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Chapters (79)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. One
  5. Two
  6. Three
  7. Four
  8. Five
  9. Six
  10. Seven
  11. Eight
  12. Nine
  13. Ten
  14. Eleven
  15. Twelve
  16. Thirteen
  17. Fourteen
  18. Fifteen
  19. Sixteen
  20. Seventeen
  21. Eighteen
  22. Nineteen
  23. Twenty
  24. Twenty-One
  25. Twenty-Two
  26. Twenty-Three
  27. Twenty-Four
  28. Twenty-Five
  29. Twenty-Six
  30. Twenty-Seven
  31. Twenty-Eight
  32. Twenty-Nine
  33. Thirty
  34. Thirty-One
  35. Thirty-Two
  36. Thirty-Three
  37. Thirty-Four
  38. Thirty-Five
  39. Thirty-Six
  40. Thirty-Seven
  41. Thirty-Eight
  42. Thirty-Nine
  43. Forty
  44. Forty-One
  45. Forty-Two
  46. Forty-Three
  47. Forty-Four
  48. Forty-Five
  49. Forty-Six
  50. Forty-Seven
  51. Forty-Eight
  52. Forty-Nine
  53. Fifty
  54. Fifty-One
  55. Fifty-Two
  56. Fifty-Three
  57. Fifty-Four
  58. Fifty-Five
  59. Fifty-Six
  60. Fifty-Seven
  61. Fifty-Eight
  62. Fifty-Nine
  63. Sixty
  64. Sixty-One
  65. Sixty-Two
  66. Sixty-Three
  67. Sixty-Four
  68. Sixty-Five
  69. Sixty-Six
  70. Sixty-Seven
  71. Sixty-Eight
  72. Sixty-Nine
  73. Seventy
  74. Acknowledgments
  75. About the Author
  76. Praise for Destroy All Monsters
  77. Books by Sam J. Miller
  78. Back Ad
  79. About the Publisher

Maybe it wasn’t trauma that made Solomon see the world as full of magic and monsters. Maybe it wasn’t his sickness. Maybe that’s just who he was. Special. Gifted.

Artists, writers, musicians—photographers—they all had to be able to tap into something (the other side) that wasn’t there, some other better world, and grab hold of things, and bring them back so the rest of the world can feel the magic too. Diane Arbus did it, at great personal cost. The world was better for having her photographs in it, even if that struggle ended up killing her.

With a shiver, I realized: It takes a very special kind of crazy to change the world.

Solomon was already in the car. When I got in, I didn’t ask him if he’d seen the blue fairy, or relay my conversation with the girl.

I looked at my list. So many dumb, gullible boys, so many petty, little crimes. Those football players weren’t blameless, but Sheffield was the twisted brain behind it all.

Sheffield was the one I needed to focus on.

But by then it was late. And my head was spinning. And we were hungry. So we headed for my house.

“Shit,” Solomon said. Because both my parents were sitting on the porch.

That afternoon, I’d told him that I’d told them. Seeing them, seeing how he stiffened in his seat, I grabbed his hand and held it tight. “Do you want to go?”

They stood up, came toward the car.

“No,” he said, but he sounded like a man going to the guillotine.

Before he’d taken a step outside of the car, my mother had him in a hug. My father put a hand on his shoulder.

“We are so, so sorry for what happened,” he said. “And I am so sorry for how I’ve treated you.”

In the kitchen, over coffee, once most of the crying was over, my father said, “I want to call a meeting, of the school board. We spoke with a lawyer—strictly confidential, and without giving your name, Solomon—and she thinks that could be a good place to start. At the very least, that man should not be allowed to continue to coach or teach anyone. But before I move forward, I want to make sure: Are you okay with this? We want to be really careful not to do anything that might hurt or further traumatize you.”

Solomon stared into his coffee cup. “Let me think about it?” he said, but I could hear the doubt in his voice. And the fear—the power Mr. Barrett still had over him. And my coffee turned to toxic sludge in my stomach.

I texted Sheffield: Can I come over?

Almost immediately, he wrote back: My mom’s got people over. And then: Meet up at the old movie theater? I sent an OK.