Pack of Dorks

by Beth Vrabel

  “But in an I-think-it’s-funny-too way,” I remembered. “And then everyone laughed.”

  Sam nodded and swallowed hard. His smile shook and then left his face. “They kept drawing pictures of me in a leotard and putting them in my backpack. They followed me around the playground asking me to do cartwheels.”

  He sighed and shrugged. “Mom wouldn’t let me quit gymnastics. I was so mad at her about it at first, but the truth is, I really like it.” His chin jerked up and he looked at me like he thought I might laugh. “And I’m good at it.”

  “I can tell. These pictures—you look amazing,” I said.

  Sam smiled again, a little stronger this time. “I have practice every morning before school and again after school. You could come by class sometime if you want.”

  I smiled back. “Sure, I’d like that,” I said. “And maybe you could come to karate. I take karate now.”

  Sam laughed and pointed at my uniform. “I figured those weren’t PJs.”

  “Are you coming to school on Monday?”

  Sam shrugged. “Dad says I can’t keep pretending to get sick every day, but I’m not pretending. Thinking about going back there, seeing them after what they did, it makes me want to throw up.”

  “I know what you mean.” I told Sam about the sausage skirt splitting in class. But somehow, when he laughed as I told him about my ripping skirt, it made me laugh, too. “Want to meet outside the gym and walk to class together?”

  “Two losers joining forces?” he laughed.

  “Yeah,” I said, liking the idea. “We’ll be our own pack.”

  “Pack of scapegoats,” Sam added.

  “More like pack of dorks, but whatever,” I said. And then I told him about April’s Aunt Shelley and her wolf sanctuary. Almost like they were listening in, Grandma and Mrs. Righter came back into the living room just when I finished.

  “I’ll take you guys there this weekend, if you want,” Mrs. Righter said. “It’s the only time Sam doesn’t have a tournament for the next couple weeks.” All right, they were definitely listening in.

  As we walked back to her car, Grandma put her heavy hand on my shoulder again. “I’m proud of you, toots.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The wolf sanctuary was about two hours away, according to Mrs. Righter’s GPS.

  For the first hour, Sam and I talked nonstop, mainly about gymnastics and karate. Since Sam doesn’t have any brothers and sisters, he asked a lot of questions about Molly.

  “Maybe you should get a little brother or sister?” I suggested, but Sam said he didn’t think his mom and dad were up to it.

  Mrs. Righter didn’t ask any questions or interrupt, but I could see from the way her eyes kept catching ours in the rearview mirror that she was listening to us.

  Soon we turned off the highway and headed down a tree-lined road. After a half-hour more, the road stopped being paved and the SUV lurched over rocks and dirt. The only thing I could see out the window was forest. Every few miles, a small wooden sign appeared, printed with ABLE WOLF SANCTUARY AHEAD.

  Our talking sort of trickled away as the road narrowed more and more. Mrs. Righter’s mouth turned into a straight white line, just like Sam’s. Her eyes darted from the GPS to the woods around us. It occurred to me that wolves might not be her favorite animal.

  “You know, wolf attacks are super rare,” I said a little too loudly.

  “The last one was in 2010, when a woman in Alaska was found half-eaten and there were wolf tracks were all around her,” said Sam, barely looking up from one of The Goblin’s wolf books. I poked him with my elbow. “What?” he whispered.

  I rolled my eyes. “But, usually, they’re super scared of people.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Sam, looking back at his book. “Most of the time they only bite and mutilate, not kill. It’s like a warning, I guess. The only other fatal attack in the last decade was at a Russian zoo, when two eight year olds got too close to the wolves. Seems like they only really go after kids and women.”

  “Sam!” I hissed.

  I noticed that Mrs. Righter’s eyes got super wide and she tapped the brakes.

  I spied a huge ten-foot-tall metal fence behind the curve of the road. I knew from checking out details about the sanctuary online that the fence also went several feet into the ground. Wolves are good diggers as well as jumpers.

  “We’re here!” I cheered as soon as I saw the fence gate. I popped out of the car before it was in park, just in case Mrs. Righter decided to turn around. A small speaker was by the gate. I pressed the button and after the ding announced, “Lucy Williams, Sam Righter, and Mrs. Righter, here to see April Chester’s Aunt Shelley. Niner-niner. Over and out.”

  Sam sighed through his nose. “You are such a dork,” he said. He pushed me with his shoulder so I knew he didn’t mean it in a mean way.

  The speaker crackled: “I’ll be right there. Hang tight.” The voice was growly and harsh, not at all like April’s chirping.

  While we waited, I stared through the fence to try and spot a wolf pack. But all I saw was a dirt path winding through sparse woods. Farther back I could make out more fences. We had read that packs will defend their territory from other packs, and I saw online that Able Wolf Sanctuary separated its packs with fences. I strained my ears to hear a wolf howl or a bark or something. But aside from a crow’s squawking, it was silent. A little too silent, if you ask me. Mrs. Righter was clutching her car keys with white knuckles and eyeing her car. If Aunt Shelley didn’t get here soon, we’d be back on the road.

  Luckily, a dirty golf cart lurched down the path just then and the person I guessed to be April’s Axunt Shelley clamored out.

  I was expecting her to be strange, based on what April had said about her. But I was thinking she’d be odd like April is odd. But Aunt Shelley was pretty much April’s complete opposite. Aunt Shelley was huge, and not in a likes-her-Snickers-bars sort of way. She was massive like a football player, with wide shoulders and a thick tanned neck. She wore khaki shorts, and her legs also were brown and bulky with muscles. She wore a dirt-smudged hat with ABLE WOLF SANCTUARY printed on it, and her hair was pulled back in a knot at the base of her neck. Strands frayed out from the knot and lay damply plastered to her neck. Her eyes were a dark squinty brown and her mouth a slash across her freckled face. She had the sort of tan that always makes Mom, who is a bit obsessive with the sunscreen, shake her head. She sort of looked like she was made of leather. I thought of scrawny April with her frizzy hair, pale skinny body, and sing-songy voice and wondered if Aunt Shelley had been adopted.

  All three of us—Mrs. Righter, Sam, and I—stepped back as the gate was pulled open.

  “What are you waiting for?” Aunt Shelley asked. “Come on in. None of the big bad wolves will get you.” Her voice was gruff, but when she smiled, I saw how she could be April’s aunt. They both have smiles that split their faces.

  Sam and I dashed through the gate and climbed onto the back seat of the golf cart. Mrs. Righter paused for a second but finally followed us.

  Aunt Shelley locked the gate, yanked on it twice to be sure (or to further freak out Sam’s mom, I’m not sure which), and climbed back behind the wheel of the golf cart.

  “So,” she said, “you want to learn about wolves?”

  “It’s for a school report,” Sam said. Her eyes got even squintier. “But we also really like them a lot,” he added.

  “Yeah,” I said. “They’re awesome.” She didn’t say anything. “Really awesome.”

  She turned the key in the ignition. Mrs. Righter’s hand shot out and grabbed Aunt Shelley’s forearm. “So, um, April’s Aunt Shelley. Can you tell us a little bit about the sanctuary before we go farther in? Like, um, how many wolves do you have here? And how strong are the fences? Have you tested the wolves for rabies? That sort of thing.”

  Aunt Shelley sat back in her seat. “Owners will give you all the details,” she said. I got the feeling she didn’t like speaking too much. She glanced ov
er at Mrs. Righter’s wide eyes and seemed to work up a few words. “Able Sanctuary has ten wolves. They’re separated into four packs. Or at least, with any luck, they will be by the end of today. Two of the wolves are going to be paired to see if they get along.”

  “Can we watch that?” I asked.

  Aunt Shelley shrugged. “Depends.”

  “On what?” Sam asked.

  She sighed again, long and slow like just living was work. “How it goes,” she finally answered.

  I imagined April visiting her and had to think April probably loved it. Here was someone who would let her talk as much as she wanted.

  “Like I said, the owners will give you the rundown on the facts about the place,” Aunt Shelley said as she shifted into drive and punched the gas. Sam and I grabbed onto the seat in front of us to keep from getting whipped out of the open sides.

  “Aunt Shelley?” I asked.

  “What?” she answered.

  I had meant to ask her what we were supposed to call her, but since she answered to Aunt Shelley pretty quickly, I just muttered “nothing” and held on tight.

  We drove past a bunch of fenced-off acres along the dirt road to a building. It was shaped in a circle, with windows on all sides, like buildings people thought everyone would have by the year 2000 way back in the ’80s or something. Aunt Shelley pulled into a parking spot between another golf cart and a faded red pick-up truck. Outside the building was a rack of pamphlets with the name of the sanctuary printed across the top and a picture of a gray wolf howling.

  Almost the same time I spotted the picture, I heard a howl. In all the books we read, authors were always going on and on about howls—how the first time they heard one it was something they’d never forget; how it chilled them to the bone; and how within seconds the whole air was overtaken with howls as other wolves joined in. Some said it was the happiest noise they ever heard; others said it was like hearing something from another world. I couldn’t imagine how impressive it could be. I mean, our neighbor has a dog he keeps fenced in his back yard and the mutt howls all day long. It isn’t pretty. It’s annoying. Super annoying.

  But when I heard this howl, I think I finally understood what the authors meant. This wasn’t a sound from a backyard dog. It was much, much different. And it wasn’t at all happy. It was sad and long and made gooseflesh pimple across my arms. Aunt Shelley stopped mid-stride and cocked her head to the side while she listened.

  “Hang on, Sascha,” she murmured. “Almost time.”

  When the howl finally ended, the silence seemed loud, if that’s even possible. Not a single chirping bird or rustle of wind or any usual outside noise. Just silence.

  “Aren’t other wolves supposed to join in when one howls?” Sam asked.

  Aunt Shelley, her voice much softer than before, said, “Not when the wolf is mourning.” She picked up her step and swung open the door to the center. “Then they just listen.” The heavy door almost closed on Mrs. Righter, who I could tell wasn’t used to people not holding doors for her, but Aunt Shelley never slowed or noticed.

  The sanctuary owners—Marcia and Adam Able—were much more talkative than Aunt Shelley. We could hear them talking to each other from the moment we walked in, Marcia in high-pitched happy laughs and Adam in endless speech. Marcia laughed with her head thrown back, her short black hair shining in the fluorescent lighting. Adam’s pale bald head shone nearly as much. Both of them wore hunter green polo shirts with the outline of the howling wolf I saw on the pamphlet over their breast pocket. Marcia was strong, but not in a wide way like Aunt Shelley. Marcia’s muscles were long and lean, like a braided rope lay under her brown skin. Adam was tall and strong, but I didn’t notice his muscled arms right away because of the way his stomach pushed against his shirt. He had a soft blonde mustache across his upper lip. It twitched whenever Marcia laughed, which was pretty much always.

  Aunt Shelley cleared her throat super loudly.

  “Oh!” Marcia said brightly. “We have guests!”

  They approached the two of us, hands outstretched for half-hug, half-handshake moves. They smelled a bit like wet dogs once we were up close. At first Marcia kept calling me Shelley’s “little niece” until Sam corrected her and said I was her little niece’s friend. But then when Sam called Shelley “Aunt Shelley,” I could see Marcia was entirely confused. She kept glancing over at Sam like she was trying to figure out if he was Shelley’s “little niece.”

  Adam just went on blabbing. He told us that the sanctuary opened about ten years ago. He said he used to live in the suburbs and his neighbor’s dog kept jumping his fence and terrorizing the birds at Adam’s birdfeeder—as well as snagging anything he ever brought to the back porch to put on the grill.

  “Turns out,” Adam said, “it wasn’t a dog at all. It was a wolf-dog. And a real bad neighbor.” Moustache twitch, moustache twitch.

  “A wh—?” Sam started to ask, but Adam was a step ahead with the answer.

  “A wolf-dog is a half-wolf, half-dog. These animals can’t make it in a domestic situation, you know, one with your mom and dad. They’ve got too much wild in them.” His moustache twitched, and I braced myself for another bad joke. This time Adam elbowed Marcia to give her the heads up one was coming. “Guess that’s why I like them so much. I’m a regular wild guy myself.” Twitch, twitch.

  “Anyway, our neighbor got evicted from his apartment and somehow forgot his dog. About the same time, my folks passed and left me this land. I adopted the dog and brought him here to live like he should. Soon requests came pouring in for more help for wolves and wolf-dogs. I met Marcia, and we decided we were able to make a difference. Able Sanctuary. Get it?” He looked as us eagerly. We nodded. I tried hard to roll my eyes only in my mind.

  “So, now we house about ten wolves. We try our best to keep their lives as wild and free as possible while also keeping them safe,” he said.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” Mrs. Righter asked, “how do you afford that? I can’t imagine the costs involved.”

  Marcia’s smile faltered a little. “We manage,” she said, “but it’s tough. We mostly operate on donations.”

  “These animals, they get expensive. They really ‘wolf down’ the resources! Get it?” Adam said. Twitch, twitch.

  I saw Mrs. Righter grab a pamphlet titled ADOPT A WOLF from a rack hanging on the wall. She slipped it into her purse.

  Marcia and Adam gave us a quick tour of the center. One of the rounded walls featured two huge maps of the United States. In one, an orange blob covered most of the map like a massive Sunny-D spill. This showed where wolves once lived. The other had small little splotches along the top of Minnesota, Idaho, Michigan, Montana, Wisconsin, and Wyoming. In the southwest, New Mexico and Arizona had tiny drops of orange also. All of Alaska was covered. This was where wolves now lived.

  “Once there were two million wolves in the wild. Now, there are less than sixty thousand left in the whole world,” Adam said as we stared at the map.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “What happened? Didn’t you ever hear of the Big Bad Wolf?” Adam’s moustache was startlingly still. “That’s what happened. People were sure the wolves were out to get them, out to eat their cattle, kill their babies, decimate the deer population. People killed wolves to the brink of extinction. The government held bounty hunts where so-called hunters got money for turning in just the ears of wolves they killed. Only a few places are left where you can hear wolves and see them roam without fences and safety signs.”

  “It was because the wolves wanted the same things as humans,” Marcia said. I knew what she meant. They wanted to live with their families. They wanted to hunt and to eat. They wanted to have young and grow old. They wanted to continue doing these things in the same places where humans wanted to live, eat, have babies, and grow old. And, worst of all, just like humans, they would fight to protect what they thought was theirs.

  “But they were different than humans, too,” I said
.

  “I can relate,” Sam muttered.

  “What do you say we go see some of the wolves?” Aunt Shelley said, separating the thick silence that seemed to cover us all after Sam spoke.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Another howl erupted as we left the building, but this one was different. It was high-pitched and somewhat happy. I know, I’m doing that thing scientists and teachers who grade papers hate where people try to give animals human emotions. But I swear, the howl was happy sounding. And a few seconds later, a bunch of other happy yips and howls joined in. Aunt Shelley didn’t say anything about it, but she had a huge smile on her face.

  We loaded back into the golf cart and headed toward one of the enclosures.

  “No touching the animals. No trying to put your fingers through the fence. No standing too close to the fence. Pretty much, just watch from a distance,” Aunt Shelley warned as she yanked the cart into park. “Remember, they’re wild animals.”

  “Right,” I nodded. Sam put up two fingers in the Boy Scout pledge.

  Aunt Shelley smiled as she tossed us two sets of binoculars from the back of the golf cart. A third set hung from a strap on her neck. She raised them up to her eyes and scanned the enclosure. “There!” she pointed.

  A few yards out was a giant rock boulder. Under it was a wolf-shaped lump. Once I put on my binoculars, I could see it was a wolf with gray fur and a huge bushy tail. Bouncing around her were two pups, one black and the other splotchy brown. They jumped at each other, going down on their front legs with tails high in the air, then ramming into the adult wolf. She rolled onto her side but didn’t move away from the battling pups.

  “Aww!” Mrs. Righter said a second after Sam passed his binoculars to his mom.

  “How old are the pups?” Sam asked.

  Aunt Shelley shrugged. “The people who dropped ’em off said about three months. They wanted wolf-dogs, until they realized how much more wolf they are than dog. Said the pups tore up the carpet in the living room, shredded the couch, and bit the baby.”