canada only)
a Rafflecopter giveaway
On tour with Sourcebooks.
I read H2O years ago and it was a crazy ride! I'm hoping to read this one soon. How about you?
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