Were-

by Seanan McGuire

  "Well, it’s always one of you. I wanna be the mother this time."

  As Emmy’s spinning slowed, she and Bailey shared a look and a grin. Emmy was the prettiest girl Bailey knew. Bailey’s mom said it was because she was mixed up: her mother was American, but her father was Japanese. She had silky black hair and dimples. Bailey had always wanted dimples.

  "Have you ever been a bear?" Emmy asked.

  "Yeah," Bailey said, fists on her hips. "Have you ever been?"

  Lucy’s gaze darted from one of them to the other. "No. But neither have you."

  Bailey laughed, and a moment later so did Emmy.

  "We’ve been bears lots of times."

  "Have not."

  "Have too," Emmy said.

  "You’re lying."

  Bailey shook her head, her brown curls whipping around her face. "No, we’re not. Just because you don’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not true." She bent down, grabbed a handful of dirt, and rubbed some on each cheek. "But this time you can be the mother, Emmy. If you want."

  "Okay. Thanks."

  Emmy dirtied her face, too.

  Lucy watched them, frowning. "My mother doesn’t like it when I make my face dirty."

  "Then I guess you can’t play. Too bad. We were going to let you be the grandma bear this time."

  "The grandma?"

  Bailey nodded, glancing at Emmy again. "She’s kind of like the mother, but she’s older."

  "What does she get to do?"

  "Lots of stuff," Bailey said with a shrug. "She cooks and tells stories and takes care of the baby bear."

  "Who’s the baby?" Chloe asked.

  Bailey tapped her chest. "I am."

  "Then what am I?"

  "You can be the older sister."

  Chloe made a face, but then said, "Okay." She bent and put dirt on her face. Her hair was blond, which was usually too light for bears, but she did look good with the dirt on her cheeks.

  That left Lucy as the only one who didn’t look like a bear.

  Bailey lay on her back and cooed like a baby. Emmy and Chloe got down on their hands and knees and began to crawl around her, growling and snuffling. Lucy’s frown deepened. She was wearing a pink dress and shiny black shoes. She’d probably get in as much trouble for mussing those as she would for putting dirt on her face.

  Emmy pretended to give Bailey honey, and Chloe did a little dance like a bear in the circus. Bailey thought she might make a decent bear.

  They tromped around the playground, pretending to hunt for berries, fish for salmon, and search for more honey, which was Bailey’s favorite bear food. When they returned to their bear cave under the slide, Bailey decided that winter had settled in. They lay down to hibernate.

  Lucy had watched them the whole time, following through the forest and tundra and streams, and asking what they were doing. Bailey ignored her, but Emmy answered, and Chloe did, too. She understood more than Bailey had expected.

  They brushed the dirt off their clothes and walked back to the swings.

  "Do you think Jonathan will come?" Emmy asked. "To the party, I mean."

  "I guess," Bailey said. "I’ll invite him."

  Lucy stared across the playground at the school. "He’s still with the nurse."

  "He’ll be all right."

  Emmy straightened her skirt. "I hope his mom lets him. It won’t be as much fun without him."

  "You like him," Chloe said with a teasing smile.

  Emmy shrugged, her cheeks reddening. "So?"

  Lucy grinned at Chloe. Bailey said nothing. She wouldn’t tease her friend, but she knew Chloe was right. That was why she’d decided to invite Jonathan in the first place. For Emmy. That was why he was going to be a bear.

  The bell rang inside the school, ending recess.

  Emmy glanced at Bailey, a serious look on her oval face.

  "It’ll be all right," Bailey said. "It has been the other times."

  "Not always," Emmy said.

  "Mostly, though. This time it will be."

  "Okay." Her friend gave a tight smile that Bailey didn’t believe.

  Miss Glasser, their teacher, waved them toward the playground door. "Come on, children," she called.

  Most of them ran. Emmy, Bailey, Chloe, and Lucy walked. But Lucy walked faster than the others, and tried to rush them. She hated to be late. And she liked spelling, which is what they did after recess.

  "Bailey," Miss Glasser said as they neared the door. "You’ll come with me. Mister Donovan wants to talk to you."

  The principal. Again. Several of the students ahead of her looked over their shoulders, their cheeks rosy from recess, their mouths fixed in small "o"s. Most of them tried to stay away from her. They were afraid of what she might do to them. They didn’t want to end up like Jonathan. Or like Emmy.

  Miss Glasser led the others to their room and left them with Patty, her assistant. Bailey liked Patty. She was young and pretty and she sang well. She thought Miss Glasser was nice, too, but only sometimes. She yelled at the class too much, and Bailey didn’t think Miss Glasser liked her very well. She wouldn’t have admitted this to anyone—not even Emmy—but Lucy was right: she did get in trouble a lot.

  She and her teacher walked through the hallway, passing cubbies and science fair displays, the only sounds the clicking of Miss Glasser’s heels and the squeak of Bailey’s tennies. She’d been to Mister Donovan’s office enough times to know she didn’t have to be afraid. He couldn’t do anything to her. Not really. He’d tell her he was disappointed in her, and that her mother and father would be, too. And then he’d make her sit by herself in the main office for the rest of the day until her mother arrived.

  As they reached the door to the principal’s office, Miss Glasser paused and gazed down at her, tilting her head to the side.

  "I’m sorry about this, Bailey. I wish you didn’t make me bring you here so often. But there are some things you just shouldn’t do."

  "I know."

  The corners of her teacher’s mouth turned down, and lines appeared in her forehead. "If you know better, why do you do them?"

  Bailey lifted her shoulders and let them drop. "I’m sorry," she said.

  Her teacher straightened with a sigh, pushed open the door, and ushered Bailey inside.

  The secretary, Missus Crandall, was old and scary. Bailey stayed as far from her desk as she could. But once Miss Glasser left, there was really nothing she could do. Missus Crandall peered at her over her glasses, a sour look on her wrinkled face.

  "He’ll be with you in a minute," she said, in a voice like dried leaves being crushed. "You just sit there."

  Bailey sat and stared at her hands. But she knew every moment exactly where Missus Crandall was, and when the secretary was watching her. Sitting out here with her, waiting for Mister Donovan, was always the worst part.

  When at last Mister Donovan came out of his room to fetch her, Bailey practically jumped off her chair. He regarded her, his expression very much like Miss Glasser’s, brown eyes magnified by his glasses, his bushy moustache making him look friendlier than he was. Without a word, he turned on his heel and disappeared into his office, knowing Bailey would follow. She climbed up into the chair in front of his desk, and he shut the door.

  "Well, Miss Browne, here we are again." He took his seat behind the desk, folded his hands and hunched his shoulders, as if trying to look bigger than he was. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

  "No."

  "Can you tell me why you did it?"

  Her gaze roamed the walls, skimming over framed diplomas and posters from old musicals. "No."

  "Did Jonathan make you angry? Did he do something to you?"

  She shook her head. "No. He’s pretty nice. We’re friends."

  His huff of laughter told her he didn’t believe this. "Friends don’t hurt each other. You hurt him."

  Bailey didn’t bother to answer. He wouldn’t understand.

  "I’ve called your mother. She’ll be here after sc
hool. How do you think she’ll feel about what you did?"

  She didn’t respond to that, either.

  He blew a breath through his teeth and stared out at the street through his window. "You’re a bright girl, Bailey. Your teacher says you do well in math and spelling and reading. You seem to have friends. You seem to be happy. So I can’t figure out why you keep getting yourself in trouble like this."

  The principal leaned forward, like he was hoping to hear whatever she might say. But Bailey only stared at him. Finally, sensing that he wanted her to say something—anything—she asked, "When did you say my mom’s coming?"

  He sat back, sighed the way Miss Glasser had. "After school. I’m not going to let you return to your class." He eyed the clock on his wall. "It’s an hour until final bell. You’ll spend that time here in the main office, and I’d like you to think about how you should be treating your friends."

  She nodded, scooted down from the chair, and let him lead her back to the main office and that seat near Missus Crandall’s desk.

  Once there, Bailey looked around the office, at the walls, the phones, the American flag, the drawings tacked to the bulletin board. One of hers was there, a picture of a mama bear and two cubs that had gotten honorable mention in the first grade art contest. She looked at everything except Missus Crandall. But that didn’t keep the woman from talking to her.

  "I know why you do the things you do," Missus Crandall said after a few minutes, in that same dry, crumbly voice.

  Bailey counted the stripes on the flag.

  "You think you’re the first girl I’ve seen in this office who does things like you do? I’ve been here a long time, missy. I’ve seen plenty."

  Thirteen stripes. She started on the stars, even though she knew there were fifty.

  One of the other teachers came in, handed Missus Crandall some papers, and talked to her, his voice low. She nodded and smiled, acting like she was simply a nice old lady. But too soon the teacher left, and it was just the two of them again.

  "A girl like you doesn’t belong in a school. And you can tell your mother I said so."

  Bailey twisted in her chair to check the clock behind her. It had only been ten minutes.

  "Church I go to—they know how to deal with your kind. They’ve been dealing with bears for longer than I’ve been alive, and they’ll deal with you."

  Bailey kept her eyes on the flag, but tears blurred her vision and her hands shook. She wished the woman would stop talking and leave her alone.

  The principal emerged from his office, a manila folder in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other.

  "Mister Donovan, my head hurts. Can I lie down?"

  He stepped to her chair, looking both stern and sympathetic. "I can’t send you to the nurse, Bailey. Jonathan is still there, and I don’t think that would be fair to him."

  "I just want to lie down. I don’t feel good."

  He turned to Missus Crandall, but she pretended to be working and didn’t look up.

  "All right," he said. "Come with me."

  Bailey scrambled off the chair, but then slowed, not wanting to act too healthy. The principal led her to the teacher’s lounge, across the hall from the main office. It had a coffee maker and a kettle, a table and chairs, and an old torn, plastic couch that was the ugliest shade of yellow Bailey had ever seen.

  "No one will bother you here," Mister Donovan said. "Not this late in the day. You can lie down. I’ll come and get you when your mom arrives."

  "Okay. Thank you."

  His smile seemed a little sad, but he said she was welcome and left her there, closing the door behind him.

  She lay down on the couch, but couldn’t keep still for long. She hadn’t stopped trembling, and she could hear Missus Crandall’s voice in her head, powdery like the dirt she and the others had put on their faces.

  She prowled the room, running her fingertips over the table and chair backs, her eyes straying again and again to the door. It had a window, but she saw no one outside in the hallway, and there were places in the lounge where even someone staring through the glass wouldn’t be able to see her. Not unless they were trying to find her.

  Her mother would have told her not to, but Bailey always felt better afterwards. Calmer, more like herself. And her mother said that in emergencies it was okay.

  She crossed to the farthest corner from the door and sat criss-cross on the floor, remembering to pull off her tennies and socks.

  The first thing was to find the moon. That was what her mother said. The moon was where the magic came from. So with her eyes closed, Bailey sent her thoughts into the sky to search for it. She found it more easily than she had expected. It wasn’t full yet, but it was close, almost round, like a playground ball that had lost some air.

  She could imagine it in the night sky, white as cold milk, surrounded by pinprick stars, and she wrapped her arms around the vision, holding it to her heart, opening herself to the magic.

  The first shift of bone brought a gasp of pain, as always. Bailey doubled over, so that her chest rested on her folded legs, and she stifled a cry. Bones wrenched, grated against one another, popped and snapped and reformed. Beads of sweat broke out on Bailey’s face and the back of her neck. A scream rose in her throat, but she clamped her teeth against it, even as she felt her mouth and jaw and nose change, grow, distort. Thick, dark fur sprouted from her hands and arms, her tummy and back, her legs; her skin tingled and stung.

  But though it hurt, making it seem that her body was being turned inside out, like some heavy old sweater, Bailey welcomed the change. Becoming bear cub was a little like getting in a bathtub filled with hot water. It hurt for a moment, but soon enough the pain tipped over into warm comfort.

  Girl-thoughts fled her mind. Bear-thoughts padded in.

  Bailey sat up, braced her paws on the hard, straightened. She sniffed the air, caught a scent she knew: powerful, sweet. Close. Other smells blended with it. Harsh, bitter, but the sweet was strongest. She took a step. Claws clattered. She looked down, tapped the claws on the hard. Another step and she slipped. The hard and the claws weren’t right together. But the sweet.

  She tottered across the smooth cave place, following the scent. She reached a stump-thing. The smells came from on top of it.

  Voices stopped her. She stilled, cocked her head, twitched an ear. Voices. Humans. Footsteps. More humans. None were close.

  Bailey reached for the sweet smell, batted aside others—the harsh and the bitter. They fell on the hard; the noise startled her, drew a growl to her lips.

  But then she had the sweet. Odd to the touch. Too soft and also too hard. She tried to hold it: one way, another, rolling it between her paws. Teeth crushed it, but still no sweet reached her tongue.

  She snuffled, listened. The humans weren’t nearby yet.

  Using a single claw, she poked a hole in the sweet, and a second. Bailey crushed it with teeth again and sweet flooded her mouth. She chewed and more of the sweet seeped in. Golden, sticky, lovely. Bailey rumbled, happy now.

  She let the odd sweet thing drop from her mouth and walked, searching for more. Sweet? Salt?

  A box smaller than Bailey hummed nearby and something in her thoughts stirred, woke. She batted the box, pushed it, shook it. Nothing. She slapped her claws on its top; they caught on something and she pulled. The box opened.

  The inside was like winter. There were hard things, small things, softer things. All were cold. Most she couldn’t chew or open, but some she could. There were sweets that were also sours. She decided she liked them. An apple—she had seen apples before. This one was good.

  Not so hungry anymore, she settled down on the hard, licked her sticky paws clean, and lowered her head.

  * * *

  She woke to a shrill screech and many, many voices.

  A girl-thought: That’s the bell. And another. Time to change back.

  Bailey liked being bear cub; she didn’t want to be girl-Bailey again. Not yet. But mother was coming. That s
he remembered. She sat up and reached again for the moon’s magic.

  * * *

  The change back to human hurt less than turning into bear. Still, when Bailey was herself again she wiped tears from her cheeks. Then she looked around the teacher’s lounge and groaned. Her bear could be such a slob.

  The small refrigerator had been pulled out into the middle of the room, so that its plug stretched in a tight black line to the wall outlet. The refrigerator door stood open, and several containers of juice and coffee creamer lay scattered on the floor. But at least they hadn’t been opened or crushed. She couldn’t say the same for the yogurt containers. They looked like someone had come in and stomped on them. All of them. Yogurt and fruit covered the floor, some of it matted with strands of brown fur.

  "Oh, Bear!" Bailey whispered. Nearby, packets of tea, instant coffee, and sugar covered the floor, along with cups, stir sticks, and napkins. A container—one of those plastic squeezy ones shaped like a teddy bear—had been chewed to bits and lay in a sticky puddle of honey.

  Bailey wanted to cry.

  But she gathered the napkins, wet many of them at the sink, and cleaned up the mess as best she could. She threw away the ruined containers and dirty napkins, pushed the refrigerator back in place, cleaned up the honey, taking a bit on her finger and licking it clean.

  Her feet and hands had yogurt on them, as did her dress. After washing her hands she ran her fingers through her hair and found honey and yogurt there, too.

  "Bear!"

  She took the rest of the napkins and wiped herself and her clothes clean before wetting her fingers so that she could untangle her hair. All the while, she mumbled about bear and all the trouble she had made for them. Tomorrow, the teachers would come to the lounge and find their food gone, their napkins used up, their honey bear missing. And Mister Donovan would blame her, even though it wasn’t her fault.

  Bailey paused, twisting her mouth to the side. Maybe it was a little bit her fault. She knew better than to shift into her bear in the middle of school. If Missus Crandall hadn’t frightened her so...