Boy 2.0, page 1
Praise for Boy 2.0
“I’m honestly not sure how Baptiste spun biology, anthropology, chemistry, politics, and foster care into a suspenseful romp about family and the extraordinary nature of ordinary people, but she did. And it’s masterful. Is Boy 2.0 the origin story of our new favorite superhero? Or a metaphoric nod to the lives of everyday Black boys in America? Or . . . both? Either way, this is a special, special read.”
—Jason Reynolds, New York Times bestselling author of Long Way Down and Twenty-Four Seconds from Now . . .
“Tracey Baptiste blends heart-wrenching realism with unpredictable science fiction to create an unputdownable tale about a boy’s quest to find the truth about his family and his power. Baptiste cleverly tackles real-world issues in a story filled with Easter eggs and plot twists that are sobering, eye-opening, and downright irresistible.”
—Kwame Alexander, Newbery Medal–winning author of The Crossover and The Door of No Return
“Captivating. Innovative. Original. Perfection. Tracey Baptiste is a masterful storyteller. Once again she’s given us compelling characters and an unforgettable story about the magic and miracle of family, friendship, and legacy.”
—Renée Watson, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Black Girl You Are Atlas and Piecing Me Together
“Propulsive and dazzling from the very first page, Boy 2.0 is as ingenious as it is impossible to put down. An astonishing book.”
—Anne Ursu, National Book Award longlisted author of Not Quite a Ghost
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by Tracey Baptiste
Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
Algonquin Young Readers
Workman Publishing
Hachette Book Group, Inc.
1290 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10104
workman.com
Algonquin Young Readers is an imprint of Workman Publishing, a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Algonquin Young Readers name and logo are registered trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Jacket design by Marcie Lawrence; interior design by Andrew Wang
Cover copyright © 2024 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Workman books may be purchased in bulk for business, educational, or promotional use. For information, please contact your local bookseller or the Hachette Book Group Special Markets Department at special.markets@hbgusa.com.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 9781643753812 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781523529896 (ebook)
For our sweet and beautiful boys
Contents
Praise for Boy 2.0
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
About the Author
pagelist
i
iii
iv
v
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
ii
Landmarks
Cover
Dedication
Copyright
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Also by
1.
Let’s start with the car and the kid in the back seat and the woman driving it. She is looking straight ahead as if a slight pivot right or left might indicate that she cared even a little bit. The boy already knew she didn’t. Care. It was rare any of them did. That was the job. Too many kids, too many bad situations. It was easier for them to detach. It had been a while since he had to be moved to a new place, so he almost forgot what people like this lady were like.
It was quiet in the car, but the sound of screaming still rung in the kid’s ears. The safest place he’d known had turned dangerous at the snap of a finger. He still didn’t know what had gone wrong. He focused on the things he knew. It was Tuesday. September. Evening. The weather was trending toward cool. He knew better than to ask what had happened to Tom, his guardian of the last three years. Quiet Tom who suddenly started screaming. Gentle Tom who had been waving a knife when the kid was pulled to safety. The kid looked at the woman driving the car. But he knew that even if she had any answers, she wouldn’t tell him.
He looked out into the darkening sky as the last hints of sunlight shone between the buildings. The neighborhoods changed. The houses got smaller and closer together. The streets narrowed. Wood fences gave way to chain-link.
The car hit a bump and the kid’s backpack slid off the seat with a thud. Still no movement from up front. Not even a twinge of concern in the laser-focused eyes in the rearview mirror. A real pro, this lady. The kid closed a hand firmly on the backpack’s strap. It had his notebooks, pens, plastic baggie full of chalk, sketch pads. His other hand draped over a black duffel bag that contained everything else he needed. Clothes. A couple pairs of sneakers. An embroidered baby blanket.
The car stopped in front of a two-story cream-colored house with lots of flowers in the garden and in pots that hung from the porch ceiling. A scruffy shrub fence that was in desperate need of trimming leaned all around it.
The lady parked the car, said, “Hold on,” and then exited.
A tall, dark-skinned man, not quite as dark as the boy in the back seat—but then few were—answered the door. He smiled. Nodded. Looked toward the car. The lady returned and knocked on the kid’s window.
“Okay,” she said. That was it. Okay. Not welcome to your new home. Not I’m sure this is a little startling. Not your new foster family’s name is . . .
The boy slid out, pulled his backpack over his shoulder, and dragged the duffel bag across the seats. He walked awkwardly behind her onto the creaky porch. The man stepped out.
“Let me help you with that,” he said, reaching for Coal’s duffel. Another smile. It was friendly. Not even a hint of pity, which was unusual. The man held the bag against his body with one hand and extended the other. “I’m Jackson McKay,” he said.
The boy took his hand and got a firm, warm grip.
“Win Keegan,” the lady said. “This is where you’ll be staying.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Win!” Jackson said. “That’s a great name.”
“So you’re all good then,” the lady said. Not a question. Barely a statement. She was already turning to leave.
“We’re all good,” Jackson said.
The boy didn’t turn back. What would have been the point? He didn’t know this lady. And she had done nothing to make his day one iota better. That was why she didn’t get named in his story. She didn’t matter. He decided he wouldn’t even remember her face.
Jackson stepped aside for him to walk in. “I bet this is weird,” he said. He put the bag down near a shoe rack and indicated that the boy should take off his sneakers. “So what do you like to be called?” he asked. “I mean, Win’s great, but I don’t like to assume.”
“Most people call me Win,” the boy said.
“Okay. How old are you, Win?”
“Thirteen,” the boy said.
Jackson nodded and gestured for the boy to follow him. They walked down a short hallway until they stood between two bright rooms. There were kids in both. Two girls in the dining room sat at a long table hunched over books. One of them looked a couple of years younger than him. The other was in first grade, tops. An older boy—judging by his height and the little bit of scruff on his chin—was in the living room draped over a flowered couch with an open book covering his face.
“You’re not going to learn anything like that, Aaron,” Jackson said.
“I’m absorbing,” said the voice under the book.
“Osmosis is not a practical study strategy. Also, Win is here. Come on.”
Aaron lifted the book. “Hey,” he said. Then he added, “What do you go by? He? They?”
“He is fine,” the boy said.
“Me too,” Aaron responded with a nod.
“Hi, Win!” the two girls at the table said at the same time. The younger one, with a deep-brown tone like Jackson and plaited pigtails, grinned half a mouth of teeth and clutched a small furry thing in her hands.
The kid liked the vibe he was getting from the family, so he decided to take a chance. “Actually, I like to be called Coal.”
“Coal,” Jackson said. “Well, all right, then.”
“Coal?” the older girl said. “Like charcoal? The combustible or the art supply?”
“Coal,” Aaron said, “because he will give you a look that burns right through to your core.”
“Coal,” the little one said, “like what Santa will put in your stocking if you’re bad.”
“Coal,” Jackson said, “like what a phoenix rises out of.”
“That’s ash,” the older girl said. She smoothed an unruly curl that had sprung from her bun back away from her eyes. She was a lighter tone than her sister and had Jackson’s coily hair.
“Ash is a cool name,” the younger girl said. “Can we call you Ash?”
Coal found himself laughing. He shook his head. “Coal’s fine.”
“Technically,” the older girl said, “coal is chunky. Not fine.”
“So that’s Mari and Hannah,” Jackson said.
Mari saluted, and Hannah grinned again while holding up her stuffie—a sloth—for him to see.
“This is Missus Quickness,” Hannah said.
“Of course, Han, I almost forgot,” Jackson said. “And our oldest is Aaron.”
“He’ll be the one trying to boss you around,” Mari said.
“Nobody bosses anybody here,” Jackson said. “You are the boss of yourself.” He squeezed Coal’s arm gently. “Within reason.”
“Got it,” Coal said.
“You hungry?”
“A bit.”
Jackson took Coal by the shoulders and steered him into the kitchen. It smelled like freshly baked bread. “You’re in luck. I just finished up a batch of croissants, but there’s also shepherd’s pie if you want. The temp really dropped tonight, right?”
“Yeah, it did.”
“I know today’s been a tough one,” Jackson said. “Anything you need, I’ll try to get it for you.”
Coal ran his finger across the edge of the table. “Tom,” he said. “Do you know what happened?”
“He’s been taken to Holy Angels Hospital,” Jackson said in a softer, more careful voice. “He’s on a psychiatric hold for forty-eight hours. I don’t know anything else, but we can try to find out.” Jackson hesitated, with one hand already hoisting the shepherd’s pie dish.
“So he might be back home after that.”
“Unclear,” Jackson said. “You’ll be with us for . . . however long you need to be. Is that okay? Candace will be back soon. She knows more than I do. About pretty much everything.” He smiled sympathetically and served Coal a heaping portion of shepherd’s pie and put the plate of croissants in front of him. He poured him a glass of orange juice and plopped a couple of cookies on another plate, then sat opposite Coal at the kitchen table.
It seemed like the end of the Tom conversation, so Coal began to eat.
“It’s just the five of us,” Jackson said. “We’ve never been a foster family before, so this is all new.”
Coal took a swig of juice. Jackson topped off the glass.
“We also weren’t quite prepared for you tonight, everything happening so suddenly and all.”
