“I didn’t say I didn’t have help.”
“I did what I could for you, Dillard.” She sounded resigned and broken.
“I know. But this isn’t the place or the life for me anymore.” He started to tell her how close he came. How lucky she was that he was even still alive. But he couldn’t. Some things she never needed to know.
Dill’s mother smoothed her blouse, shaking her head.
“Is there any part of you that’s proud of me?” Dill asked. You already know the answer.
“The girls at work tell me I ought to be.”
“Are you?”
She looked at the ground. “I don’t know,” she said quietly.
Dill knew that he was supposed to feel hurt by that. Instead, he felt more of a residual, weary sadness. A fading bruise. Only the disappointment that her answer was exactly what he expected. No, not exactly. You expected an outright no.
His mother broke the silence by picking up her keys from beside the lamp. “I need to get to work.” She started out the door.
“Mama?” Dill said it before he knew what he was going to say next.
She stopped with one hand on the doorknob, the other pinching the bridge of her nose, her head bowed. She didn’t turn.
“I love you,” he said to her back.
She turned slowly. Tears filled her eyes. “I’m afraid of being alone,” she whispered, as though she were afraid that normal speaking would bring down some precarious barricade inside her.
“I know.” We all are. Dill stepped forward tentatively and hugged her. He hadn’t hugged her in a long time. He could feel the bones of her afflicted back and shoulders. She smelled like knockoff Ivory soap and powdered laundry detergent from a yellow box labeled “Laundry Detergent.” She covered her face with her hands and didn’t hug him back.
When Dill finished hugging her, she put her damp hand on his cheek. “I’ll pray for you, Dillard.” She sounded like she was leaving him to die in some wilderness. She tried to turn and leave before Dill saw the tears begin to stream down her cheeks in force, but she didn’t quite make it in time.
He sat for a while, gazing at the wall. He plugged in the air conditioner, got out his guitar, and played over the clatter, until Dr. Blankenship pulled up in his Prius and honked.
Dill unplugged the air conditioner and put his guitar in the case. He slung on his backpack and carried his two suitcases and guitar with a precarious grasp. He walked into the bright morning, feeling lighter and freer than he had ever felt.
Acknowledgments
From the bottom of my heart, I wish to thank the following people who made this book possible:
My amazing agents: Charlie Olsen, Lyndsey Blessing, and Philippa Milnes-Smith. My brilliant editorial team: Emily Easton and Tara Walker. Isabel Warren-Lynch and her talented design staff—Alison Impey for her incredible artistic vision for the book jacket, and Trish Parcell for the amazing interior design. Phoebe Yeh, Samantha Gentry, and everyone at Crown Books for Young Readers, and Barbara Marcus, Judith Haut, John Adamo and his marketing team, and Dominique Cimina and her publicity team at Random House Children’s Books.
My awesome readers: Joel Karpowitz, Shawn Kessler, Sean Leslie, Heather Shillace, Amy Saville, Jenny Downs, Sherry Berrett, Valerie Goates, Ben Ball, and Dr. Daniel Crosby.
SWAB.
The Bev boys: Jeremy Voros, Rob Hale, James Stewart.
My Guru: Fred Voros.
My fantastic bosses: Amy Tarkington and Rachel Willis.
Lindsay Reid Fitzgerald, for telling me I should write more.
David Arnold and Adam Silvera, for welcoming me into the brotherhood.
Dr. Ma?gorzata Büthner-Zawadzka, the first to call me a writer.
Jarrod and Stephanie Perkins, for always being there for me and for being such inspirations.
John Corey Whaley, for being all that I hope to be someday. The only thing rivaling your incredible talent is your generosity of spirit.
Natalie Lloyd, for constantly making me laugh and for Midnight Gulch and the magical worlds you’ll yet create.
My real-life Lydias: Tracy Moore and Alli Marshall.
Denise Grollmus, I will ever be in your debt. This book would not exist without you.
My fourth-grade English teacher, Lynda Wheeler, who made me believe I might be a storyteller.
Joe Bolton, for your poetry.
Everyone at Tennessee Teen Rock Camp and Southern Girls Rock Camp.
Everyone who said, even sarcastically, that I should write a book someday, because I generally understand even sarcastic compliments to be sincere.
Everyone who ever listened to my music and supported me. This book would not exist without the stories that began as songs. Those songs would not have existed without you.
The city of Nashville, Tennessee, for welcoming us back. The Nashville Metro Transit Authority for making your buses such a great place to write. Most of this book was written on your buses.
The Nashville Public Library system, Parnassus Books and Rhino Booksellers in Nashville, and Riverbank Books in Sparta, for existing.
My mom and dad, who instilled in me a lifelong love of books. Who read to me. Who dropped me off at the library with a quarter for the pay phone so that I could call for a ride when I was done spending hours there. You made this book possible.
My beautiful wife and brilliant best friend, Sara. Without your encouragement and support, I could not have written this or anything else. You are my world. You bring music to my life. And to my beautiful son, Tennessee. Thank you for being the perfect son and making me so proud always. I’ll never forget the mornings we spent both working on our books.
Love deserves monuments, and this is the only kind I know how to build. I’ll keep building them as long as I have strength enough in my mind and hands. I love you both. Thank you.
About the Author
JEFF ZENTNER is a singer-songwriter and guitarist who has recorded with Iggy Pop, Nick Cave, and Debbie Harry. In addition to writing and recording his own music, Jeff works with young musicians at Tennessee Teen Rock Camp, which inspired him to write a novel for young adults. He lives in Nashville with his wife and son. The Serpent King is his first novel. You can follow him on Facebook and Instagram, and on Twitter at @jeffzentner.
About The Serpent King, Jeff says, “I wanted to write about young people who struggle to lead lives of dignity and find beauty in a forgotten, unglamorous place. Who wonder what becomes of dreams once they cross the county line. This book is my love letter to those young people and anyone who has ever felt like them, no matter how or where they grew up.”