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Overview
before, his horrified mother tells him that he was found unconscious. At Featherdale
Wildlife Park. In a dingo pen.
He assumes that his two best friends are somehow responsible, until the mysterious
Reuben turns up, claiming that Toby has a rare and dangerous “condition.” Next thing
he knows, Toby finds himself involved with a strange bunch of sickly insomniacs who
seem convinced that he needs their help. It’s not until he’s kidnapped and imprisoned
that he starts to believe them—and to understand what being a paranormal monster
really means.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780547721958 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | HarperCollins |
| Publication date: | 05/08/2012 |
| Pages: | 416 |
| Sales rank: | 734,882 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.56(w) x 8.06(h) x 1.00(d) |
| Lexile: | HL640L (what's this?) |
| Age Range: | 12 - 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Chapter 1
You’ve probably heard of me. I’m the guy they found in a
dingo pen at Featherdale Wildlife Park.
It was all over the news. If I’d been found in a playground,
or on a beach, or by the side of the road, I wouldn’t have scored
much coverage. Maybe I’d have ended up on page five of some
local rag. But the whole dingo angle meant that I got national
exposure. Hell, I got international exposure. People read about
me in all kinds of places, like England and Canada and the
United States. I know, because I checked. All I had to do was
google “dingo pen” and— Pow! There I was.
Not that anyone mentioned my name, of course. Journalists
aren’t supposed to identify teenagers. In the Sydney Morning
Herald, this is all they said:
A 13- year- old boy is in a stable condition at Mount Druitt Hospital
after being found unconscious in a dingo pen at Featherdale
Wildlife Park, in western Sydney, early this morning. A park
spokesperson says that a dingo in the same pen sustained minor
injuries, which were probably inflicted by another dingo. Police
are urging anyone with information about the incident to contact
them.
As you can see, it wasn’t exactly a double- page spread. And
just as well, too, because when I was found, I was in the buff.
Naked. Yes, that’s right: I’d lost my gear. Don’t ask me how.
All I know is that I’m the luckiest guy alive. Being Dingo Boy
was bad enough, but being naked Dingo Boy would have been
much, much worse. I wouldn’t have survived the jokes. Can
you imagine the kind of abuse I’d have copped on my first day
back at school? It would have been a massacre. That’s why I’m
so relieved that nobody printed a word about the missing
clothes. Or the damaged fence. Or the cuts and bruises. Either
the newspapers weren’t interested or the police weren’t talking.
(Both, probably.) And I never told anyone that I was naked.
Not even my best friends. Especially not my best friends.
I mean, I’m not a complete idiot.
So there I was, in the dingo pen at Featherdale Wildlife
Park, and I don’t remember a thing about it. Not one thing. I
remember lying in my own bed at around 10:00 p.m., fiddling
with a flashlight, and then I remember waking up in hospital.
That’s all. I swear to God, I wasn’t fiddling with a tube of glue
or a bottle of scotch; it was an ordinary flashlight. Next thing
I knew, I was having a CT scan. I was stretched out on a gurney
with my head in a machine.
No wonder I panicked.
“It’s all right. You’re all right,” people were saying. “Can
you hear me? Toby? Your mum’s on her way.”
I think I might have mumbled something about breakfast as
I tried to pull offmy pulse oximeter. I was a bit confused. I was,
in fact, semiconscious. That’s what Mum told me afterward—
and when you’re semiconscious, it’s usually because you’ve
damaged your head or your spine. In the ambulance on your
way to hospital, you have to wear an oxygen mask and a neck
collar. And once you reach the Emergency Department, they
start checking you for things like leaking cerebral fluid. (Ugh.)
I wasn’t semiconscious for very long, though. At first I didn’t
quite know where I was. I couldn’t understand why I was lying
down or what all the beeping monitors were for. But the fog in
my head soon cleared, and I realized that I was in trouble. Big
trouble.
Again.
Just six months before, I’d been in the same Emergency Department
with two broken fingers, after my friend Fergus and
I had taped roller skates to a surfboard. (I don’t recommend
grass- surfing, just in case you’re interested. It’s impossible to
stand up.) So I recognized the swinging doors, and the funny
smell, and the bed- curtains. Even a couple of the faces around
me were vaguely familiar.
“What happened?” I asked as I was being wheeled around
like a shopping trolley full of beer cans. “Did I get hurt?”
There was a doctor looming over me. I could see straight up
her nose. “Don’t you remember?” she said.
“Nah.”
“What’s the last thing you can remember?”
“Umm . . .” I tried to think, but it wasn’t easy. Not while I
was being poked and prodded by about a dozen different
people.
“Do you have a headache?” someone inquired.
“No.”
“Do you feel sick in the stomach?”
“A bit.”
“Can you look over here, please, Toby? It is Toby, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Course.” At the time, I thought that they knew me
from my previous visit. I was wrong, though. They were only
calling me Toby because Mum had panicked. She’d walked into
my bedroom at 6:00 a.m., seen my empty bed, searched the
house, realized that I didn’t have my phone, and notified the
police. I don’t suppose they were very concerned at that point.
(It wasn’t as if I was five years old.) All the same, they’d asked
for a name and description.
So when I showed up at Featherdale, without any ID, it
didn’t really matter. The police were already on the lookout
for a very tall, very skinny thirteen- year- old with brown hair,
brown eyes, and big feet.
One of the nurses told me later that she hadn’t recognized
me when I first came in because there was so much blood and
dirt all over my face.
“Can you tell us your full name, Toby?” was the next question
pitched at me, from somewhere offto my right.
“Uh— Tobias Richard Vandevelde.”
“And your address?”
I told them that, too. Then I spotted the big jagged cut on
my leg.
“What happened?” I said with mounting alarm. “Is Mum
all right?”
“Your mum’s fine. She’s on her way here now. The police
called her.”
“The police?” This was bad news. This was terrible news.
“Why? What have I done?”
“Nothing. As far as we know.”
“Then— ”
“You’re breathing a bit fast, Toby, so what I’m going to do
now is run a blood gas test . . .”
I couldn’t get a straight answer from any of them, but I
didn’t want to make a fuss. Not while they were trying to figure
out what was wrong with me. They kept asking if I was in pain,
and if I could see properly, and if I knew what year it was, and
then at last the crowd around my bed began to disperse. It
didn’t take me long to realize that people were drifting away
because I wasn’t going to die. I mean, I’d obviously been downgraded
from someone who might spring a leak or pitch a fit at
any moment to someone who could be safely left in a holding
bay with a couple of machines and a really young doctor.
“Not all of these cuts are going to heal by themselves,” the
really young doctor said cheerfully as he pulled out his box of
catgut (or whatever it was). “We might give you a local before
we stitch you up. Do you know when you had your last tetanus
shot?”
Dumb question. Of course I didn’t. You’d be better offasking
me how many eyelashes I have.
“No.”
“Fair enough.” He didn’t seem too surprised. “Maybe your
mum can tell me.”
“Maybe I can tell you what?” said a voice— and all of a sudden,
there was my mum. She’d obviously had a bad morning.
Though she was dressed in her work clothes, with earrings and
fancy shoes and her good handbag, she hadn’t put on her
makeup or put in her contact lenses. And without makeup or
contact lenses she looks like . . . well, she looks like a nun or
something. It’s partly because she’s so pale and tired and
washed out and partly because she wears chunky, librarian- style
glasses.
“I’m Rowena Vandevelde,” she said. “Is there something
you wanted to ask me?”
“Oh. Ah. Yes.” The very young doctor forgot to introduce
himself. “I was wondering when Toby last had a tetanus shot?”
Mum knew the answer to that, of course. She also knew my
Medicare number, and the exact date of my last hospital visit,
and all the other boring details that I couldn’t have remembered
in a million years. Because she’s a mother, right? It’s her
job to keep track of that stuff.
I kind of tuned out while she was debriefing various people
with clipboards. I might even have dozed offfor a few minutes,
because I was really tired. But I woke up quick smart when the
very young doctor started jabbing needles into me. That was
no fun, I can tell you. And it seemed to last forever, even though
Mum tried to distract me with her questions.
The first thing she wanted to know was what happened.
“You tell me,” was all I could say.
“Don’t you remember?”
“Nope.”
“Nothing at all?”
I shook my head, then winced. “Ouch,” I complained.
And the very young doctor said, “Nearly finished.”
“What’s the last thing you do remember?” Mum queried.
“Do you remember leaving the house?”
“No.” A sort of chill ran through me. “Is that what I did?”
“You weren’t in bed this morning.” Mum’s voice wobbled a
bit, but she managed to hold it together. “They found you at
Featherdale.”
“Featherdale?”
“In the dingo pen.”
I’d better explain that I live quite close to Featherdale Wildlife
Park, so I’ve been there a few times. And I’ve seen the
dingo pen.
“Oh, man,” I croaked. It was hard to believe. But one look
at Mum’s face told me that she wasn’t kidding.
“Are you sure you don’t know how you got there, Toby?”
“Nope.”
“Do you remember going to bed?”
Casting my mind back, I could recall throwing offmy quilt
because it was so hot. I’d picked up my flashlight and shone it
at the stickers on the ceiling. The fan had been whirling around
and around overhead.
Could it have hypnotized me somehow?
“You weren’t very well,” Mum continued. “That’s why you
went to bed earlier than usual.”
“Yeah.” It was true. I’d been feeling a bit off, though not in
any specific way. I hadn’t been suffering from a headache or a
sore throat or a nagging cough. I’d just felt bad. “My stomach’s
still bothering me.”
“Dr. Passlow will be here soon,” the very young doctor remarked.
“He’s the pediatrician. You can discuss those symptoms
with him.” Then he patted my wrist. “All finished. Well
done. You’re a real hero.”
As he packed up his catgut and his bits of bloodstained
gauze, I tried and tried to recollect what had happened. I’m a
light sleeper, so there’s no way I could have been dragged out
of bed and carried offlike a baby. If I’d left the house, I would
have done it under my own steam.
But why? And how?
“You must have crawled out the window,” Mum volunteered,
as if reading my mind. “All the geraniums underneath
it were trampled.”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry.” Though I didn’t even know what geraniums
were, I figured they must have been important. Not to
mention fragile. “I don’t remember that.”
“Listen, Toby.” Mum leaned forward. She looked like a total
wreck— what with her twitching nerves and puffy, bloodshot
eyes— but her voice was still sweet and calm. Even when
she’s mad at me, she doesn’t sound as if she’s yelling or nagging.
I guess it’s because she’s a speech therapist.
Maybe she’s spent so many years teaching people to talk
nicely that she can’t stop doing it herself.
“If there’s something you don’t want to tell me,” she said,
“you can always talk to a professional. A counselor. I know
how easy it is to buy drugs these days— ”
“Mum!”
“— and if you were experimenting— ”
“I wasn’t.”
“— that would certainly explain what happened.”
“I wasn’t, Mum!”
“Are you sure?” She stared at me long and hard. “Think
about it. Are you absolutely sure?”
I couldn’t be sure. That was the trouble. I couldn’t remember
anything, so I couldn’t be sure of anything. Except, of
course, that I don’t usually mess around with drugs. The only
cigarette I’ve ever smoked made me really, really sick; I smoked
it at school, during recess, and when the bell rang for class,
I was too cheap to throw it away because it was only half
finished. So I quickly smoked the rest— in about ten seconds
flat.
Man, that was a bad idea. I nearly passed out. I thought I
was going to die. (From nicotine poisoning?) Practically the
same thing happened at Amin’s house when we discovered an
ancient bottle of port in his garage. We tried to drink the whole
lot before his dad came home, and I was puking for hours
afterward.
That was when I decided there are better ways to have
fun— like grass- surfing, for instance. I might have broken a few
fingers doing it, but at least I had fun. Chugging port, on the
other hand, isn’t fun. That stufftastes like cough syrup. As
for smoking cigarettes . . . well, I’d rather make stink- bombs
any day.
“I couldn’t have been stoned.” Upon mulling things over, I
was convinced of this. “I don’t have any drugs. Not even glue
or smelly markers.” The thing about drugs is they’re expensive.
Fergus has a brother called Liam who smokes a lot of marijuana,
and he never lets Fergus sample his stash because it
costs so much. It’s kept under lock and key, so there’s no way
Fergus could have got to it. And since I can’t afford an iPhone,
I’m certainly not going to be shelling out huge amounts of
dough for a few puffs of hydroponic. “There were no drugs in
my bedroom, swear to God.”
“But could you have gone out to get some, Toby?”
“No!” By this time, I have to admit, I was starting to panic.
It’s no joke when a whole chunk of your life has suddenly gone
missing. “Why would I have done that?”
Mum sighed. “Because Fergus asked you to?” she suggested.
I suppose I’d better explain that Mum doesn’t like Fergus
very much. She doesn’t mind my friend Amin, but she thinks
Fergus is a bad influence. It’s probably no surprise that she
wanted to blame Fergus for what had happened.
To be honest, I couldn’t help wondering about that myself.
“If you got involved in some prank, Toby, and you’re scared
to admit it— ”
“I don’t know.” That was the frightening thing. I really
didn’t know. “I can’t remember.”
“I won’t get mad, I promise. I’d be relieved.”
“Mum, I told you. I can’t remember! ” I didn’t want to start crying,
so I decided to get mad instead. “Why don’t you believe
me? It’s not my fault I can’t remember!”
“Okay. All right.”
“Why wouldn’t I tell you? I mean, I’m in enough trouble as
it is; how could it possibly get any worse?” I’d hardly finished
speaking when I was struck by a horrible thought. “I didn’t kill
any dingoes, did I?”
“No,” said Mum. “But the fence was damaged.”
“What fence?”
“The one at Featherdale.”
“Oh.”
“Which doesn’t necessarily mean that you were responsible,”
Mum quickly added, just as somebody pushed back the
curtains that were drawn around my bed.
I looked up to see a pair of uniformed police officers flashing
tight- lipped, professional smiles at me. One was a short,
blond woman who smelled of soap. The other was a tall, dark
man who smelled like fish and chips.
“Hello,” said the man. “How are you doing? Mind if we have
a quick word?”
What People are Saying About This
"Jinks has hold of a clever idea and a solid sense of humor."—Publishers Weekly
"The satire isn't all that's biting in this darkly comedic sequel to The Reformed Vampire Support Group (2009)."—Kirkus Reviews
Reformed Vampire Support Group
2010 ALA Best Books for Young Adults Nominated as a YALSA Teens Top Ten
"Jinks’s signature facility with plot and character development is intact as she turns to the topic of vampires—as fans can anticipate, hers are not the romantic superheroes of the Stephenie Meyers books....Throwing in delicious details and aperçus, the author works her way from the murder of one of the vampires to suspense and adventure of the sinister yet daffy variety beloved by readers of Evil Genius. The plot twists, more ornate than in previous works, ramp up the giddiness—and, perhaps, camouflage the corpses, blood and other byproducts of the genre." —Publishers Weekly, starred review
"Support Group is truly like no other vampire story. It is witty, cunning, and humorous, with numerous plot twists and turns. Jinks has conjured up an eccentric but believable cast of characters in a story full of action and adventure." —School Library Journal
"Jinks’s quirky sense of humor will appeal to fans of her Evil Genius series. Those tired of torrid bloodsucker stories or looking for a comic riff on the trend will feel refreshed by the vomitous, guinea-pig–drinking accidental heroics of Nina and her pals." —Kirkus Reviews
"The ill-assorted bunch of vampires in this offbeat Australian novel couldn't be further from the iconic image of the dangerous, sexy night creature....Jinks draws her characters and their unique challenges in great detail; though the adventure takes a while to get into gear, there's plenty of blood and guts (both types) to go around. One part problem novel, one part comedy, and one part murder-mystery, this alternative vampire story is for outsiders of all kinds, underground or otherwise." —The Horn Book
"Jinks takes readers on a wild ride, poking wicked fun at vampire enthusiasts of all stripes with her wryly clinical take . . . a first-rate comedy with equal appeal for avid vampire fans and those who wouldn't be caught dead with a copy of Twilight." —The Bulletin