by Cooper, JK
“Texas.”
“That’s what I said. Besides, I thought you got out of the army so we wouldn’t have to move like this.”
Her dad sat silent for a minute. He had withdrawn from active duty when she was barely a year old, just before her mother died, not that Shelby remembered any of that. But, she wished so much that she did, at least a memory of her mother. Just one.
“I know it’s not fair, but this is important for you. We have to find them. I didn’t want this, either, but I’ll do anything for you.”
I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want any of . . . this!”
She jerked her hands open in front of her face, palms toward her, trying to encompass as much of herself in the gesture as possible. Grant gave her that look that said, “We have no choice.” He didn’t have to say the words. She hated that look, even if he was right. Maybe that was the part she hated most.
“I feel good about this place,” he said. She could hear the hopeful optimism in his voice.
“You sound like you bought me a birthday present that you’re really not sure I’ll like.”
“It’s your birthday?”
“Grant. You know what I mean.”
Her dad rubbed his square chin with a scarred hand. She loved his hands, powerful hands that had saved her. That was something else she hated, that she had needed saving. She should have been able to do the saving against Nicholas. Would she always need him to save her? She had saved herself from Lucas, hadn’t she?
No. Don’t think of him.
Her dad turned his head and gazed out his window briefly before turning his eyes back to the road.
“I’m not sure this place is different. But it might be.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Shelby asked.
Her dad switched his grip on the Blazer’s steering wheel. “Just some things your mother left us, I guess.”
Shelby perked up. “What things?”
“Clues, hints. Nothing concrete, but trial and error, right?”
“Did you forget where trial and error has gotten us so far?”
Grant breathed out a long exhale as they pulled into the parking lot of the high school. Kids swarmed all around, sifting between parked cars and walking across a large field. For a small town, the high school looked surprisingly large. Tryouts were being held for football, track and field, cheerleading, and gymnastics today. A few broad-shouldered jocks dressed in practice jerseys and pads yelled as they passed by, their helmets held in the air like some victory trophy. Shelby shrank in her seat, trying to disappear into the old fabric.
“It’s okay,” Grant said. “Nothing is going to happen like before. I promise. Lucas is hundreds of miles from here. He can’t hurt you again.”
The sound of his name sent both anger and shame racing through her veins, competing for dominance. Why did her dad have to mention him? Even if he was far from here, others might not be, others of her kind. She might fear them more. Finally, she nodded and bit her lower lip, surpassing her emotions. “Okay.”
“I’ll be back in a couple hours after I get things settled with the landlord. Good luck, Shel. I know you’ll do great.”
The Blazer’s door creaked as she opened it and stepped out into the humid Texas air and slung her Nike gym bag over her shoulder.
The heat radiated off the parking lot pavement in waves. Texas heat in all its glory. Some girls passed Shelby, laughing and talking, saying absolutely nothing just like most teenage girls. Shelby hadn’t realized how trivial her everyday life had been before Lucas. The girls had mascara plastered on so thick, Shelby didn’t know how it wasn’t melting into black rivers in this heat. She hadn’t needed much makeup, or so her dad always told her. Maybe if her mom had survived cancer, maybe if she had sisters, maybe then she would have been more . . . girly.
The old hoodie she took everywhere suddenly felt like a sweltering sauna. She liked the loose fit. It let her hide, disappear. But this heat! She dropped her gym bag then took off the hoodie and tied it around her waist.
As she picked up her gym bag and took a step, a flash of something came over her, seeming to press down upon her chest in surges. The pressure did not burden her, she realized, but it made her insides flutter with a comforting warmth, not the kind that came from mortal embarrassment. What was this? Am I having a hot flash? Seventeen was a little early for menopause. Wait, were the female life cycles the same for werewolves? Apprehension stirred at the edges of sensation, but its hot center grew. A feeling of falling hit Shelby, then something caught her, a forgotten soothing oasis in her soul. A home that memory had long since stricken from recall but could not erase the very etchings of its existence. Wait, when did she start thinking in this way? She had pretty much failed creative writing. She clutched her heart, not because of pain; no, the tender warmth . . . it wrapped around her, all encompassing, failing language arts not withstanding.
The world seemed to tumble with her, and she nearly tripped as she walked, probably looking like an invalid. Awesome. There was the mortal embarrassment. Thanks universe. But no one around her seemed to notice. She did not like crowds, even ones that seemed oblivious to her. The sudden rush of warm pressure left as quickly as it had risen. In its wake, Shelby’s mind felt empty and the world seemed quiet, unnaturally sucked free of any noise, like the grand auditorium as the final echoes of the symphony’s finale fade to nothing. Stop it! she chided herself. What had come over her? She didn’t recognize her own thoughts. Slowly, the ambient sounds of her surroundings came back to her.
“Okay . . .” She huffed and collected herself. Hormones were so weird. That had to explain it.
The gymnasium was to her right, across a field that must have been used for soccer. Goals sat at either end. Today, it was devoid of screaming teenagers dressed in bright colors, high socks, and shin guards. Other students strutted across the open field in every direction. More jocks in football jerseys passed by, surrounded by three gawking cheerleaders. The football players pretended not to notice but didn’t discourage the hungry stares. Shelby rolled her eyes and started walking toward the gym.
Inside, she found the locker room and changed into her leotard. A few other girls changed as well, but she kept her head down. She felt their stares, obviously knowing she was new, but she didn’t feel very social and changed in silence.
Why did every locker room have to be painted in drab colors? The beige-bordering-on-pink paint was so thick it felt almost like a rubber coating. The benches had the typical scratched and chipped appearance but had been lacquered over instead of repaired. Somehow, she knew a fine collection of already-been-chewed gum was plastered on the underside. And, of course, there were the so-typical white cinderblock walls. Sheesh, did every school district use the same contractor?
“Who’s she?” one of the girls finally asked with perfect pouty lips and a tone of entitlement. Her blonde hair curled up at her shoulders and bounced a little as she spoke. Sharp cheek bones looked even sharper with the amount of makeup plastered on her face. She casually pointed at Shelby but looked at the other two with her. They shrugged.
What? Like I’m not here or something?
Pouty Lips looked at her and finally addressed her directly, “Who are you?”
Shelby adjusted her shoulder straps and sighed. She knew these kinds of girls, the kind that believed they were worthy of worship and that everyone else wanted to be them. Here we go.
“I’m Shelby.”
“And, like, why are you here?” Pouty Lips asked with raised eyebrows, looking her up and down.
“Well,” Shelby said with a slight smirk, “I thought I’d try out for the football team, but after I dodged every tackle and jumped the defensive line doing a double front twist for a touchdown, they sent me to cheerleading. But, sadly, they were all out of pom-poms, so I got sent here. This is the esthetician class, right? But I honestly had higher hopes now that I see the end result.”
Pouty Lips and her two cohorts stoo
d with open mouths, the inevitable high-pitched gasps following.
“Did she just say that to you, Chelsea?” the girl to Pouty Lips’s right asked.
“Mmm hmm, I think she did,” the one to Chelsea’s left said.
Pouty Lips, Chelsea, morphed her open mouth to a wicked smile. “Don’t worry ladies, those white chicken legs won’t get her far.”
The two cohorts snickered. Raising her chin so that she looked her nose at Shelby, Chelsea asked, “What’s your event?”
Shelby shrugged. “Uneven bars, floor, vault . . . whatever.”
“All around, huh?” Chelsea looked left then right to her minions. “You know what they say about all-arounders, right girls?” Her friends snickered again.
“They really get all around,” the one to Chelsea’s left said, and they all laughed with that annoying condescending air.
“So, you’re just one-trick ponies,” Shelby said. “Should have known. Shallow and one-dimensional.”
The laughing stopped.
“Listen, Shelby,” Chelsea said with a warning in her tone, “you won’t get anywhere here without us. I’m the captain of the gymnastics team, and Coach Anders and I decide who gets on this team.”
“Huh,” Shelby said, disinterested.
She shoved her gym bag the locker and shut the metal door. The dull clang sounded louder than she had expected.
“A little jumpy, are we?” Chelsea teased. “Come on girls, greatness is awaiting some of us.”
As Shelby watched the threesome walk out, the false front of bravery she had held fell, and she realized how mad she was at her dad for making her tryout.
Normalcy, she thought. As if there is anything like that anymore.
Kale Copeland, quarterback for the Lansborough High School football team, leaned over his center defensive lineman, placing his hands just below Bubba’s legs. No one would get past Bubba. The black man had to be twice the size of any defensive lineman. The sun beat down on the football field, and Kale was glad they were practicing on real grass instead of turf. The fake stuff could easily add 10-15º to the field. Besides, he loved the smell of fresh cut grass.
Two receivers left, one right. Kale scanned the defense, watching their eyes, trying to ignore the sweat-soaked padding in his helmet. This would be a play-action pass play. Behind him, the running back stood, ready for the fake handoff.
“Six-eight-six pump! F stop on two!” he yelled out. “On two! Hut hut!”
Bubba hiked the ball into Kale’s hands. The defense plowed into his offensive line. Kale turned, faked the handoff to the running back, then froze mid-stride. A surge of frantic emotion crashed down upon him, and his environment seemed to morph. He smelled the air change, from the scent of evaporating dew to ashes and smoke. Within him, anticipation pulsed. Anxiety. Danger had come to his people again. Wait, what people? The feeling was not related to his pack; but even if it were, would he intuit such danger instead of his father? Kale was not the Alpha. Not yet. No, this feeling related to others that he thought he should know but didn’t. He needed to find her. Protect her.
Who?
A silhouetted shape formed in the haze of his mind. Feminine. Her. His heart leaped. He knew her, didn’t he? He should know her, the feeling whispered to him. He squinted. Why can’t I remember you? Yes, this was a memory he was seeing: the smoke, the smell of ashes. The danger. Her.
As the haze grew around her, taking her from him, his eyes burned, and he felt that presence within him—his wolf—rage against her disappearance. His body began to change. No, not here! But it wouldn’t subside. In the past, he’d always been able to control his shifting, but something was pushing it out from him. His shoulders bulged against his pads and his practice jersey went tight on his chest. This was going to be bad. What in the—
A lumbering body crashed into him, breaking Kale’s stupor. Anton. He recognized that bad breath as Anton bellowed a victorious cry. The football went sailing from Kale’s hand, along with the air from his lungs. As big as Kale was, getting hit by a 210 lb. defensive tackle at full force was never fun. The facemask of his helmet dug in the grass, and that pleasant smell became overpowering as mud and grass flew into his face.
“Fumble!” someone yelled.
Anton sprang up and chased after the loose ball. A whistle blew.
“Are you serious, Copeland?” Coach Hank screamed. “You just stop in the middle of a play? Did you find a nice flower for that girl who follows you around?”
“No, Coach!” Kale grunted and found his feet. “Bubba let Anton by him. Couldn’t make the throw.”
“Coach, he’s on drugs!” Bubba said. “Ain’t nobody get past me. Hallucinating.”
“You saw me put your boy down, though, right?” Anton said to Bubba, jogging back to the defensive line.
“He ain’t my boy, playing like that,” Bubba said.
“All right, ladies, line it up and run it again!” Coach called. “Copeland, if I see that kind of lollygagging again, you’ll sit the bench the first game. Get your head screwed on right.”
What had that been? Was he sick? He shook his head, worked his shoulder, and touched his ribs. Tender. Normally, he might have been sore, but he knew his body would heal unnaturally fast.
“Alright, Coach,” he said. “My bad.”
“Fo’ sho’, your bad,” Bubba said. “Blamin’ me. Wait ’till I tell Momma.”
“Shut up and open your legs.”
Bubba rolled his eyes and bent over the ball again. Kale came up behind him, hands ready for the ball.
Who was she? he wondered as his mind spun. The girl in the haze. Was it actually smoke? He had smelled smoke . . .
“Delay of game!” Coach Hank roared. “Copeland, take a break.”
Kale took his helmet off, ran a hand through his hair, and jogged toward the sideline. He accepted a Gatorade bottle from Coach as the second string QB headed onto the field.
“What in tarnation is going on with you?” Coach stammered.
Kale ran a hand through his hair again and looked down at his Nike cleats. “Not sure, Coach. Just some . . . girl.”
“Girl?” Coach Hank got in Kale’s face. He saw his own reflection in Coach’s aviator sunglasses. “You brought thoughts of a girl onto my football field?”
“I, uh—”
“Look, Copeland, I don’t care how many sweet little things you have flopping themselves in front of you, stroking that ego of yours.”
“Coach, I really don’t think—”
“The only thing I expect you to be thinking about while on my field is the current play and executing. You got that, Copeland?”
“Yeah.”
“What was that?”
“Yes, Coach!”
Coach Hank tore the sunglasses from his face and used them to point, bringing his grizzly grill an inch from Kale’s face, his cheek bulging with that bolus of sunflower seeds he always chewed on. “Perhaps you’d like to join the cheerleading squad.”
Kale followed Hank’s point. Cheerleaders were shouting some incomprehensible cry with blue and white pom-poms. “Sorry, Coach. I’m good.”
Coach Hank smiled. “I thought so. Ya know, I heard Coach Anders makes his gymnast girls do push-ups with a smile when they disappoint him. I kinda like the idea. But with pom-poms.”
Coach waved a cheerleader over. “I’m going to need to borrow these for a moment, darling,” he said to the brunette. “Captain Copeland here needs them to do some push-ups. You don’t mind?”
The cheerleader shrugged and handed them over. Coach Hank shoved the pom-poms into Kale’s chest. “Now, Copeland, if you please, with a smile.”
Kale sighed and dropped down, plastic shimmering pom-poms in his grip.
“With every push-up, I expect you to lift an arm, wave that pom-pom with gusto, and repeat,” Coach Hank said. “Fifty should do it.” To the cheerleader, he said, “Why don’t you girls help him count?”
As Kale pumped out the embarrassment, his mi
nd again turned to what he had felt and seen, and the other side within him—the werewolf side—stirred with apprehension and longing.
“Shelby Brooks!” Coach Anders called. “Vault!”
Shelby arose from the bleachers. She had sat alone, away from the other girls. Most were already on the team, and this was nothing more than a formality for them. The few not on the team seemed to already be “in,” either sisters or friends with the other team members. The only one who seemed to have to prove anything was her.
She came to the edge of the long, narrow mat with the vault 82 feet away at the other end. The run up area was just more than a yard wide, slightly elevated from the floor by diamond shaped foam tiles. She raised herself onto the balls of her feet a couple times, feeling the tiles. They were spongier than she was used to.
She glanced at Coach Anders. He held a clipboard in his left hand, the bottom of it against his waist, and a pen in his other hand. Fit physique, kind face. Then Chelsea came up to him and whispered something. He raised his pen to the clipboard, making a note. Chelsea looked smugly at Shelby, the expression of false sympathy across her face.
A growl came from Shelby; nothing audible, just internal—a strength that welled inside her, a strength that seemed to come when she felt threatened. The first time that had happened, unintended consequences came, things she couldn’t explain, things she prayed would never come again.
With the strength came agility, however. If she could control it . . .
Coach Anders gave her a nod, encouraging her to proceed. Chelsea still stood beside him, one hand on a very sassy hip.
Fine.
Rising up on the balls of her feet once more, Shelby launched forward, sprinting. The inner growl grew louder in her mind, and her vision singled out the vault, everything else blurring out of focus. Something within her peaked, and her eyes burned, just for a second. With the instincts of a natural gymnast, along with another, more primal, instinct, she pounced on the springboard. It groaned in protest as she launched off it and she hit the vault with a velocity that should have sent her tumbling to the ground with a broken wrist.