by Peter Moore
“Why? Are you planning to attack me?”
“Maybe. Maybe a nice attack.”
“Then let’s just skip the yelling part.”
She pulls me in close and I can’t believe this is happening. She likes me, definitely. Definitely.
But she also doesn’t know me, not completely. She doesn’t know the one big thing. And I hate that I’ll never be able to tell her.
I get home and Mom is in her garden, kneeling on a rubber mat. She’s tending her orchids, with the whole area on the side of the house lit up by floodlights. I still don’t get what’s so exciting about cultivating flowers, but she’s been doing it for years, and never seems to get tired of it.
“How are they coming?” I ask.
“I have four that are thriving. This one, though…” she says, frowning. “No matter what I do, this one is just failing.”
“Well, I would say that if four out of five look good, you’re still ahead in the game.”
She touches the petals on one of the orchids. I can’t tell if it’s the bad one or one of the successes. They all look more or less the same to me.
“Anyway, I’m going inside,” I say.
“I was in your room today,” she says ominously.
“Okay.” I have nothing to hide in my room.
“Your Sol-Blok canopy was cracked. The one I just replaced.”
Another one? “I don’t know why. Restless sleep again, I guess.”
“If I didn’t know better, I would say you’re breaking it deliberately, hitting it with a bat or something.”
“Well, I’m glad you know better, then. Why would I do that?”
“Maybe it’s some sort of passive-aggressive demonstration, to frustrate or anger me.”
“I don’t even know what that means, but I’m not trying to anger or frustrate you. I didn’t do it on purpose. If you want, I’ll get money from my bank account and pay for it to be fixed.”
“They can’t be ‘fixed,’ Dante. Once they’re broken, they’re useless. I had it replaced already. This time, I paid extra for the Sleep-Tite ultradurable model. So whatever the reason for its having been broken, I don’t expect that it will happen again.”
“I’m sure it won’t.” Not so sure, though.
She turns her head, her long neck elegant as a swan’s. She looks at me and I can’t tell what she’s thinking. Her expression is blank. “You could use a haircut,” she says.
“I think I’m going to grow it a little.”
She shakes her head and gives me her annoyed smile. “I don’t understand you. I’ve offered countless times to color your hair a nice ash blond, and you won’t do it.”
“I’m not dyeing my hair. That’s ridiculous.”
She gets a cold look, and when she speaks, her words sound clipped. “Coloring your hair is ridiculous, but keeping it brown and growing it isn’t? You’re going to look like a complete wulf.”
I shrug. I’m not going to get into this with her right now.
“Speaking of which,” she says, “your father called. He said he’d like to speak to you about doing some work on his apartment.”
“He called the house?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And you talked to him?”
“Only to take the message.” She stands up and looks me in the eyes. “Why did he call you?”
“I meant to tell you. I’ve been in touch with him a little.”
There’s a flash of anger on her face, but she suppresses it quickly. “And why would that be?”
“I don’t know. I wanted to connect again. Is that strange?” I put some concern on my face, as if I were worried that I did something wrong. It has the planned effect.
She turns back to her orchids. “I suppose not. I’m just surprised.”
I look into the darkness of the nature preserve on the other side of the fence, then back toward the house shining in the night. “I guess I’ll go in and call him back.”
“That’s up to you. But honestly. If he needs to do work on his apartment, he really should have his laborers do it. You’re not some working-class lackey.”
“I don’t mind. The way I remember it it’s kind of fun.”
Mom looks at me and shakes her head. I can tell she’s thinking, How did I end up with a son who actually wants to look like a wulf and slum around doing manual labor?
Maybe for the first time I know what it felt like for Dad when she looked at him the same way.
I get to my room and start changing my T-shirt when Jessica barges in. “Troy can be a real jerk,” she says.
“Have you heard of knocking?” I ask.
She ignores me, tosses her hair, and stands in front of the window monitor, which shows a view of the sunshine in our backyard.
“Why are you in my room?” I ask her.
“Why wouldn’t I come to visit?”
“How about because you never, ever come in here unless you want something.”
Now she’s walking around my room like she’s browsing in a store full of tacky jewelry. She looks at the old Stake-n-Shake concert tickets on my bulletin board, picks up the baseball signed by three of the Cubs that’s on my desk. Next, she’s going to pick up my iPoddMaxx, look at my music, and sneer at that, too. “Well, I came in to say that Troy’s an idiot.” On cue, she picks up the iPodd and scrolls through my music, wrinkling her nose.
I get up and take it away from her. “I thought you said he’s a jerk. Which is it?”
She shrugs, then opens my dresser and flips through my T-shirts.
“Do you mind? I don’t go through your stuff.”
She shuts the drawer and looks around. “How can you live like this? With all that stuff on your desk?”
“If you’re looking for the door, it’s right behind you. Don’t feel like you have to stay.”
“I guess Troy is both. A jerk and an idiot. Plus, he’s a pain in the ass.”
Jess is only talking to me because she’s bored. She doesn’t hate Troy, at least not more than any of the other guys Mom used to date, but she likes to interpret my indifference to him as dislike. “Jess, if you want to tell me why you hate him today, tell me. But I’m not going to beg you.”
“He thinks he can tell me—tell us—what to do.”
“Let me guess. Did he say he doesn’t want you going out with Lane?”
“Not in so many words. It’s just the tone of voice he uses when he talks about him.” She’s in profile against the monitor by the window, which is showing a view from the southeast, a shot of the sun shining through the trees of the nature preserve.
Jess really is beautiful, even if she is a total brat. She got a white car for her seventeenth birthday and insisted it be replaced with red, because red looks better with her hair.
“I wish Mother would just divorce him,” Jess says.
“Tell her. I’m sure she’ll do it if you ask. She got rid of William and Vaughn and Simon because of your nagging.”
“She was just dating them. She’s married to Troy. It wouldn’t be that easy.”
“Don’t give up, Jess. You’ll get your way if you really put your mind to it.” I give her a hearty thumbs-up.
She narrows her eyes at me. “That’s very funny, but I’m being serious. Mom is pretty into Troy. I don’t know why. He’s not exactly Mr. Exciting. I wouldn’t mind him so much if he’d just stay out of my business. I’m sick of his attitude about Lane.”
“Troy is harmless. Why can’t you ignore him?”
“You wouldn’t understand. If you had a girlfriend, you might know how it feels.”
“Maybe I do have a girlfriend.”
Jess laughs. “I’m sure there’s a real live female who’s interested in you,” she says, her stupid perfect teeth flashing in a smile.
“Did you come in here just to be a complete bitch to me, or did you have some other purpose?”
“Okay, I’m sorry. Jeez, so sensitive. So what’s this alleged girlfriend’s name?”
“Never mind.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Okay, fine. Her name is Juliet.”
“Juliet? Come on. That’s not even original.”
“That’s her name.”
“Right. What’s her last name?” Jessica’s getting excited, now. She thinks she’s either going to get gossip or catch me in a lie.
“Walker.”
“Uh-huh. So, is this a real person or a figment of your desperate boy imagination?”
“She’s totally real.”
Jessica narrows her eyes, trying to figure out what the trick is. “And she’s your girlfriend.”
I can finally say something to shut her down and end this. “Absolutely.”
“I know pretty much everyone worth knowing in school,” she says. “Even the ninth graders. I don’t know any Juliet Walker.”
I shrug.
“Dinner!” Loretta calls up the stairs.
“Dinner,” I say. “Conversation over.”
“What does she look like, this mythical girlfriend?”
“Well, she has brown hair,” I start to move past her.
She grabs my arm and stops me. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait. Brown hair? So she’s not a vamp?”
“She’s human.”
“Oh,” she says, and laughs. “Well, then. That explains everything.” She’s still laughing as she pushes past me.
As usual, Paige and Jessica have deeply important matters to discuss during dinner.
“I just saw on the entertainment news that it’s true: Gwenbeth Paltroff is a vamp,” Paige says.
“That’s just a rumor. People have been saying that for years,” Jessica says, like she’s personal friends with the movie star.
“No, seriously,” Paige says. “It’s true. I saw it on Celeb-Pretty!”
“You’re so gullible.”
“Then why doesn’t she deny it if it’s not true?”
“Because she likes people to think it. It makes her seem more interesting than just some girl who happens to be pale and blond and pretty.”
“Well, she’s still a fine actress, even if she is human,” Mom says to end the pointless debate.
“So what’s the deal with you and Gunther Hoering?” Jessica asks me.
“What?” I try to keep my voice casual. “There’s no deal.”
“I heard that you guys are at war.”
“How could I be at war with him?” I think I liked the celebrity conversation better. “He’s, like, king of the school. Why would he even bother with me?”
“I don’t know, but it’s what I hear. He’s in my grade, people talk.”
“You’re at war with someone in school?” Troy asks.
I raise my hands, palms up, like a bad mime showing innocence. “No. That is totally untrue.”
Mom looks at me. “I hope so. I play tennis with Sabina Hoering.”
Now it’s Paige’s turn to chime in. “Franz Hoering is in my class, and he says that his great-grandfather was a Nazi in that world war.”
“That sounds like a tall tale to me,” Troy says.
“It’s true. He brought in this medal and it had ‘WJ’ on it, which he says proves that the guy was some kind of big shot.”
If I remember right, WJ was an elite unit, like the SS. It stood for Werwoelfejäger, which was the Nazi group that rounded up wulves and sent them to extermination camps. Or just lined them up and shot them. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if Gunther came from such noble ancestry.
Jessica, of course, won’t let it die. “I never heard anything about Gunther being a Nazi, but I still wouldn’t mess with him if I were you. He could kill you in a second.”
“He doesn’t have any reason to kill me, and if I were you, I wouldn’t believe every stupid rumor I heard.”
“Well, at any rate,” Mom says, “I do hope you aren’t fighting or doing anything inappropriate. That may be fine for…other people, but not anyone in this family.”
“Have I ever done anything to get in trouble at school?” I say, dodging.
“There’s a first time for everything,” she says.
I stab a piece of meat with my fork and put it in my mouth. This is unbelievable. Can I go one hour without being given a hard time, or having to deal with my werewulf issue?
I’m a little light-headed, which means my crit is dropping. I take a good drink of SynHeme and my stomach clenches. Hard. I’m going to puke.
I stand up suddenly.
“What’s the matter?” Troy asks.
No. Not here, not in front of them. I get up and turn away from the table. Breathe. Breathe. “Nothing,” I say. Don’t run from the table. Don’t. It’ll raise questions and end up in a doctor’s visit. Don’t give in to the nausea. I put my hands on my neck. “Just something caught in my throat. I’m okay.” I cough a few times to make it convincing.
I sit back down. I can feel Mom’s eyes on me. “Have a drink, then,” she says.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”
Loretta, back from the compound, comes in to clear the plates. There’s a gouge above her eyebrow, and another on her ear.
The wounds are fresh enough that I can smell the blood. But it’s strange: I don’t salivate or get light-headed or anything.
I look over at Jess and see that her pupils are dilated. Paige is staring directly at the cuts on Loretta’s face. Mom is breathing deeply, her eyes half closed. Troy gawks at Loretta’s face, blinking repeatedly.
“Um, Loretta?” She turns to me. I tap my eyebrow and ear, then nod to her. She touches her eyebrow and realizes. She looks down at Mom and Troy, then Jess and Paige.
“Oh, excuse me. I’m so sorry. I’ll put on some Hemo-Sealer and come back right away—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I’ll clear.”
“So sorry.”
“No problem.” Anything to get out of this room.
I sit in my spot on the gym floor while Mr. Carver checks attendance. Gunther is talking softly to the guy in line next to him. I think his name is Andre. They both look over at me and start laughing, then go back to their conversation. I can feel my face getting red.
“All right, ladies,” Mr. Carver says. “We’re going up the hill to the track, and I don’t want to hear anyone complain that it’s a cold night. It’s not cold. I got them to turn on the lights, and we’re doing it, so don’t waste your breath whining. Get going.”
We start moving toward the doors at the back of the gym. A side door opens nearby, and it’s Craig. He hands Mr. Carver a note. Mr. Carver nods and puts the note in his attendance book. He pats Craig on the shoulder, then moves toward the doors with the rest of us. I leave the crowd to follow Craig, who’s headed back to the side door.
“Hey, Craig, how you doing?”
He turns. There’s a black patch over his left eye, with two deep, angry gashes above and below the patch. There are two more shorter, shallower ones on the side. All four gashes are parallel, with shiny black stitches holding them closed, the skin puckering around the sutures. It’s horrible.
“Wow. What happened?” I ask.
“I got clawed at the compound.”
“Is your eye going to be okay?”
“What eye? It’s gone, man.”
“What do you mean, it’s gone?”
“Gone. As in, not there anymore? And the surrounding bones are so messed up, they don’t even know if they can fit me with a glass one.”
I think of one of Constance’s words: enucleate, which means “to take out an eye.” Nobody at the lunch table had ever heard it before. “Damn. I’m sorry.”
He shrugs, looks down at the floor with his one eye. “Life sucks. What are you gonna do? At least I don’t have to take Gym anymore.”
He starts to walk away, but he only gets one step before a voice says, “Hey! Man, that looks bad!” It’s Gunther. He and his pal Andre lean in toward Craig. “That happen at the compound?” Gunther asks.
Craig nods, turning his
face to the side. I can tell he just wants to get out of here.
“So, what?” Gunther says. “Another crumpskull—oh, sorry—another werewulf just, like, came over and slashed your eye out?”
Craig nods. He doesn’t look mad or offended. Just defeated.
“Wow. That’s a shame.” Gunther shakes his head. He takes a look at me before turning back to Craig. “A real shame, you know? If he’d gotten just a couple of inches to your right, he could’ve gotten the other one, too.”
Andre laughs. Gunther holds his hand up for Andre to slap. “Oh, well,” Gunther says, grinning. “There’s always next month.”
He and Andre head toward the door, still laughing.
I truly don’t know what to say to Craig. He swallows hard.
“Hey, kid!” Gunther shouts from the doorway. “I’ll keep an eye out for you.” The idiot Andre laughs at this. Gunther howls, and it reverberates around the gym even after they’re gone.
Craig starts walking away.
“Craig,” I say.
He stops and turns to me.
“I don’t know what to say. If there’s anything…”
Craig looks at me, his one eye shiny, narrowed with anger. He snickers. “Anything you can do? Like what? What can you do for me?”
“I don’t know. Whatever I can do.” Which, I guess, is nothing. “Look. Guys like Gunther Hoering…He’s just a specist scumbag. He has no idea what it’s like—”
“But you do, right? You know exactly what it’s like, after having gone to compounds for years and all that. I bet you know just what it’s like to lose an eye, too.” He shakes his head, then raises his slashed eyebrow. “You want to help me? To be my pal? Live the life of a wulf for a couple of years, then we’ll talk.”
“Did you see Craig Lewczyk?” Claire asks as we walk out the front doors into the night after school. She pulls her peacoat closed and buttons it.
I let out a long breath and shake my head. “He lost the eye.”
“I know. That’s so horrible.” She shivers.
I shake my head. “Poor kid.”
“I know, right? Awful. You feel like doing anything?”
“I have to go over to the Kray-Mart in North Haven.”
“Eww. Why would you want to go to North Haven? And to the Krap-Mart, no less.”