“That very day the girl packed a basket with maple nut rolls and a fat round of butter, and set off in search of her dear grand-mere.”
The story stopped as the airport intercom crackled a moment and then went silent again. The man’s niece poked a finger into his thigh. “The cape, oncle, you have forgotten it.”
“I have not,” he said. “Naturally the child could not trudge through the cold wood with nothing but a frock and boots, so she tied her favorite red cloak about her neck, tucking her dark hair into its hood, then set off to cheer her grandmother back to health.
“It was fortunate she had brought so many buns, for by noon-time the girl’s stomach rumbled and she sat to eat.
“Just as she did, a most handsome creature came up beside her. He was, unfortunately, clearly a wolf, though he looked nothing at all like the monsters she’d heard described in her mother’s frightening tales. His fur was light gold with a bronzed sheen that reflected the sun in a magnificent way and when he came up beside her he bowed politely and spoke. ‘I pray thee, tiny maid, could you spare but one roll, for my limbs grow weary from hunger.’
“The child was quite surprised and not foolish enough to deny a hungry wolf his request for a bit of bread. Quickly, she tossed him a sweet roll.
“As the creature devoured it, the child scurried along on her way, though she had not gone much further when the wolf appeared before her again, this time standing on hind legs and bearing a posy of flowers, which he presented to her with his thanks.
“He really was a tremendously fine-looking animal with stone gray eyes that stared into her own. ‘Perhaps,’ the girl said, taking a careful step back, ‘I will give these lovely blooms to grandmother. She lives at the furthest end of this path, and does not fare well, you see.’
“‘I do,’ replied the wolf, delicately licking his upper lip. ‘There are many bright flowers off this path. If you’ve a few moments to spare, perhaps you would find many more to your liking.’
“The girl hesitated. She had been warned never to leave the path, no matter the cause, yet she would not need to stray far, for she could smell the perfumed blossoms from where she stood. Besides, the gentle wolf had already run on, which meant she would be quite alone.
“It was nearly dusk when the flower-laden child arrived at her grandmother’s house. The door was unlatched, although the child tapped on it thrice before entering. Her grandmother must have been very weak because she did not so much as murmur bonjour. The girl pushed open the door. In the dimming light she could see the still form of her grandmother in the bed.
“‘Grandmother,’ she said softly, searching the cupboards for a match to light the candle.
“Grandmother cleared her throat and it seemed she must have been very ill indeed because the sound of her voice rumbled low like tumbling rocks.
“‘Let me butter you some bread,’ the child said, giving up on her search for matches.
“‘Non,’ whispered grand-mere. “Come closer. I wish only to see your sweet, soft face.”
“‘Goodness, grandmother,’ the girl exclaimed, stepping closer, ‘what a very hoarse voice you have. Shall I not make you a pot of tea?’
“‘No, child; come closer.’
“‘And grand-mere, your soft white hair looks course and ashen in this darkened cottage.’
“‘Well, of course my dear; closer now.’
“‘And your ears, so black. Your teeth so…”
“Now boarding flight 375 to John F. Kennedy International Airport.”
The young girl jumped at the cackling of the intercom, as did several of the passengers nearby who had been soothed into listening to the story.
“Oncle,” the girl said, stamping her foot. “You must finish it. Vous devez.”
“I’m afraid I can’t, cherie; it will have to wait for another visit.”
“But how does it end?” she begged.
“You know how it ends, Emmaline,” her mother chided, handing the man his bag before kissing his cheek.
“No, I don’t,” the girl said, almost in tears. “The stories never end in the usual way with oncle.”
“True, cherie,” her uncle said. “Not all wolves are bad. And not all men are good. And most are unfortunately stuck somewhere in between.”
“Oh, oncle,” the girl said. “It is always a riddle, une enigma.”
The man bent down and gave her a hug. “At Christmas,” he promised.
“You will finish it then?” she asked, sniffling.
“I will try,” he said, dashing out to the plane, trailing after the other passengers.
His niece, he thought, was right to wonder. In the darkest versions of the story, young Red Riding Hood got eaten and that was that. The Grimm brothers had introduced a huntsman to rescue both girl and grandmother. And in many versions—both very old and very new, the child and the old woman had devised a way together to escape from the crafty wolf—stitching up stomach or mouth, filling him with stones, drowning the beast. But in this story—his story—he wasn’t quite sure how it would end.
In the coach seats, the smell of the wolves onboard was undeniable, at least to his senses.
“Mademoiselle,” he asked as the flight attendant walked past, “there wouldn’t be any animals on this flight, would there? My allergies are giving me quite a time.”
“Animals, monsieur? Of course not. Non.”
“Of course.” Not that she would know anything about them. Not that any normal person would.
It was inevitable, he supposed. The wolves, their masters. They had gotten grandmother years ago, and mother only recently. It remained now to see what would happen to Red.
Chapter 9
Napper, Indiana, was pretty much tragically boring. Mornings at Vivi’s house were stone silent. Afternoons Vivi was at work. And evenings got twenty uncomfortable minutes of forced banter over dinner before they settled into their own quiet corners of the house. It was a stifling silence—the kind that made you feel like you not only had to shut the bathroom door without a click, but also that you shouldn’t be thinking any loud thoughts either.
Maybe that’s why Ella felt compelled to reject her aunt’s offer to drive her to school. Sure it meant that she had to trudge along the shoulder of the road most of the time, like the stray dog that sometimes hung out at the edges of their neighborhood. But it was just over a mile, and she kind of enjoyed it.
Walking to school was still quiet, but Ella’s thoughts could scream all they wanted. She turned over the funeral in her mind. She kicked at puddles. She listened to the bugs and birds. And she walked past the entrance to The Property—the huge estate with the copper plaque reading, “Napper, Indiana, established 1803.”
Most of Napper was flat as Vivi’s pancakes, but this section rose up to a tall hill and was covered with trees and flowers. Ella could see paths that led around the property and once, early in the morning, an owl had swooped down in front of her and picked up a mouse from the ditch. It’d been kind of cool. And scary. Which is how the grounds made Ella feel in general.
Strangely, it was a feeling she loved.
Today instead of an owl, Ella saw an old grocery cart in front of the gates and a man screaming inside the preserve. The man was balding with thin, pale lips, torn pants, and a dirty flannel shirt that was unbuttoned nearly to his waist. He had stained hands and an old backpack that maybe used to be purple, but now just looked brown.
He shouted, “This used to be my land. My domain. I can come here whenever I want. I know these woods better than anyone—even you, Mr. Napper.”
The name smeared through the air like a curse.
Ella looked through the fence to see a tall, trim man in a black suit walking toward the homeless guy.
Charles Napper walked with a cane, but had a full head of gray-streaked hair and a perfectly trimmed beard. He stopped in front of the shaggy man and took out his phone. “I’m sorry, sir, but the grounds are closed today. If you don’t leave, I’ll be forc
ed to call the authorities to have you removed.”
“Removed,” the man shouted almost hysterically. “Removed!”
Mr. Napper started to dial. It seemed as though this had happened before. The homeless man stomped down the hill, still screaming. “I used to be a king. A KING!”
Ella didn’t want to be at the gate when he came through. She ran the last six blocks to her school and stopped in front of the doors. She’d seen Charles Napper arguing with some homeless guy. Awesome. And the homeless guy had been terrifying, but hilarious. Ella caught herself thinking that she couldn’t wait to get home and tell her mom.
The tears sprang to her eyes before she could stop them
Sarah Price had plenty. Plenty of food, plenty of clothes, plenty of money. She was smart too; and not even ugly. It was all intensely boring—school, clothes, her parents, their jobs. She wanted to go to Africa and fight disease. Or Paris and fall in love. She’d even settle for a summer job. But her parents wouldn’t have that. They’d be sending her to acting camp again this summer.
Sarah Price regretted that when she had turned twelve, she’d told her parents that it was her heart’s desire to be an actor when she grew up. Maybe some accountant-dentist couples would have balked at the idea, but her parents lovingly and aggressively—with all the type-A-fervor of their souls—threw their support behind their only child’s dreams. Thank goodness she hadn’t told them she’d wanted to be a lion tamer.
The thing was, she did want to be an actor. It’s just that it seemed kind of hard to pretend to be all these other people when all you’d known was white upper class suburban life. She’d been doing the goth thing for nearly a year now—listening to Bauhaus, wearing black, dying her hair. Lately, she’d added some steampunk jewelry to the mix—a cuff with cogs, a leather corset over a black silk blouse. And it did stress her parents out.
Half the time, her mother was convinced that she was a pathologically lying drug addict. With all the helicoptering her mother tried to do, it was a wonder she wasn’t. But the truth was that her parents’ stress and all her mom’s worrying didn’t really change her life or anything in it. She was still the same—smart, rich, and bored.
Today she’d driven to school early. That new girl, Ella, had come running to the school, then stopped, sat on the steps, and started to cry.
You weren’t supposed to envy someone for being a nut job, but Sarah Price kind of did. She smiled, thinking of how her mom would feel to see her running along some ditch by the road and then sobbing on the school steps. Her poor mother would probably have to double up on the restorative yoga to rebalance after the horror of it all.
Sarah walked right past Ella on the way into school. And then she paused. Did she want everything in her life to always be the same predictable blah or not? Why not talk to the crazy girl?
“Hey,” she said, turning around. “There’s a box of tissues in the theater room on the south end.”
She hadn’t meant for it to sound snarky, but maybe it did. Sarah didn’t dare turn back to see which way Ella had taken it. After all, the girl in black wasn’t supposed to care.
Chapter 10
The truck driver arrived right on time, ready to crate and transport the animals. Normally, he transported zoo animals from the airport, and several times he’d been hired to pick up exotic fish. But wolves were new. That didn’t bother him too much. The rich guy who had hired him for this job had offered to pay as much as the driver normally made in nine months. Transporting a pack of wolves all over the eastern United States wouldn’t be fun, but he wasn’t about to turn down a job with that kind of pay.
Before they left, the wolves were fed, re-crated, and re-sedated. For the month-long journey, they would drive through document checks and red tape until sometime in October, when they would find their way to a sleepy little town in southern Indiana.
When the wolves were ready, the driver buckled himself in and looked over at the veterinarian who sat in the passenger’s seat next to him, frowning at a strange pack of seemingly stray dogs that trotted toward the van.
“That’s unusual,” the driver said.
“Hmmm,” the man responded.
“The dogs,” the driver said. “I’ve never had a bunch of dogs so interested in my van before.”
“I can’t stand dogs,” the veterinarian said.
“Really?” the driver asked. “That surprises me with your work and all.”
“Wolves are different than dogs.”
The driver didn’t argue, although the main difference he could see was that no one was going to put out kibble for a pack of wolves or invite them up onto the couch at night. Except apparently Mr. Vet Guy.
They were nearly out of town when one of the dogs started barking loudly and another ran up along the van, nipping at the wheel. A third bit hard into a wheel on the other side.
“What the…” the driver said.
The veterinarian cursed and then suddenly reached over and grabbed the steering wheel, jerking the van to the side so that it hit one of the dogs. Two sets of wheels thumped over its body.
“Holy mother,” the driver said, gaining control of the van and slowly moving over to the shoulder.
“Keep driving,” the vet shouted.
“Sir, I gotta pull over. We just ran over that dog.”
“That dog is dangerous,” the vet said. “Keep driving.”
“That dog is dangerous?” the driver replied, his voice rising. “I’m sorry. I’m going to have to stop.”
“You have been paid to do a job. Now do it.”
“My job isn’t to run over animals like a lunatic,” the driver said, then looked over at the vet. The man’s eyes were sharp-edged, his face set like it had been cut from a mountain. His hand was clenched on a large, black bag beside him.
The driver had driven poisonous snakes, bears, mountain lions, and even a young tiger. He had never once felt afraid. But now, looking at the man beside him, he felt the hair at the back of his neck rise. He remembered a story that had shown up on his newsfeed only a few weeks ago about a man who’d shot his friend in a fit of rage. And this guy wasn’t even a friend.
The driver did not pull over to check on the dog. He had a wife and twin sons. He’d report the crazy vet after he got home. “Look, I’m just trying to do my job,” the driver began as gently as he could.
“Then do it,” the vet said, staring straight ahead.
Chapter 11
Mr. Witten was short and stout—and that was putting it politely. He was bald on top with a ring of gray hair that circled the rest of his head. He was wearing a button-down shirt as though dressed to impress the new group of juniors, but he’d missed a button, and as a result, his shirt hung crookedly. Gothy couldn’t resist a snort.
Sam could. Mr. Witten reminded him uncannily of his father. And, unfortunately, Sam had to admit that he would never ever buy a vacuum from this man. Perhaps his father should have gone into creative writing. That was a field that, apparently, required no awareness of your personal appearance. The only proof that Mr. Witten had actually looked in a mirror that morning was a silver bracelet set with a large copper square that gave him a sort of Bohemian look. It had probably worked for him during his college years, but seemed a little silly when he was facing a room full of teenagers.
Their new teacher was directing them to a place in their syllabus with assignments for the semester. Mr. Witten had missed the entire first week and a half of school, which seemed like a big offense, except rumor had it that he was a big wig folklorist and had been doing some reading at a prestigious university overseas. The two girls in front of Sam said the school had been fighting to get Witten here for years. And when a school with as many rich kids as this one fights for a teacher it wants, they usually get him. Though, apparently, a week late.
The girl named Ella was in the class too. He still couldn’t place her face, but there was something about it he found comforting.
Gothy sat in front of Ella.
Looking at her didn’t make Sam feel comforted. Looking at her made him feel something else. The truth was he was finding it increasingly difficult not to look at her, and that bothered him. She wasn’t exactly sweet as sugar candy. And the dark hair and nails and punk jewelry weren’t his thing. But he’d noticed that her hair was starting to grow out. It wasn’t black at all—more of a copper red. Sometimes he wondered what else she was hiding under the charcoal veneer.
She turned toward him and for a second their eyes met. Gothy’s eyes were a deep, clear green. They caught Sam off guard. He wasn’t sure what he expected—black demon eyes or something. All he knew was that mean girls didn’t deserve eyes like that. He dropped his gaze, staring at his syllabus.
Mr. Witten droned on. “You’ll be studying several fairy tales, folklore, and tall tales—each from different countries, some well-known and others not.” Witten paused, looking around at the class. “You’ll also study several modern retellings of common fairy tales, and will be expected to participate in class discussions as well as write a one-page paper on each story. Then at the end of the semester, each of you will get to create a retelling of a story of your choice.”
Sam thought that Witten sounded like he actually believed that this would be fun for some of the kids. His teacher concluded, “Your story retelling will be ten pages long and will count for a quarter of your grade.”
Sam frowned. When he’d signed up, he’d thought Folklore and Writing sounded easier than plain old grammar-based English.
He set his pencil down and looked over at Gothy just in time to see her close a notebook—her name written in sweet, swirly letters across the top of the page. Sarah. The ‘S’ draped itself across the corner like a dress. Sam must have heard her name in class—he was pretty sure his teachers didn’t call her Gothy, but there was something about that sweeping ‘S’ that made the name stick. Sarah—one of the most old-fashioned, feminine names around. Sam couldn’t help but enjoy that.
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