Nocturne

by Christine Johnson

  "It's clothes for the gathering. I can't wear my dress in the woods." Claire stared at the confused look on her mother's face. She couldn't quite figure out what Marie was thinking—why she seemed so mystified. A horrible feeling gathered in her throat. It was like stepping into a lake that was vastly colder and infinitely deeper than she'd expected it to be.

  "You are still going to the dance?" her mother asked. "I thought we'd discussed that. The naming is tonight." An odd little frown puckered her lips.

  Claire could barely hear over the pounding in her ears. "I know. But not until later. I have time to do both."

  Marie crossed her arms. "The naming is extremely important." So is the Autumn Ball.

  Not that her mother seemed to notice—not that she seemed to care.

  "There is much to set up for tonight. I still need to find some ginseng, the wood is not ready for your fire—"

  The mention of the fire was enough to send a tingle through Claire's still-whole left ear. She knew how to light it—could do it like breathing—but there was so much at stake. . . .

  Marie shook her head. "I had hoped you might help me, but if you cannot or will not abandon this"—she paused— "event, then I will do it on my own." Her mother sighed. "Lisbeth is coming over, I suppose?"

  Claire swallowed. "Yes. She's going to help me and Emily and Amy get ready."

  "Fine. I'll leave her a camera—I suppose you might want to take some photographs. I'll be leaving in a few hours to start the preparations. If you need anything, I'll be available by cell phone. Otherwise, I guess I will see you in the woods." Marie reached up and straightened the collar of her shirt.

  "You're . . . You're leaving?" Claire's cheeks stung like she'd been slapped. It had been obvious that her human life was becoming less and less important to her mother, but her mother knew how much this dance meant to her—or at least, she should know. But she was already halfway out the door.

  It wasn't as though Claire expected her mother to be like the other moms she knew—for one thing, her mother had always been distant. And when Claire discovered what secrets Marie had to keep, she'd begun to understand why. Still, when they'd grown closer in their wolf lives, she'd thought at least some of that might trickle down into the human parts of their lives. Instead, it seemed like Marie barely even noticed Claire when she wasn't covered in fur.

  Her mother twitched a shoulder in Claire's direction. "I have much to do in order to fulfill my responsibilities to the pack. It has to come first. For all of us. Always." Claire sat down on the bed, the air punched out of her lungs by the force of her mother's words.

  Concern flitted across Marie's face. "I am not leaving in order to hurt you, chérie. I must do it, in spite of the fact that you feel wounded. I must do it because I love you, and I want to keep you safe. Putting the pack first is the best way to keep you safe. You understand that?"

  Claire nodded painfully. Wounded, as her mother had so ably observed. She understood perfectly, but that didn't make it hurt even a little bit less.

  "Good. Call me if you need me. I will be waiting for you in the forest with much anticipation." With a quick little smile, Marie disappeared down the hall, leaving Claire aching at the foot of the bed.

  Her cell phone rang, breaking the wringing sadness that had seeped through her, as dark and silent as ink.

  It was Matthew.

  "Hello?" she answered, her voice dull.

  "Claire? You sound weird. Are you sick?"

  His words came out in a rush, but as soon as Claire heard them, an idea sprang up in front of her. A way to make it all work—and maybe without infuriating Emily.

  "No, not yet," she replied. "But I'm going to be."

  "Huh?" he asked, confused.

  "Some stuff happened last night, and things are going to be a little more . . . complicated than they were before."

  Matthew sighed. "Story of your life, right?"

  "Pretty much," Claire confessed, though it stung a little bit to admit that in the face of what had just happened with her mother. "So, here's what's happening."

  She gave him the brief version—that Victoria had had her baby and that the naming, the absolutely mandatory naming, would happen just after the dance. When she was supposed to be at Emily's crowning-glory-of-her-high-school-years after party. But his questions about how she was feeling had given her the perfect idea for a way out.

  She would have a great time at dinner, a fabulous time at the dance, and then, just as things were drawing to a close, she would bring on a fake . . . something. Stomach flu. Migraine. Broken bone. Whatever it took to get her out of Emily's party. Matthew could drop her off by the woods, and then she'd be home free.

  "Do you mind?" she asked, twisting a loose thread from her comforter between her fingers.

  "Not really," he said. "That's part of the job, I guess."

  He sounded like she'd just asked him to come with her while she bought tampons.

  "Do you"—he paused—"need me to stay or just to drop you off?"

  The worry in his voice made Claire grimace, and she was glad he couldn't see her face. The tension between them bobbed to the surface of their conversation like ice. But the last thing she wanted was to have a big fight with him now, when she needed his help so badly.

  "No—I mean, thanks, but I think the best thing is if you go to the party. You know, make a big deal to Emily about how sick I got and how really upset I am that I'm not at the party. You could even tell her that I tried to come but you and Lisbeth wouldn't let me." The more she talked about it, the more she convinced herself that it was the right plan.

  "Oh." Matthew sounded relieved, but Claire ignored it. "Yeah, I guess I can see that it would work better that way." He paused. "Wow. It really has gotten complicated, hasn't it?"

  "Like you said, story of my life." She thought of what Marie had said just before she'd left. "And it doesn't look like it's going to be getting any simpler, either." She was half-talking to herself, but the heaviness of the silence on the other end of the phone caught her attention.

  "I'm beginning to see that," he said slowly. "But anyway"— he perked up—"at least we can go to the dance, right? It's going to be great."

  "I can't wait," said Claire. She glanced at the clock. "Speaking of which, Emily and Amy and Lisbeth are going to be here soon."

  "And I have a corsage to get." Matthew's voice was getting more excited by the second, and Claire knew she'd made the right choice by refusing to bail on the dance completely. "I'll see you at five thirty, okay?"

  "I'll be ready," Claire promised.

  * * *

  An hour and a half later, Lisbeth came crashing into the house, armed with a bag full of curling irons and hot rollers and wicked-looking bobby pins. Panting, she dumped them onto Claire's bed.

  "Please tell me you have makeup," she begged Claire.

  "Yep," said Claire. "All lined up and waiting." She pointed to the cosmetics on her vanity.

  "Oh, thank God. Well, let me get this stuff plugged in, and you can start with your makeup while it heats up. When are Emily and Amy getting here?"

  Claire shrugged. "Any time. And the guys are picking us up at five thirty."

  Lisbeth's jaw dropped. "Three heads of hair need to be done by five thirty? Yikes. I'm not exactly a pro at this, Claire. More like a well-equipped amateur. Interested bystander, even."

  Claire picked up an eyeliner pencil. "Yeah, but Emily's hair's short, so it won't take long, and Amy's hair will probably look perfect when she gets here, anyway." Claire knew she sounded pathetic, but she didn't care.

  Lisbeth froze, a curling iron in each hand. "Whoa. I thought you two were friends."

  Claire focused on tracing the edge of her eyelid in the mirror. "She wants to be friends. She's friends with Emily, but it's just . . . complicated."

  Lisbeth came up behind her and squeezed Claire's shoul der. "I'd love to tell you that it gets less complicated as you get older"—she wrinkled her nose—"but it really doe
sn't. Whatever happens, though, however it works out, I'm always on your side."

  Downstairs, the front door banged open.

  "Claire? Helloooo! We're here!" Emily's voice climbed the stairs ahead of her. She came into the room, even more loaded down with bags and boxes than Lisbeth had been. Amy trundled in behind her, half-hidden behind an enormous garment bag. Emily dropped her stuff and practically fluttered over to Claire.

  "I'm so excited—can you believe it's finally today and we're actually going to a dance together? I could barely sleep last night. Oooh—is that the eyeshadow you're wearing? I love it!"

  Lisbeth laughed, shaking her head at Emily's usual no-onegets-a-word-in-edgewise entrance. Still, Emily's excitement was contagious, and Claire felt her own anticipation rising.

  "Hi, Claire," Amy said. There was a sort of thrilled hesitation in her voice, like she was reaching for something hot— like she was afraid she might get burned. "Thanks for having us over to get ready."

  "No problem," Claire said, toying with her mascara. "We'd better get started, though, or we'll still be half-done when the guys get here."

  "Amen," said Lisbeth, swooping over to Emily with a handful of rhinestone-studded hairpins.

  After nearly an hour, Lisbeth escaped downstairs, claiming she'd earned a tea break, though Claire could tell that she was just trying to give the three of them a little time alone.

  "So, is everything ready for the party?" Claire asked Emily.

  A pleased and proud look swept across Emily's face. Claire felt herself shrivel just a little bit. Even if she managed to get Emily to believe her fictional illness, she would still be missing the most wild and exciting thing Emily had ever done. No matter how amazing the naming ended up being, it was going to cost Claire to be there. It was going to take something from her human life.

  "Oh, it's ready all right. The breakables and valuables are stashed in the back of my mom's closet, the kitchen's full of plastic cups, and the freezer is full of ice." She dropped her voice. "I got a couple of the football players to agree to bring the keg—I mean, I am woman, hear me roar and all that, but those things are freaking heavy."

  Amy laughed, her tumble of blond curls shaking around her shoulders. She'd asked Lisbeth to keep her hair down, and it looked gorgeous—Lisbeth hadn't done much more than smooth her curls and put some shiny stuff on the ends. But it was still amazing. Jealousy dropped a mean-eyed veil over Claire as she stared at the gleaming ringlets.

  "Well," she said, wrenching her attention back to Emily, "I'm sure it's going to be amazing."

  "It better, because if—" Emily raised a warning finger, and in the process she bumped her makeup bag on Claire's nightstand, sending tubes and brushes everywhere. "Oh, damn!" She scooped up the ones that were still on the nightstand and then disappeared, rustling the bedskirt as she dug around for whatever might have rolled under the bed.

  "Hey, Claire, did you get a dog that you haven't told me about?" Emily's voice was muffled.

  Terror shot through Claire, making her cold to the tips of her fingers. She'd been so careful—what had she forgotten? Amy looked up, an interested expression glowing in her eyes.

  "Nope—why?" Claire kept her voice as calm as she could, but there was a tiny tremor in it that she couldn't quite hide. Thoughts whisked through her as quickly as clouds tearing across a stormy sky. How bad was it going to be? Could she fix it? But the one thought that wouldn't go away was the idea— the knowledge—that Emily was standing at the edge of a lifeor-death cliff, and Claire was the one who'd led her there.

  The guilt was grinding. Crushing. Claire's lungs burned in her chest.

  "Well, this was under your bed." Emily emerged from underneath the bedskirt, a tube of concealer in one hand and a tuft of shadowy-gray wolf hair in the other.

  Immediately, Claire remembered the night she'd transformed in her room—backed herself up to the bed, terrified by the boxed-in feeling. She'd probably been shedding like crazy, and though she thought she'd cleaned up any evidence she might have left, she hadn't bothered to vacuum under the bed.

  "Oh, yeah. That's from Lisbeth and Mark's dog, probably. Didn't I tell you? They got a chow. They named it Karma, which I think is freaking ridiculous, but he's really cute. She brought him over one day. When mom was out, obviously."

  The lies dripped from her lips without any effort—as easily as snow fluttering down from the sky. Of course, the moment the words had left her mouth, she realized the error she'd made. Lisbeth was at the house. If Emily asked about the stupid, non-existent dog that Claire had just created, she'd be in even hotter water than she already was. She held her breath. Prayed that Emily would buy it and then drop it.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Amy staring at her. Actually, it was more like Amy was trying to bore holes through Claire's head so that she could see what Claire was hiding inside it. Shit.

  Emily dropped the tuft of wolf fur, wrinkling her nose. "Ew. I hate chows. They're so mean!"

  Claire searched for a new subject. Fast. Something safe, something nonsuspicious, something like . . .

  "So, did you get Randy a boutonniere?" It was lame, but it worked.

  "What? No way. That's just for prom." Emily looked scandalized. "You didn't get one for Matthew, did you?" Claire shook her head. "No. I think he got me a corsage, though."

  "Of course! He's supposed to. It's, like, an unwritten rule. The guys do corsages for Autumn Ball and prom, but boutonniere's are only for prom." Emily was off and running, filling Claire in on all the crucial-but-totally-not-obvious rules of the dances.

  Claire wasn't listening. She didn't care—she was too relieved to care. All that mattered was that Emily had completely forgotten about the "dog" that had been in Claire's room.

  Still, the back of Claire's neck was still tingling unpleasantly. What just happened—it had been ugly, but it was a good reminder that she was going to have to be on her toes even more than usual tonight. There could be no mistakes.

  Amy was chatting with Emily about the traditional predance restaurants, and she turned to Claire with a conspiratorial smile on her face.

  "I'm glad I'm not the only one who doesn't know what I'm doing," she said. "We're both so lucky to have Emily." It was an innocent enough comment. Friendly, even. But it made Claire shiver.

  Lisbeth knocked and elbowed her way in through the door, carrying a tray laden with sodas, a bowl of pretzels, and a lone tea mug.

  "Fortifications," she announced. She turned to Claire and gave her a devilish little grin as Emily dove for a Diet Coke. "Get your butt in front of that vanity, missy. It's time to do your hair."

  Amy stood up. "If you guys don't mind, I'm ready to get dressed. Is there somewhere . . ." Claire could smell the powdery scent of shyness, coming from Amy.

  "Sure. Guest room—two doors down on the right," Lisbeth said.

  "Thanks." Amy looked relieved and grabbed her dress. "You coming with?" she asked Emily, who was finished with her hair and makeup, too.

  Emily looked back and forth between Claire and Amy, hesitating. "Um . . . yeah, I guess." She turned to Claire. "Come down when your hair's done?"

  "Yep."

  Emily and Amy headed down the hall, and Claire felt her shoulders slump with the sudden lack of tension.

  "Is everything going okay?" Lisbeth asked, her voice quiet as a sigh. She began pulling the hot rollers out of Claire's hair and dropping them onto the top of the vanity.

  Claire shrugged. "I don't really know." It was true enough. And also vague enough that it might keep Lisbeth from asking any more questions. Claire's palms were starting to sweat from the effort of keeping everyone happily—and safely—ignorant.

  Lisbeth put a row of the pins in her mouth and started piling Claire's curls on top of her head. Claire winced as Lisbeth scraped a hairpin against her scalp. "Ow. Do you have to pin those things into my actual skull?"

  "Sorry," Lisbeth said around a mouthful of metal spikes. "Almost done." She tacked in a few m
ore bobby pins and then shellacked everything in place with a cloud of hair spray.

  When the stinging chemical spray had finally settled, Claire opened her eyes and looked in the mirror. With her hair up and the subtle-but-glamorous makeup she'd put on earlier sharpening her cheekbones and darkening her eyes, she looked older. More sophisticated. And very much like her mother. Claire's heart fluttered in her chest.

  "Just look at you. You're all grown up," Lisbeth's lip quivered.

  That was all it took to break the spell. Claire groaned and stood up from the vanity. "Okay, thanks for the primping and all, but there's no crying allowed. It's just a dance, Lisbeth."

  "Yeah, but it's your first one, and—"

  "That's it! Out!"