As Silver Is to the Moon

by R A Watt

  “And what if the transformation is faster?” Mrs. Leclair asked, looking up.

  Everyone was quiet; someone’s feet shuffled nervously.

  “I will allow you to stay here on one condition: if he comes close, you shoot him and end this. There are still three silver bullets left downstairs. Do any of you know how to use a pistol?” she asked.

  Sybil nodded. “I do, and it’s a deal. If he attacks us, I will warn him, and if that doesn’t work, I will take care of him.”

  A mixture of worry and relief crossed Mrs. Leclair’s face. “Yes, but what I’m afraid of is you trying to warn him. There might not be time. Don’t hesitate, child. Just do it.”

  Chapter 27

  Sleep was difficult those next few nights, and I continued my nightly prayers for Rachel. I dreamt of her each night, hopeful each morning she would wake up.

  Dressing for school was frustrating, to say the least. My shirts were tight, and my jeans were worse—shorts were the only option. Even though they were against school rules, I had to wear flip flops until I could convince my dad for money to buy new shoes.

  There was an excitement among the group of us. Sybil was quiet, but that was normal. There was no update on Rachel, and Sybil checked her phone constantly during class. Given the situation, the teachers let it slide. Despite my protests of innocence, Sybil said the family still didn’t want me to visit Rachel. How could they think I was capable of hurting her? She was all I thought of lately. Well, her and my situation.

  Even more whispers seemed to surround me those next few days than when I’d first started school here. I heard the words Rachel, drugs, New York, bad kid, and other things like that. They whispered so quietly I shouldn’t have heard anything—but I did.

  And the smells.

  Just talking to people, I could almost taste what they had for dinner the night before. I could detect fish sauce and rice vinegar around Kevin. Jermaine’s was more straightforward—burgers.

  The cafeteria was at first difficult to sit in, the smells in there were overwhelming. Especially the East Indian foods that were warmed up. Where once I thought Indian food all smelled the same, I could now discern layers of different spice scents all comingled together. I wanted so badly to walk around and sample everything, but I stuck to my sandwiches that now seemed like such a bore. I wanted steak or chicken. Or lamb.

  “Hello? Teavan?” Kevin waved his hand in front of me; I was lost in thought about food as we finished our lunch.

  “Huh? What?” I shook out of it.

  He laughed. “Bro, you are zoned out. I asked how you feel? Jermaine was just saying how you walk differently. Bigger strides, like you’re more confident today. Do you feel more confident?”

  I hadn’t heard anything they were talking about, but as I considered his comment, I did feel different. Not necessarily confident, but like I just didn’t care as much? More goal-focused, like on getting to class quickly rather than trying to stay on the periphery of people’s sight.

  “Maybe?” I answered.

  Kevin checked his phone. “We gotta go, boys. Gym starts in seven minutes.”

  Traditionally, gym class was a favorite of most guys my age. To skip lectures, if nothing else. For me, it was anything but enjoyable. Hobbling, tripping, and limping my way as best I could was the norm.

  This day was different.

  “Mr. Laurent. Is there a reason why you are wearing flip-flops to my Phys Ed class?” Mr. Bigley asked as we lined up in the gym after changing.

  “Sir, my shoes. They don’t fit; this is all I have,” I answered as everyone laughed and stared at my feet.

  He rolled his eyes. “Fine; you are excused from participating. You don’t need to wear sandals in the future to be excused.”

  The class filed outside for a warm-up run and then a lacrosse scrimmage. I caught up to the teacher and tapped his shoulder. “Mr. Bigley? Can I still play today? My sandals are fine.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Wait. This time you want to play?”

  Shrugging, I held up my foot and answered, “I’m feeling better today.”

  “Suit yourself,” he answered. “Just don’t roll your ankle: those aren’t proper gym shoes.”

  Even with flip-flops on, after a slow and awkward start, I was able to figure my stride and catch up to the leaders as we completed two laps around the outdoor field to warm up. I’d never jogged that fast or that smoothly in my life. Even with expensive prosthetic shoes.

  And I could have gone faster. I smiled to myself, holding to a non-official third place at the finish.

  Lacrosse went even better.

  Trying moderately hard, but not my hardest, I was probably the best player in terms of raw physical skill on the field. Everyone noticed, and lots of people commented to me, especially from my team.

  Joel got more and more physical as the game went on, frustrated by my newfound speed and skill. My flashy goals against his team probably hadn’t helped the situation as I taunted him for failing to stop me from shooting.

  Every time I got near him—if the teacher wasn’t close—he cross-checked me. I was caught off-guard the first time and stumbled, but came to expect it after that.

  With a minute left in the scrimmage and the score tied, Simon threw me the ball as I neared the opposing team’s goalie, preparing to shoot. As I wound up, it was as if everything shifted to slow motion.

  As I looked to the upper left corner of the net, the goalie unconsciously moved there to stop the shot. But then his focus shifted behind me with a slight look of alarm. The hair on my neck stood, and I instinctively braced my legs and bent forward, holding my lacrosse stick in hand with the ball firmly in its netting.

  From behind, a body slammed into me. It was Joel, and he clearly hadn’t expected me to bend over at the last second. His aimed cross-check at my shoulders missed, and his momentum carried him over my back and sent him sprawling to the ground.

  The goalie looked down at Joel in surprise as I stood up straight and whipped the ball into the lower right corner of the goal.

  There was no chance he could have saved it.

  My team cheered from behind and the tie was broken. Looking at Joel, who was staring up at me, I winked and said, “Nice try.”

  He glowered at me, wiping the dirt from his bloody elbow.

  I probably should have been more humble about the game, but it was the first time I’d ever been the hero in any sporting event.

  My smile was impossible to contain as Mr. Bigley blew his whistle and my team patted me on the back with lots of “Great shot” comments as we headed inside.

  As we shuffled to the changing room, I wished Rachel had been there to see me, but then felt guilty for being so shallow as she lay unconscious in a hospital bed.

  Wednesday came with no improvement in Rachel. Her body was healing, but she was still in a coma-like state and unresponsive. The doctors seemed very hopeful, however.

  As Thursday night loomed closer, our group’s anxiety hit new highs. Each of us had arranged to sleep at another’s house, hoping none of our parents would question the others. At our age and on a Thursday, we weren’t too concerned.

  As I emptied books from my backpack into my locker after school Wednesday, a shadow appeared at my feet; someone was behind me. A sick feeling crept over me.

  “Hey, Gimp.”

  I turned around. Mike Thompson was standing there with a fake smile on his pimply face. Though we now were almost the same height after my little growth spurt, he still probably had twenty pounds on me.

  “Screw off,” I said, turning back to my locker.

  “I got a message for you, Gimp. Bruno is out front, wants a friendly chat,” he said.

  Kids started to gather around, a semi-circle forming. I could almost hear the smile in his voice.

  Pretending to be interested in my locker contents, I ignored him.

  The instinct to move alerted me just a split-second too late as he shoved me against the open locker frame. M
y head hit the side of it with a thud.

  “I’m talking to you, boy!” he snarled from behind.

  Within an instant, rage and an adrenaline rush swept over me. Before he could say anything else, I spun around and grabbed his shirt at the chest with both hands, catching him completely off guard. I violently pushed him backward to the opposite wall of lockers, and his body and head slammed into the metal doors with a clang that echoed in the corridor.

  Mike’s face turned from astonishment and surprise to anguish as the crash reverberated through his body and up into his skull. He tried to slump down, but I held him hard against the bent lockers, not allowing him to fall.

  “Call me gimp, one more time!” I screamed in his face, spittle flying from my mouth.

  His eyes were rolling around involuntarily, but he raised his arms, trying to pull free of my grip. As his weak hands yanked at my wrists, I turned and flung him across the tiled floor.

  He stumbled, fell, and then rolled before coming to a stop ten feet away.

  My rage was only beginning. He tried to curl up as I stomped toward him.

  “Yeah? Where’s the tough guy, now?” I yelled, my fists up, hoping for him to stand and hit me.

  A hand grabbed my shoulder. Just as I spun around to crank whoever it was, I detected the unique smell of Sybil’s shampoo and stopped my fist instinctively just inches from her wincing face.

  She opened her eyes cautiously and glared at my retreating fist. “Teavan, stop!” she hissed. “You need to leave. Come on,” she ordered me as I tried to control my urge to turn around and finish Mike.

  Just as she grabbed my bag from the floor, everyone scattered. Mrs. Pringle, our geography teacher, stepped into the hall.

  “What is going on out here?” she asked, looking around, then seeing Mike on the ground. “What happened?”

  Sybil tried to pull me away, but I resisted, and pointed down at Mike. “That guy is from Baker, here causing trouble. I think he must have tripped.”

  The teacher looked around, confused, but nobody said anything, including Mike, who tried to stand, rubbing the back of his head. “I was just leaving,” he grumbled and avoided eye contact.

  Mrs. Pringle walked him to the front of the school, and we all followed. Everyone was talking and whispering, while Sybil pleaded with me to go the other way. Jermaine and Kevin were quiet. Across the street, Bruno and Jed sat on the grass beside the parked Jeep, safely off school property. Mike hobbled over to them.

  Mrs. Pringle shouted across the road, “You kids go home, or I’ll call your principal and get him involved. You have no business here unless you have a game. Now go.”

  Bruno raised his hands in mock defeat. “We’re going, we’re going. We don’t want no trouble.” Then he looked at me with a smirk.

  “I wondered, Laurent, when I heard I supposedly beat you up but you had no bruises. I guess everyone was right: you must be on drugs!” he shouted. Everyone looked at me for a response.

  But Mrs. Pringle raised her mobile phone, holding it out like she was about to make a call.

  Bruno and the guys jumped in the Jeep. “All good, teacher. We were just leaving. I got the information I needed.”

  Chapter 28

  “You think it was a test?” Sybil asked Jermaine as we walked our bikes toward her house after. We thought it best we see her home safely.

  Jermaine bit his lower lip. “I dunno. It was just weird, you know? Like, why would Thompson come to the school and egg Teavan on to start something? It’s like Bruno sent him in to see. And, I mean, if he did bruise you up on Saturday, now he’s seen that you’re not only fine, you’re even better.”

  That rattled me. Did they still not believe me? “Bruise me up? Jermaine, he broke my arms. It wasn’t a bruise. I didn’t imagine it.”

  Jermaine looked sheepish. “I hear ya man. Just saying. It’s just weird and all.”

  Everyone was silent for a few moments, then Sybil spoke. “Well, he knows now. You could have put Mike in the hospital, and he’s bigger than you. And you have no injuries. So if there was any wonder about—your condition—then it's settled.”

  I guessed she was referring to the potential genes I may or may not have inherited.

  Kevin shook his head. “If we know about him changing tomorrow, then he’ll suspect you will too.”

  “And what does that mean?” Jermaine asked.

  Kevin’s fingers massaged his imaginary chin stubble. “I don’t know, Bro, but it can’t be good.”

  The tension and fear about Thursday night hung heavy on all of us as we quietly made our way home.

  Happily—for me—my dad bought me some new shoes at McNally’s after dinner that evening. So that was a plus.

  And Honey, she acted strangely all night, whimpering and giving me odd looks. Like she was unsure of me; or maybe it was just that she sensed my anxiety.

  Before bed that night and after my prayer for Rachel, I read for almost an hour; but then I laid awake until well after midnight, unable to fall asleep.

  Just before I finally drifted off, I heard howling in the distance.

  It was like a warning.

  It was three in the morning when I woke, the normally peaceful figure of Honey on my bed missing. Moonlight streamed in through the old curtains flanking the window. Clicking noises came from the hall—or from the kitchen. I figured my dad must be up making a snack, so I wandered over. The kitchen lights were off, and his door was closed as I walked by his room. As was Suzanne’s.

  “Honey?” I whispered in the dark.

  There was no response, just some light tapping on the front door.

  At once, I knew who it was this time. It was her.

  Except I also realized I was in a dream, and I willed myself to wake.

  It didn’t work.

  She pounded now on the front door. Even though I knew it was just a dream, I was afraid.

  Knock knock knock.

  The old hag was tapping louder, laughing; then she started banging at the door with her open hand. She tried the door handle, but the deadbolt was locked.

  Until I heard the familiar click as the bolt disengaged.

  At this small victory, she began to squeal with joy, sending icy shafts of fear into my chest as I stepped into the kitchen. Peaking around the corner, I could see the front door opening with a creak, and she awkwardly wheeled herself over the threshold and into the entrance of our house.

  Her unpleasant voice cracked, wispy and airy. “Teavan?”

  Back in the dark kitchen, I felt along the counter for the wooden knife block and grabbed the biggest handle. The heavy blade would not slide out. None of them would.

  Her chair squeaked from the front room as she wheeled farther into the house, sounding closer to the kitchen.

  Sprinting toward the back door, I jumped down the three steps at the back entry and turned toward the basement, another ten steps down. None of the light switches worked, and it was even darker as I descended into windowless stairwell.

  The basement was unfinished, and there was a door near the bottom step to close it off. The old woman was laughing away upstairs, looking for me, calling my name. I opened and slipped through the door into the main area of the basement, then closed it as quietly as possible, hoping she would give up. From up above, I could hear her chair on the linoleum of the kitchen floor, bumping into the table.

  “Get up here!” she cackled at the back landing. “I have something for you. You know you can’t escape it. Hee hee!”

  Leaning against the door to hold it shut, I surveyed the gloomy cellar for an escape, knowing there was no way out. I closed my eyes and willed it to be over. To wake up.

  I prayed for her to go; to leave me alone. I should have gone to church with Rachel.

  “Teavan . . . don’t make me come down there,” she said with a hiss, her voice sounding more angry and masculine now.

  My eyes were getting used to the dark and they were fixed on a stack of boxes, while my head involunt
arily just kept shaking back and forth with a no motion.

  There was racket upstairs. The wall shook, and the old woman let out a yelp as her wheelchair fell down the three stairs to the back door landing. Seconds later, there was more clatter as she and her chair toppled down the longer set of stairs into the basement. She was crying out as she plunged, but then it was silent after she hit the bottom and her wheelchair smashed against the closed door.

  My heart—beating faster than I thought possible—was the only audible sound. My breathing was labored; my eyes were closed.

  The doorknob turned and rattled. She wasn’t dead.

  Coughing and spitting, she groaned through the closed door. “Ouvre la porte.”

  She was right there. Just on the other side of the flimsy interior door. There was no way out. It was more of a storage room, much smaller than the upstairs footprint.

  Impossibly, she began to push the door open. I was sliding along the cement, unable to stop it with all my body weight.

  The old woman began to laugh again at her triumph, and I could faintly see her boney hand reach around the door feeling for me. My body wouldn’t move; it was in a state of shock. I couldn’t will it to roll, stand, or run. Pushing, I tried to slam the door closed on her arm but couldn’t.

  Through the dark space, her shape came crawling around the door’s edge, wheezing. Her long, white, wet hair dragged along the dusty floor. I wondered if it was possible to die of fright, or for a fifteen-year-old to have a heart attack. Either would have been preferable at that moment as her hand grabbed my unresponsive leg.

  “There you are! You’ve been a bad boy, making me wait outside and then come down here.” She coughed up a gleaming liquid on the floor. With her free hand, she wiped her mouth, then smiled, revealing decaying brown and crooked teeth.

  “You can only get away for so long, boy. In the end, our destiny is what it is. You can delay, but not escape,” she cackled, dragging herself onto me. Her breath was horrid: searing and rotten as her face came to mine. Paralyzed, I could only move my eyes now.