So I chew slowly on a French fry.
I look back at Karen, and she’s checking me out.
“What?” I say.
“You’re still hungry,” she says. “I can see it. I can almost feel it.”
“What do you mean?” I say.
“You keep looking at my burger. I think it’s time for you to face your worst nightmare. Come on, try a bite.”
I shake my head. But my stomach rumbles.
“Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want to at least try it.”
I shake my head. “It’s just wrong.” But I’m not even looking at her.
“Just one bite,” she says. “Where’s the harm?”
“You leading me into temptation?”
“That is so not right. You are not going Biblical on me, here. I mean, what, are all women temptresses or something? You going to say God made me from your rib next? Cause, uh, Earth to Stanley? We’re in Burger King, not the Garden of Eden. This is a flame broiled beef patty, not forbidden fruit. Come on, man up and try it.”
Joke all you want, but I can’t even look at what she’s eating. “No way,” I say. “I mean, how can anyone eat that?”
“Eat this?” She holds the burger out to me. “It’s easy.”
It. Smells. So. Good.
“Take a bite,” she says. “Or you’re just as bad as Zach.”
I lean forward. Bite down. Chew. Swallow. My stomach settles. My taste buds tingle. I feel warm. Hot. What is wrong with me?
Am I dreaming? Living my worst nightmare? If so, why do I feel so right?
“Was that so bad?” she asks.
“Not for me, maybe. But for the cow?”
“Oh, lighten up, Stanley. Live a little.”
“If you tell my mom...”
“I’m not telling anyone,” she says. “It looks like we both have secrets.”
“Okay,” I say. “Okay.”
“You’re repeating yourself, Stan. You want the other one? No way am I going to be able to finish two.”
“You can take one home,” I say.
Karen shakes her head. “My mom doesn’t allow fast food in the house. I’ll have to throw it out. You don’t want me to waste this food, do you?”
She holds up the second Whopper. It’s still wrapped. Warm. My hands move before I can say anything and snatch it from her open hand.
Do I need to tell you that biting into my very own Whopper is like coming home to a home I’ve never had, but where I really belong? My stomach settles, but my senses are in overdrive, and my mind is a mess.
If meat is murder, then why does it taste so good?
But that’s not all that’s running through my head. As much as I try to concentrate on the forbidden meat that’s entering my body, my mind keeps coming back to Zach and his supplements. Or, really, to the important question: Could they help my knee?
Chapter 3: MOWING THE LAWN
You ever wake up and find coarse, dark hair all over your chest?
And not just on my chest. In all kinds of embarrassing places. Ugh.
That was a new one for me, this morning. Is the moon playing more tricks on me, or am I growing up? Or just growing hairy?
My teeth ache and feel loose in my mouth. Like I’m going to lose them and get my permanent teeth.
Except these are my permanent teeth. Should I go to the dentist? What would he say? That he can’t figure out what’s wrong with me? Or would he see right through me, and know that I’m a little lunatic, going through puberty?
My mom sees me pushing my cereal around the bowl at breakfast instead of eating it. Really, organic Weetabix is not what I’m craving this morning. But how can I begin to explain that to her?
“Stanley? Are you okay?”
I nod. “Just not hungry, I guess.”
For what’s in my bowl, that is.
“I found...some disturbing signs.”
She looks at me, but she doesn’t even look me in the eye. I see her biting her lip. Is she afraid of me? Or afraid for me?
“What, Mom?” I ask her. “What did you find?”
“Hair. A lot of it, in the shower.”
“Mom, gross,” I say, “And I mean, privacy?”
“And your toothbrush—”
“I need a new one, I know,” I say.
She shakes her head. “No, Stanley. It was all bloody.”
“I think I’m cutting a tooth,” I say.
“At fourteen?”
“Maybe I’m a late bloomer. Or maybe wisdom teeth?”
“We need to take you to see someone,” she says. “I’ve been trying to hold this off, but I can’t ignore it any longer.”
“Mom, no dentist is going to understand this.”
“I’m not talking about a dentist, Stanley. Give me some credit.”
“No—not Uncle Eli?”
“He’s an option, yes, although I don’t know if I want to schlep all the way down to Brooklyn. Your uncle has some friends in Providence, though, who might be able to help.”
“Let me guess, some friends on the East Side? Who speak Yiddish and won’t drive a car on Saturday?”
“It’s about mysticism, spirituality, the Kaballah. But most of all it’s about keeping my boy safe. That’s why you need to see someone.”
“Maybe I should see a shrink?”
“Maybe we could all use a psychologist,” my mother says. “That’s definitely an option. But no, for right now I was thinking you should see someone from the coven. You may be young, but it’s time for you to be initiated. All of us in the coven draw our power from the moon. It’s the way of Wicca. Maybe if you could control the power in you, channel it—”
“Mom, there’s no power in me.”
“You can’t deny—”
“Mom, I’m fine.”
“Great. You’re fine. We’ll talk later. But I’ll see if I can set something up.”
“There’s no need, Mom,” I say.
I don’t want to see anyone from the coven. A bunch of scantly clothed middle-aged ladies jumping over me and slapping me with basil to purify my essence is not my idea of fun. But spending twelve hours praying non-stop with the Hasidim isn’t any better. I’ve got to figure this out on my own. My mother has enough to worry about. I don’t like how this is affecting her. How this is affecting me.
“Stanley, why are you arguing with me?”
“Because I told you I’m fine.”
She doesn’t say anything for a while. She just fingers the chain around her neck. It’s from her coven. I know that. It’s supposed to store energy. I figure she could use that energy now. Teenagers are exhausting enough, without all my special problems.
She just stands there, looking at me, fingering the pendant. “Then get mowing,” she says finally. “Our grass is way too high. It’s a forest out there. A tick paradise. All we need is someone catching Lyme disease.”
I groan, and my mom smiles a thin smile. Have I told you that in addition to her mysticism and her obsessive worrying my mom also has a sadistic side?
We have this push-mower, and sometimes I think push-mowers were put on the world by some green god to torture people, especially teens like me. Every little stick gets stuck in the blades and I have to shake the mower by the handle until it falls out.
Enrique jogs up, his hair one stiff spike. His face is covered with sweat.
“You keep it up like that,” I say. “And you’ll make varsity.”
He shrugs. “I’ll be happy just to make the team.”
I start pushing the mower again. Hit a stick. Stop, wince.
“How is the physical therapy?” asks Enrique.
“Worthless,” I say. “But pretty painful.”
“Well, it could be worse,” he says. “At least—”
“At least what?”
“At least you can mow the lawn?”
“Thanks, Enrique. I appreciate the sympathy.”
But he’s got me smiling, which is good, actually. I could use a little lightening
up. Last night with Karen on the rebound and Zach with his vitamins was weird enough. But this morning with the hair on my chest? And the bleeding gums? And then just leaving out the evidence for my mother to find, knowing how she worries?
It’s got to be the moon. You may think I’m crazy, but this type of crap only happens to me when it’s waxing. I wouldn’t even be surprised if I lose the hair from my chest in a couple of weeks, when the moon fades away to a sliver.
Although I guess it does make me manlier for the moment.
You can see how I need Enrique to distract me. He’s entering Lansfeld High School this year with me, and has lived next door for the last year. From the beginning, he didn’t fit in too well at Walters, but things changed for the better when he got raging acne and started wearing a mohawk. When I say things changed for the better that’s kind of sarcastic. He went from not fitting in to totally standing out. These days when he’s not running, he’s burning me weird punk rock CDs, and I think he could care less what other people think about him.
How can I put it? He’s the yin to my yang. If I didn’t have Enrique, have Jonathan and Karen, I don’t know what I’d do.
Enrique goes back inside as I start pushing the mower across the lawn. A minute later he brings out his stereo and some lawn chairs, and starts blasting some rock en español. Soon his brother Andres comes out too, and life becomes bearable.
They sit there watching me, and they cheer me on every time I clear the push mower of another stuck stick. At least I’m amusing someone, and the music makes the mowing go faster.
Maybe they feel bad about laughing at me, because Enrique brings me a Mexican Coke. Mexican Coke could be considered a controlled substance; in the United States, it is too powerful to be sold over the counter.
It’s cold and syrupy and full of caffeine. It calms my teeth and my nerves, although I won’t be surprised if I have trouble sleeping tonight.
Chapter 4: THE ACCIDENT
It would be nice to say it all happened during some big competition. That I went down pulling in a gold, a silver, or even a bronze. But it didn’t happen that way, and I replay it now, lying in my bed. We rented a house on the cape. It’s the summer before eighth grade, and the night is dark and cool. The moon is big. Enormous. Not a crescent, not a waxing gibbous, but full. Gloriously, achingly full. It pulls me out of bed, and I dress in the dark before I know what I’m doing.
Outside I feel loose, I feel strong, I feel ready to take on the whole world, but all there is in front of me is dark and empty beach.
That’s normal.
It’s only two in the morning, and everyone else is asleep. The air is cold as my bare feet slap against the wet sand, and the moon exerts its pull far above me. But you don’t want to hear about the moon. You want to hear about what happened to my knee.
I’m running, just thinking about how cool the wet sand feels under my feet. But the moon is huge. I want to bring my head up, to stop, to stare. I feel the hair rise up on my arms, on the back of my neck. My teeth are so loose I wonder they don’t fall out. It’s too much for me—I should be at home, should be in bed. I need to go back to the house, but instead I close my eyes and keep running, trying to blot out the pale light from up above that somehow keeps pulling at me through my closed lids.
I close my eyes for just one short moment and run on, blind.
I am stronger than the pull up above me. The moon will not control me.
But the pull of the moon gives way to a shock on my foot, and I try to twist around it but it’s too late...or maybe too early. Because I twist and fall at the same time, blinded by the moon, alone on a deserted beach where no one can hear me scream.
I don’t remember who finds me, who calls my parents or who calls the ambulance. My memories are nothing more than snapshots of crawling and dragging myself along that beach. Memories of grunting and pulling myself along the wet sand, punctuated by screams of pain that deepen as my throat grows raw with each new cry into the night.
Somehow, I get to the hospital where I stay for a week.
It is all and all quite an eventful summer. A summer that stays with me.
But I keep more than the pain, the scars and the injury. More than the memories.
Because I go back, you see. When I can walk again with a brace, I have my mother drive me back out to the cape, and we comb the beach until I find it.
It’s still a beautiful piece of driftwood.
If you look at it from one angle you see the face of an old man. From another angle you see two people, intertwined. We take it home and keep it. It is on my wall for awhile, before I take it down and throw it across the room in a fit of rage. Now it’s in the corner of my closet. I’m sick of looking at it, even if it is a beautiful piece of driftwood.
A beautiful piece of driftwood that ruined my life.
Lauren, my physical therapist, is pretty sure I’ll never run again. And if the blink of an eye on a night of the full moon can take running away, what else am I in danger of losing?
Chapter 5: KAREN’S BLOODY HANGNAIL
It’s dark already, cool and stormy, when the doorbell rings.
“I’ve got it!” I yell as I walk carefully to the door. I know who I want it to be, although what are the chances?
I look through the peephole. It’s Karen, alone.
I open the door. “Oh,” I say. “Hey.”
She just stares at me. I smile at her, waiting for her to smile back, but she just keeps looking at me with the same blank stare. “What?” I say. “What’s up?”
“We need to talk.”
“Well, come on in, then.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Outside.”
I walk outside with her into the cold, pulling on a sweater. It’s cloudy and cool and for once I don’t feel the pull of the moon. I’m almost wishing for more overcast weather.
“You going to tell me what’s the matter?” I ask her. “Or you want another hug?”
“It’s not what I want that matters, not anymore, Stanley. Zach was right. Something’s wrong. Really wrong, and I don’t know how to fix it.”
“Can you stop talking in riddles? It’s cold out here. Tell me what’s going on.”
She shakes her head. “I’ve been getting these migraines, whenever I go out in the sun. I mean, I never had one before. I go outside now, in the sun, I even let the sun in through my window, and boom—my head is splitting, all I want to do is scream; it’s like my head is exploding. Like the sun is killing me.”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“Sure. Mom took me to Dr. Cooper. He just smiled and told me to wear sunglasses, but I can tell they think I’m crazy. But I’m not. I just wanted you to know that.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy, Karen,” I say. “But you should get help.”
“That’s what Zach said,” she says. “But he just made things worse. Those pills of his didn’t solve anything...”
“You sure you don’t want that hug?”
She bites into her fingernail, refuses to look me in the eye. “I don’t think I could handle a hug right now. I’m not even sure I deserve one right now.”
“Look,” I say. “It’s like, nine o’clock? Nine thirty? Maybe you should get some sleep.”
She snorts. “Sleep? I wish I could.” She chews at her fingernail. “And that’s not all. I mean, what is the matter with me? I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, but I don’t know what I’m craving. Everything I eat disgusts me. I’m throwing up all the time, and my mom thinks I’m bulimic.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She tears savagely into her nail.
“Ouch,” she says. “Now look what you made me do.”
She’s torn it, and her finger is bleeding.
How do I know she’s bleeding, there in the twilight?
Because I can smell it. Smell the coppery tangy sweetness. Forget Karen; what’s the matter with me?
“You okay?” I ask her.
“It’s fine. Jus
t forget it.”
She sticks her finger in her mouth.
Then she gasps. “No,” I hear her whimper. “No, this is so not happening.”
“What?” I say. Is her finger bleeding worse than I thought?
“Blood?” she asks herself, in wonder. “No, really, blood?”
“Do you want me to get a Band-Aid?” I ask her. “We can put some Neosporin on it.”
She shakes her head, her eyes wide. “No, Stanley, I’m going home. Right now.”
“I’ll get you a Band-Aid, and then I’ll walk you back.”
Like I could keep up with her.
“No,” she says. “I don’t need a bandaid. I need to be alone. Now.”
And she’s gone. Just like that. A red blur in the night.
Chapter 6: A SURPRISE ON MY DOORSTEP
My mother knocks at my door. Somehow I couldn’t sleep last night. The moon was so big, so obscenely full, and as I tossed and turned I kept thinking of running. But who am I kidding? My joints ache; my teeth feel ready to fall out. Then there is that coarse black hair sprouting all over my chest, all over my back.
Maybe I have Lyme disease, after all. I mean, it’s pretty endemic up here in New England. And I love the woods. But if I have Lyme disease, what’s the matter with Karen? I can’t get her out of my head. That look that came over her face when she sucked her bleeding finger. What is wrong with us?
Whatever else is wrong with me, I know I’m a lunatic. Following the moon’s commands.
Because to night the moon will rise. Full. The biggest moon in months.
And I don’t think I’m ready for it.
“Stanley?” my mother calls.
“Yeah, Mom?” I groan.
“We’re going to Trader Joe’s. You want anything?”
I’m hungry. But not for anything that my mother will buy me. In my church they say shame is a useless emotion. But I’m still filled with it. Filled with shame, and longing. I want to go to Burger King. Now.
I can’t keep this hunger under control. Maybe Enrique has something that would satisfy? I’ve got to do something. School will start soon, and I can barely walk on the best of days. But when the moon is waxing? When it’s full? What am I going to do at school if my teeth start to bleed, if my joints hurt so bad I can’t walk, can barely stand? What am I going to tell the nurse? What will my mom think?
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