Counting Wolves

by Michael F Stewart

  Sleeping Beauty’s expression remains flat and uncaring. She doesn’t believe I’ll do it. That I can do it.

  I sag onto the edge of her mattress. She’s right. It’s one thing to have a crazy idea, it’s wholly another to figure out how to execute it. It’s too late in the day to be discharged now, and the dance starts in less than an hour, so if I were going to do this, I’d have to figure out how to sneak out of here on my own. The thought sends blood pounding in my head. Maybe Bill is my safe person.

  Vanet walks past the room as I’m about to speak.

  . . . “Ha! Just what I need, a fairy godmother. Vanet?” I call, and he peeps inside. I wave him closer and his head swings left and right before entering.

  “Now we’re talking,” he says.

  . . . “I want to ask you a question.” The way his face droops would be comical if it weren’t so predictable; it does make me pause long enough that I have to count.

  “Oh, oh!” He waves his hands in front of my face. “Wait.”

  I count more slowly.

  From his pockets, he pulls three tennis balls. He gets two going, but when he adds the third, they bounce all over the place. “I can do it,” he says. “I’ve done it. Wait.”

  He snatches up the balls and starts again, two and then a third. “Gimme a fourth, I want a fourth.”

  He’s doing it, he really is, the balls are looping in the air, but Vanet always wants more. I glance around, but the only thing I see is Pig’s pencil sharpener. I hold it up.

  “Perfect. On three,” he says. “One, two, three!”

  I lob it into the air. He doesn’t even try, whirls on his toes and smacks the balls. The balls and sharpener fly in all directions, pencil shavings scatter. He stands there, grinning. “I did it. Told you I would. Now what is your fervent wish?”

  He glances for the balls again and I kick the nearest away.

  . . . “How would you break out of here, if you needed to?”

  He thinks about that. “Opportunity or emergency,” he says. “Either you wait for an opportunity like Peter took with the lunch lady, or you create an emergency and slip out in the confusion. Like your panic attack. I could have left a dozen times, the door was opening and closing like Pig’s legs.”

  Nice.

  “Where are we going?” he asks. “I accept your kind, if rather desperate, invitation.”

  . . . “You don’t even know what I’m doing. And I’m not desperate.”

  He shrugs as if this is the least of his worries. “I stay, I play ping-pong. I go, maybe I can get down your pants.”

  Why did I ask him? Because he’s the opposite of Bill. . . . “Promise not to do anything crazy?” I wince even as I say it.

  He salutes. “So where are we going?”

  . . . “Better put your dancing shoes on,” I say.

  “Awesome.” His eyes light and he rolls his hands before sticking his arm up in a classic disco move. “I’m such a good dancer.”

  I sigh. I’m the crazy one for asking him.

  . . . “On one condition—you have to help me get out of here,” I say.

  “Your wish is my command. Be ready for anything.”

  . . . “And, Vanet, it’s a costume party.”

  He skips out of the room. I can’t believe I told Vanet. I feel light-headed; I feel free. And nervous. Very nervous. Like vomit-nervous. This time it’s totally rational. After sweeping up as much of the pencil shavings as I can with my bare hands, I go through my clothes. Of course, Adriana didn’t provide anything suitable for a dance, but I do have a sheer camisole that goes well with a silk skirt. I put them on and then throw jeans and a shirt over the top. I don’t want anyone asking too many questions. Then I pocket some of Red’s very red lipstick. We haven’t spoken directly since I spilled the beans on her father’s abuse. I hope she won’t mind my borrowing her lipstick.

  I can, however, spend some time on my hair. I brush it out and then braid it into a crown.

  Vanet knocks on the side of the doorframe and whispers, “Start counting now.”

  It’s eight p.m. Vanet has not tried for low-key in his clothing choices. He’s dressed to the nines, wearing a shirt that’s a cross between chainmail and a mirror. His black jeans are so tight he must have spent the last hour getting them on, and his hair is gelled up in a faux-hawk. Pretty sure his skin is sparkling too. He’s got a plastic bag full of something.

  I’m out the door of my room and standing in the hallway.

  Then there’s screaming like I’ve never heard before. Vanet winks as he jogs down the hall from the acute room to grip my hand. Wolfgang bangs at his door, even though he can open it all by himself. Nurses scramble and a code is called.

  “Code white,” Stenson says over the PA speaker.

  When the outer door clicks open, two orderlies blow past and we curl out, me with the smallest of hops. The whole time I’m squeezing that ping-pong ball like mad. At the end of the hall, the elevator doors are open and we slide right inside.

  “Poop bomb,” Vanet says, but I’m preparing to count to leave the elevator so his words barely register. “I tossed a poop bomb at Wolfgang.”

  Elevators are tricky and, leaving it, Vanet has to hold the door open until I finish the count while the elevator car alarm buzzes in protest. Then I give another tiny hop. No one notices, but this is a hospital and patients come in all shapes, sizes, and degrees of bizarre. Soon enough we’re counting toward the exit. I break all sorts of counting rules, rushing and counting in my head.

  When we finally reach the taxi stop, my mouth’s dry from my near-constant whispering.

  “So what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?” Vanet asks. And I laugh and give him a high-five.

  . . . “It wasn’t a real poop-bomb, right? That would send Wolfgang over the edge.” I’m concerned; Vanet has a habit of pushing things. “What was in the plastic bag?”

  “Your leftover chocolate birthday cake,” he says, and holds the door to the taxicab wide open. “Happy birthday, Milly. Tonight, I am your disco dancing fairy godmother.”

  Chapter 26

  I keep glancing back to the hospital doors, expecting a platoon of orderlies to burst out bearing long needles. While the driver waits for directions, Vanet explains that I have trouble getting words out. The driver starts the meter.

  “We’re eloping,” Vanet says, taking advantage of my silence. “Young love, you know? Who would have thought we would have found it in here? But we did, except she has an inoperable brain tumor and I have this disease where my heart is too big from being so full of love. We both only have days to live, but that’s our infinity, right?”

  . . . “Hopedell High School, don’t believe a word he says.”

  “Don’t leave me at the altar, Guinevere, not like the last time.” Vanet clutches his chest in mock agony.

  The driver ignores us and turns out of the hospital drive.

  From his bag Vanet pulls a doctor’s long, white coat and a stethoscope. It’s perfect and simple. I take off my sweater and my jeans, which have bunched up my skirt. Vanet lifts his eyebrows suggestively and I shake my head, putting on the costume. I’m terrified and excited.

  . . . “We’re staying for one hour, no more,” I tell him. “I—”

  “You don’t have to explain anything to me, I’ve watched Cinderella so many times,” Vanet says. “Besides, I know what we’re doing. You want to make Bill jealous. Just you wait.”

  Is that what I want? No.

  . . . “Really, I only want to prove to everyone I’m normal. I’m still just me.”

  “Unlike me, who is not so normal,” he says.

  . . . “I—you know what? I wish I were a bit more like you. I really do. I wish everyone was.”

  He bursts into a grin. “Then tonight, Doctor Malone, you will have that chance.”

  Ten minutes later we roll into the school parking lot.

  Other kids are hanging out beside cars. Some wear costumes, mostly Scream masks and d
evil’s horns. I cringe at a wolf’s head. Someone hides a bottle; another, a rolled cigarette. Vanet insists on paying for the taxi, and I ask the driver if he can come back in an hour. It feels better to have a deadline, but the driver tells me to call the company when I’m ready.

  When I step out of the cab, nothing happens. The students return to their furtive drinking and smoking. I catch a scarecrow’s whisper, but maybe it’s not about me. After all, Vanet’s wearing a disco ball shirt. He comes around and threads an arm through mine, escorting me inside, slowing before we hit a doorway to allow me time to count. I feel wolfish eyes burn at my back. Our entry is seamless. As I pass my locker, I count to open it and stash my clothes.

  A teacher chaperon does a double-take when we skip into the gym, but that’s it. It’s totally normal.

  And then Vanet starts bopping to the beat.

  “Did I mention,” he says, shouting over the music, “that I’m the winner of many dance competitions?”

  I’m shaking my head, and I suspect he’s assuming I’m shaking it because I didn’t know this wonderful fact, not shaking my head to say, Please do NOT do this.

  The dance started about an hour ago, but aside from a few feet-shufflers on the outskirts and a giggling troupe of freshmen in a corner—two ghosts, six witches, five cats, a Batman, two Supermen, and a Wolverine—the stage is Vanet’s. At first Vanet’s funny, doing a disco routine and then some moves I don’t know the names for, but where he looks like a robot, an ancient Egyptian, or old-school Michael Jackson. Other kids have noticed, and I see they’ve made the connection between me and Vanet anyway, so I try to ignore the hollow feel of my stomach and join him. I copy the popping of his chest and shoulders, and he tries to teach me a routine, but it’s no good. He is actually not bad—not competition good or anything, but you can tell he’s spent too much time in front of the mirror practicing this stuff.

  Not only can I not hear a word he’s saying over the music, but I’m also nearly consumed by laughter half the time. I’m having more fun than I can remember having. Ever.

  Like every school dance I’ve been to, the DJ has no sense of timing. A critical mass of students has finally found the dance floor, but on comes some slow song to drive most of them back to the bleachers. I’m about to head over to the side of the gym when Vanet snatches my hand and pulls me into him. His cologne rolls over me, but I don’t resist.

  I haven’t counted in half an hour. Not once. There’s been no need. I’ve decided that I don’t have to count to laugh. And it’s weird because with Bill, I’m always counting, even when I don’t need to. Just in case. Just in case he says something to me and I want to seem as normal as possible by replying as quickly as I can. A rolling count, counting to speak—but having nothing to say.

  . . . “You are crazy,” I say to Vanet. “In a really good way.”

  His response is to grab my butt, so I brush his hand away. Students chat on the bleachers, but the one in the wolf mask stares. I shake it off. Who knows what the kid’s looking at beneath the dollar-store plastic? Vanet and I dance for another minute, holding each other. His wiry muscles pressed against me. If this kid can get his meds balanced, he’ll take over the world. I feel a sense of loss when the DJ begins to lay a heavy bass over the slow music. Vanet winks at me as we move apart, cooler air swirling between us. I’ve done what I came to do. To have some fun. To prove I could. To challenge authority, especially Adriana’s. I feel a little wild. A little like I’ve reclaimed some of the Dark Wood. The only person I haven’t seen is Bill, but why would he come without me?

  The drinking and smoking-up kids start to wind their way into the gym, and the DJ further ramps the music. A circle forms and a group of kids dressed as skeletons with glow-in-the-dark bones start showing off their skill. They’re the school’s hip-hop group and call themselves the Skeleton Crew. Vanet pushes his way to the circle’s edge, hooting at the tight moves and applauding.

  . . . “We should go,” I call.

  “A few more minutes,” he says, and he’s been so great that I relent.

  With all his antics and the shirt, Vanet’s hard to miss and finally one of the crew pops his chest out at Vanet and gives him the floor he so obviously covets.

  . . . “Don’t, Vanet,” I shout. “Please. We should go.” I really don’t want him to do this to himself—the night’s been so much fun, and I don’t want to wreck it.

  Vanet doesn’t look back. He strides into the center. The Skeleton Crew postures with calculated indifference. People clap to the beat. Only Vanet’s shoulders move as if he draws the throbbing heart of the music into him.

  That’s when I catch sight of Bill on the opposite side, the wolf mask pushed up onto his forehead. He would have seen me arrive with Vanet. Dancing with Vanet. Slow dancing with Vanet. And now he’s pointing at Vanet and laughing.

  Then . . . then Vanet goes insane.

  Chapter 27

  During the Olympics I like to watch gymnastics. It never ceases to amaze me how strong someone can be. Vanet’s like a gymnast. He does a flip from a stand. The circle grows wider and a huge cheer goes up. My jaw drops with the Skeleton Crews’. Vanet begins in earnest, and I can’t peel my eyes away even to find Bill.

  Vanet spins on his back, legs flaring and windmilling, until he shoots up into a one-handed handstand before spinning again, flipping up off the floor from his back. I cheer. It shrieks from my mouth. No counting.

  People are going mad, pumping their fists. Vanet runs, jumps, and slides his head along the ground, feet to the ceiling, sending girls shrieking. A delirious grin paints his face. Sparkles blaze from his shirt and I feel as though we’re orbiting him.

  Again he spins on his back, and then on his head before flopping onto his front like a corpse.

  There’s a burst of applause. The whole routine took no more than a few minutes, but no one steps up to follow it. No one goes in to replace him—who could?—but my smile falters when Bill holds out a hand to help him up.

  I rush forward, but everyone’s backslapping Vanet and pushing closer to . . . I dunno what they’re trying to do . . . touch him? Sweat shakes from his hair, which now points in all directions.

  . . . “Vanet!” I call, but the shout is lost to the beat of a new song. I jostle someone.

  “Hey, Mill, heard you were in the hospital.” It’s Stephanie, the video-everything chick. I try to ignore her, but she’s whipped out her phone. It’s in my face. “This is Steph Lattersby, reporting from Hopedell High School where Milly Ma—”

  “What do you plan to do with that?” I demand without counting, sensing that I’m burning through a valuable reservoir within me. “You want my picture? To video me counting before I respond?” I’m screaming now. “Listen, snot-smear, if you had any inkling of what some people go through . . . if you thought for just a second about the chick on the other side of that screen. You wouldn’t do that.”

  She’s dropped her arm and the phone to her side.

  I ignore her open mouth, and push forward. That felt good, but everything’s too close. Pressing. Vanet’s moved farther away, drawn by Bill and several others, the Screams and the scarecrow from the parking lot. Vanet’s nodding, his eyes bright with glee. He bounces with each step. Bill marches. Only once does Bill glance to me and then to Vanet. Bill’s back goes ramrod straight and his jaw sets. I’ve always loved that jaw, but now its hard line stabs fear through me. Bill’s friends nudge shoulders with fists and give nods before following on behind their leader; the pack hunts. The wolf mask gloats back at me. Everyone smiles at the teacher at the rear exit of the gym, and then they’re through. I must count. Refuel.

  My hour’s almost up. The night nurse will have checked our rooms long before now. A code will have been called. What was I thinking? And what’s Billy doing with Vanet?

  I hop through the doorframe, sighing at the odd look I get from the teacher.

  Bill took this route on purpose, trying to slow me down. It has so many doorways. Anger
burbles in my gut. I have three more doors to pass, the set of mid-hallway fire doors, another at the stairwell, and a final one to reach outside. I have to count. But Vanet can’t afford that. My hands clench into fists. I flex my jaw and get down in a sprinter’s crouch. I’m angry at myself, but I’m enraged at Billy. And anxiety isn’t compatible with rage.

  Ready. Set. Go!

  I blast through the fire doors, the same ones I’d cringed at with Stephanie and her video. I can’t tell if my racing heart is a panic attack or adrenaline. Another hundred feet, and I careen off one wall, hit a set of lockers, and then my shoulder hits the stairwell door. The walls, ceiling, and floor constrict. I kick the last door open before tumbling into the night air.

  On my knees, I draw too-quick, too-short breaths. I have to count.

  I’m too late.

  Vanet’s up against the school yard brick wall, beneath which I shoot hoops and play twenty-one. Two guys hold Vanet’s arms while Bill faces off. Now his feet bounce; he’s filled with energy.

  “Go away, Milly,” Bill says.

  My eyes narrow, but I’m whispering away the panic in my guts, damming an eruption of bile.

  “You’ve got time, she’s counting,” one of his friends says and then laughs.

  Vanet’s eyes roll with fear. I brought him here. This is my fault. Everything is my fault.

  “I need to teach him not to move in on another guy’s girlfriend,” Bill says by way of explanation. He wipes sweat from his forehead.

  No, not everything’s my fault.

  “What?” I ask. “You’re going to beat him up?”

  Bill hesitates. “Is this guy one of them?” He must read the question marks blazing in my eyes. “One of the psych kids. He is, isn’t he?”

  I can’t count. It will steel Bill’s resolve. “So what if he is?” I make it to my feet, but the tightening of my chest tries to anchor me. I stagger forward.

  “I was only going to scare him.” Bill throws up his hands. “Listen, I didn’t ask for all of this. You were quirky, that’s all. Not this.”