Cuz looked left, then right, then straight at Sacky. “He ate ’em.”
Sacky swallowed hard. “Ate them?”
“Sure did,” Cuz said. “He had a feast!” He shook his head a little, like he himself remembered the occasion. “But the noise of the chickens squawking and clucking sent the farmer out to the coop, and he found the wolf right in the middle of his meal.”
Cuz stopped and looked up to the night sky. He let out a big breath. “But this farmer was no ordinary farmer. He was different from the other men, and knew a little something about magic and curses.” He paused for a long moment. “Let me tell you something, boy, the wolf picked the wrong henhouse that night.”
“Who was he?” asked Sacky. “The farmer.”
“His name was Scratch, and he didn’t like the wolf eating his chickens. He cornered the wolf with a hot iron poker, and the wolf was so scared he couldn’t move. And that’s when it happened.”
Sacky leaned forward, eyes wide, all caught up in the story. “What happened?”
“Old Scratch put a curse on that wolf. A curse that would last until the end of time.”
Sacky wasn’t sure if he believed in curses. That kind of stuff wasn’t in the Bible, but some people out here swore by it—that somebody could put a curse on you just by saying your name or throwing some dirt over their shoulder.
“What kind of curse?” Sacky asked.
“Old Scratch wanted to make sure that wolf would never have the chance to do something like that again. He wanted to take his life, but he didn’t. He took something worse.”
A night bug tickled the back of Sacky’s neck and he swatted it away. “What could be worse than taking somebody’s life?”
Cuz snorted and rubbed his whiskers. “His soul. He took that wolf and changed him. Changed him into a two-legged creature, never to feel the wet leaves under his feet, to smell the hot blood of the kill, or to sleep beneath the moon at night with his pack. He made him a human man, cursed to walk the earth begging for scraps.”
Sacky wasn’t sure what was happening. What did this have to do with his wish? He didn’t believe this old fool. He was just telling a lie. Nobody can turn a wolf into a man. That was just plain foolishness, his auntie Florence would’ve said. He was growing tired of Cuz and his lies. “What about my wish?” he asked.
“I’m getting to that, boy,” Cuz shot back. “That’s the best part.”
Sacky leaned back against the tree again.
“Now, this here curse—the only way it could be broken was if a kind soul opened his door to let the wolf in, to feed and comfort him. To trust him. If he could find somebody to do that, the curse would be lifted.”
“Okay,” Sacky said. “That don’t sound too hard.”
Cuz narrowed his eyes. “But this curse’s got a bit of a snag to it,” he said. “Old Scratch made it awfully hard to break. Because the person who let the man in would be blessed with one wish. He’d be able to choose a wish of his own—money or riches or fancy clothes—anything his heart desired.” He paused. “Or he could do something else.”
Silence.
“What?” Sacky ventured.
Cuz’s eyes gleamed again. “He could use his one wish to let the man find his true self. To let him be a wolf again.”
The wind sighed through the trees and some clouds passed over the moon. Sacky had a feeling he had just stepped into something he didn’t understand.
“Man is selfish,” Cuz said, looking up to the sky. “Scratch knew it wouldn’t be easy. Everybody wants a wish. But who’s gonna give up their wish to free another?”
Sacky drew his knees up to his chest.
“That’s why the wolf keeps traveling,” Cuz said, “hoping to find an unselfish man or woman who’ll give up a wish to help an old, cursed fool.”
Sacky didn’t know what to say. He opened his mouth, but Cuz cut him short.
“So what’s it gonna be, boy?”
“What do you mean?”
Cuz sighed. “Ain’t you been listening? I’m the wolf, son, turned into a human man. And I hereby bless you with a wish. Make it one of your own, or let me go back into the wild and feel my four legs under me.”
Sacky rubbed his head. This can’t be true, he thought. Old Cuz is a wolf? Then again, his teeth did look rather sharp, and his long legs and nose were quite wolfish.
What if it was true?
He could have all the money in the world. He and Auntie Florence could move into a mansion, and have people cook and clean for them. He could have his own room and toys, get a rifle for hunting—heck, maybe he could even buy one of those fancy motorcars. People said there was one called a Ford Model T and could travel forty-five miles an hour. That’d be a lot faster than a mule and a wagon.
Cuz stood real still, looking up at the moon, and every now and then peering into the woods that bordered Sacky’s house. Was that longing Sacky saw in Cuz’s eyes? If he was really a wolf, it’d be right cruel to take that away. Sacky thought for a moment. He was in his Thinking Place. Auntie Florence told him being Christian was doing the right thing when nobody was looking.
Then again, what if this was all some kind of trick? Deception, Auntie Florence called it. She said that if you kept knocking on the devil’s door, sooner or later he’d let you in. Maybe that’s what Cuz was doing. He could be working for the Deceiver right this minute.
Sacky bit his lip, thinking. Cuz was still standing, looking up at the stars every few seconds. He’d said that farmer’s name was Scratch, Sacky remembered. That was another word for devil.
Sacky closed his eyes. Jesus, he said in a low voice. I’m trying to do the right thing. I know I am your servant, and we all fall short of the grace of God. If I do this thing, please know that I’m trying to be a good Christian. Please don’t strike me down with a bolt of lightning.
Sacky blew out a long breath and stood up. “Okay,” he said. “I wish…I wish that you could be a wolf again.”
Cuz’s green eyes sparked and seemed to light the dark around them. He ran the few short steps and put his hands on Sacky’s shoulders. “Are you messing with me, boy? Are you serious?”
“Sure,” Sacky said. “But you gotta promise not to steal any more chickens.”
“I do!” Cuz said, and Sacky was sure the man was a wolf now, because he felt his sharp fingernails digging into his skinny shoulders.
“What now?” Sacky asked, a little afraid but curious at the same time.
Cuz didn’t answer, only fished around in his jacket and came out with a mason jar, all lit up with light.
“What’s that?”
“Fireflies, boy.”
Sacky knew all about fireflies. He and Auguster used to catch them and put them in a jar, just like the one clutched in Cuz’s hand.
“My night eyes are gonna be old and poor,” Cuz explained. “These here glowflies are gonna show me the way to my pack—Fenris and Lobo and Freki and old YellowTail. They’ve been waiting, all these years.”
Cuz slowly began to unscrew the lid. His eyes were wide, and his breathing was growing louder. “Now, boy, I want to thank you for this here deed you done for me. It’s mighty righteous, and I’m sure you and your auntie will be rewarded in heaven. But when I say ‘Run,’ well, you best get to stepping.”
“Why?” Sacky asked.
“Because I’m a wolf,” Cuz said, and opened the jar. “And I’m gonna be hungry.”
Sacky gulped.
Fireflies flew up out of the jar like a yellow twister, lighting up the whole yard and all the dark spaces in between. Then Sacky saw something he’d never forget. Old Cuz dropped to his knees. His clothes ripped and flew off him as if thrown by invisible hands. And then he raised his head to the night sky and howled. Whiskers sprouted from his cheeks. Fur bloomed along his legs. His back got all hunched, and th
en Sacky saw the hair spreading over his whole body, but his face still looked like the man he knew. “Run!” the man who was Cuz shouted. “Run, boy!”
Sacky sprinted away, back toward the house. Shadows moved across the moon as quick as running water. The wolf who was Cuz let out one more howl and then darted into the woods, the glow of fireflies fading into the dark.
Sacky stood there a moment, sweating and breathing hard. He’d seen it. It happened. Nobody would ever believe him, not even Auguster.
He didn’t want to admit it, but he’d done the right thing. He could’ve had mountains of dollar bills, candy canes for Christmas, and some nice church clothes for Auntie Florence. They could have eaten fresh venison and ripe fruit till the end of their days. But he gave it all up to give a man another chance.
He stood there for a minute, with just the sound of the wind. A lantern flared in the window behind him, and he saw the shape of Auntie Florence moving around in the kitchen.
He thought about sitting in his Thinking Place, even though it was dark, just to contemplate what had happened. But instead, he put one foot in front of the other and headed for the door.
Auntie Florence was waving a church fan in front of her face, sitting on her chaise. “Hey, Auntie,” Sacky greeted her.
She looked up and shook her head. “Hot as the devil’s breath in this house,” she said.
Sacky swallowed hard.
Auntie Florence set down the fan and stood up. She was a tall woman, with nice gray hair she always kept pretty. “Sacky,” she started, “I been at church all this time, praising the Lord. Your auntie’s too tired to cook now, so how about a little surprise instead?”
Sacky raised his eyebrows. He’d had enough surprises for one night.
“What kind of surprise?” he ventured.
“Some of that yellow cake in the kitchen,” his auntie said, “and you can have two whole slices.”
Sacky’s eyes lit up. “For dinner? Two slices?”
“Yes, child, two. Now, hurry up before I change my mind.”
Sacky ran to the kitchen, his mouth already watering, ready to taste the best yellow cake in the county.
The Assist
Linda Sue Park and Anna Dobbin
“Okay, guys, time for fartleks!”
Coach O’Brien always ended practice with fartleks, which Eddie thought was possibly the most ridiculous word in the dictionary.
Definitions of fartlek from some of the eighth graders on the Lilac Township Middle School boys’ soccer team:
At the end of a long week, fartleks were especially tough, but Eddie knew it was no use arguing with Coach O’Brien. He got into position at the halfway line, with Ben, his co-captain, beside him, and Daniel and James just behind—their usual places. The rest of the team followed, lining up in twos.
Eddie noticed Noah eagerly elbow his way to the third row, right behind Daniel. Noah was a skinny seventh grader who wore his straight brown hair in a mushroom cut. While Eddie wasn’t close friends with him, he liked that Noah always tried hard during practice.
Coach blew his whistle.
“Pasta party at my house on Sunday,” Ben said as they rounded the first corner of the field at a brisk jog. “You guys coming?”
“Obviously,” Eddie said.
Coach blew his whistle again. Eddie heard James groan as the team took off in a full-speed sprint. The neat columns they had been jogging in broke down as the faster players surged ahead and the slower ones struggled to keep up. His legs and arms pumping hard, Eddie counted under his breath: “One, two, three, four…”
Whistle.
Twenty pairs of cleats thumped against the dry ground as the boys slowed to a jog, coming back into their two lines.
“Listen, Ben,” James panted. “I can only come to the party if I don’t die first. My legs are toast.”
Daniel scoffed. “One sprint and you’re already complaining? Does someone need a wambulance? Waaaaaaah!” Eddie laughed and glanced over his shoulder. Daniel was rubbing his eyes with his fists, making a sound halfway between an ambulance siren and a baby crying.
Whistle.
They walked. James and Daniel shoved each other.
Whistle. Coach O’Brien never let them walk for long.
“I’m joking,” James said as they began to jog again. “The UN never misses a pasta party.”
Last year, Coach had started calling Eddie and his friends “the UN” because they were so mixed ethnically: Eddie was half Korean American and half Irish, Daniel was half Jamaican and half African American, James’s parents were from Iran, and Ben and his family had immigrated from Italy when he was a little kid. Their passion for soccer bound them together, and they played central positions on the field: striker, center midfielder, sweeper, and goalkeeper.
Whistle. The boys sprinted.
Soccer positions as written down by Eddie in an effort to impress Mina, a cute girl on the volleyball team:
Eddie kept track of their laps around the field. Coach was predictable: he always made them do three, and always ended on a sprint. As the team rounded the last corner of the third lap, Noah appeared in Eddie’s peripheral vision. The seventh grader had begun speeding up in anticipation of Coach’s final whistle.
“See you fartlekkers later!” Noah shouted. He blew into the crook of his elbow, making a loud flatulent noise as he motored past.
Whistle.
“Son of a…,” James muttered, chasing after Noah. Eddie snickered. The only thing that trumped James’s hatred of running drills was his desire not to be outdone by a seventh grader.
James’s and Noah’s cleats hit the halfway line at the same time. Eddie was a close third. He slowed to a walk and interlaced his fingers behind his head, catching his breath, his quads burning.
“Well done, boys,” Coach said as he clapped his hands. “Bring it in.”
The team formed a circle.
“It’s crucial that we bring our absolute best against Southwood on Monday,” Coach said. “I want everyone to take it easy this weekend. Don’t do anything stupid and get yourself injured. Do I make myself clear?”
The boys murmured in agreement. They all knew where they stood in the league rankings: to make the playoffs, they had to beat Southwood. If they tied or lost, they’d be out of the running for the playoff trophy.
“All right, then,” Coach said. “Hands in.”
Everybody piled their hands on top of one another’s. Eddie’s and Ben’s eyes met, then they counted off together: “One, two, three—”
“TEAM!”
* * *
—
In the locker room, Ben reminded everyone about the pasta party on Sunday. Pasta parties usually happened the nights before big games. The team gathered at one player’s house, discussed strategy, and ate a crap-ton of spaghetti and meatballs cooked by parent volunteers. Or a grandparent, in Ben’s case: his nonna was like one of those stereotypical Italian grannies in marinara-sauce commercials. Pasta nights at Ben’s house were generally acknowledged to be the best.
After changing clothes, Eddie left the locker room with Daniel, James, and Ben. They were almost at the front door of the school building when Eddie realized he’d forgotten his phone. He said bye to his friends, then turned around and hurried back.
As he approached the locker room door, he opened his duffel bag and began rummaging around inside it, thinking maybe his phone was just buried somewhere in a week’s worth of stinky soccer socks. He pushed the door open with his shoulder—
CRASH!
Eddie collided with Noah, who was walking out right at that moment. Noah fell on his butt, the papers in his hands flying everywhere. Eddie stumbled backward but managed to stay on his feet. The strap of his open duffel slipped off his shoulder, and the bag hit the tile floor, half the conten
ts tumbling out.
“Oh, sorry, man,” Eddie said, immediately stepping forward and offering Noah a hand. A little dazed, the younger boy took it, and Eddie hauled him upright. “You okay?”
“Yeah, um, my bad,” Noah said. He shook his head as if to clear it, then quickly stooped to collect the papers he’d dropped.
One sheet of paper had ended up on Eddie’s stuff. As Eddie grabbed it, his gaze landed on the words at the top:
FreeEnglishEssays.com
SAMPLE ENGLISH LITERATURE ESSAY
Identity and Adversity in All American Boys by Jason Reynolds and Brendan Kiely
“You’re reading All American Boys?” Eddie asked. “So you’re in Mrs. Shankar’s class?” He’d had her last year. She always chose good books, which he missed now that Mr. Lawson was his teacher. A nice guy, but he was a million years old and had been teaching the same boring stuff his entire life. Eddie could only read so much Shakespeare before he went as insane as…well, pretty much every Shakespeare character ever.
Noah didn’t answer. He snatched the paper from Eddie and stuffed it hastily into his backpack. “I gotta go,” he mumbled.
“That’s a cool book,” Eddie said, trying to stall the other boy. Something smelled fishy, and he didn’t think it was his soccer socks.
“Yep,” said Noah. He took a step to try to walk around Eddie.
Eddie blocked the door. “What’s with that essay?”
Noah’s eyes darted. “It’s nothing.”
Eddie raised an eyebrow and waited.
“It’s research,” Noah said. “I mean, I pulled that from the internet to help me figure out what to write about.”
“When’s the essay due?”
“Um…it was due on Wednesday. Shanks gave me until Monday to turn it in.”
“She did?” Eddie remembered that Mrs. Shankar typically didn’t accept late work. She was strict like that.
The Hero Next Door Page 3