Vernon finally raised his head. “Ya wanna see a werewoof, ya should looky at my Pap Pap. Drunk blood on the first of every month.”
I was sure Vernon’s grandpa, or Pap Pap, did not drink blood. I also didn’t necessarily think that would have made him a werewolf. But I figured when I reached Vernon’s age, I’d probably appreciate someone humoring me.
I smiled. “What happened to him?”
“Nazis.” Vernon went back to his crossword puzzle and wrote an answer with his shaky, old-man hand. I waited until I was sure he didn’t have more to say, then went back to my book.
There was a German legend that said you could cure a werewolf by saying its name three times.
I could picture myself out in the forest. A branch would snap behind me. I’d know something was there. I’d turn around slowly, and there she’d be. Crouched down, ready to strike, coiled as tightly as a rattlesnake. Her fur would be white and gray. She’d start to stalk toward me, and I’d look her right in the eye and say, “Lizzie Lovett, Lizzie Lovett, Lizzie Lovett.” Or maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe, probably, I would shut my eyes and wait to be bitten.
There was so much to think about. There was so much to learn. I read about King Lycaon, who Zeus punished by turning into a wolf. I read about wolfsbane and the lunar effect and the werewolf’s connection to demons and vampires and witches and a million other things. Humanity had spent hundreds of years gathering information about werewolves and making up their own stories. I didn’t know how to separate the truth from the fiction.
Then I had a thought that made my hands tingle and my vision get super focused, like a jolt of electricity was running through my body. How many people had actually encountered a werewolf? Out of everyone who’d researched and studied and written about werewolves, how many people had firsthand experience? A handful? Possibly none?
If werewolves were real and Lizzie was a werewolf, I could be one of the only living people to ever spend time with one. Well, me and Enzo.
What would it be like to experience something that no one else had? It would be special—I would be special. And not in the way that kids at school, like Mychelle, called me special. Special like important. I’d never felt that way before.
Maybe, if I showed the world that werewolves existed, people would stop asking me about my plans for the future. No one would care about the future, because I would have already proven myself, accomplished something great.
“Vernon, do you think that pioneers know they’re about to make a great discovery right before they make it?”
Vernon didn’t look up from his puzzle. He’d already said his piece for the night.
Chapter 16
The Painting
Emily didn’t want to talk about anything besides Logan and how awesome he was. I pretty much stopped listening to her, because it was getting really boring. Instead, I concentrated on my lunch and on my strategy for finding Lizzie.
After a few minutes, I realized Emily had stopped talking and was staring at me.
“What?”
“I asked if you wanted to go with me.”
“Where?”
“You’re not listening at all.”
“I am. I just got distracted for a second.”
“Strength in Numbers is playing at the Barn this weekend. Do you want to go?”
There wasn’t even a tiny part of me that wanted to find out what metal-bluegrass fusion meant. I was sort of intrigued by the location though. The Barn was an abandoned farm on the edge of town. Kids had been going there to have parties for forever, and even though it was right off the highway, cops turned a blind eye. The farmhouse was gone except for the chimney, but the barn itself was in good shape, and local bands played there. The plot of land was backed by woods, which meant it was easy for kids to sneak off and hook up. Or so I’d heard. I’d never been to a party there. I’d never really been to a party at all.
“Since when do you go to parties?”
“It’s important to Logan.”
“Well, I’ll see if I’m free.”
“Hawthorn, you’re always free.”
“I might have to work,” I said. “Or I might be doing something with Enzo.”
Emily made a face to let me know she thought as much of Enzo as I did of Logan.
“I don’t think you should be hanging out with Enzo,” she said.
“You haven’t even met him.”
“He’s old.”
“He’s twenty-five. That’s not old.”
“It’s too old for you.”
“I’m not dating him.”
“What are you doing then?”
I wasn’t in the mood to get into the werewolf debate again. I took too big a bite of my sandwich and responded with my mouth full, which Emily hated. “What about you and Logan? Is this supposed to be your rebellious phase?”
Emily narrowed her eyes at me. “Maybe you shouldn’t come to the party after all.”
“Fine.”
I wished Emily and Logan would knock their teeth together every time they tried to kiss. I wished Strength in Numbers would spontaneously only be able to write lyrics in Greek. I wished the Barn would get torn apart in a freak storm.
I wished Emily and Logan had never met.
• • •
In English composition, Mrs. Doyle was explaining how to write a persuasive essay, which was the next paper we had due. Sophie Walker, who was probably going to be homecoming queen in a few weeks, raised her hand.
“And we can write on any topic?”
“This isn’t creative writing, but I still want you to be creative,” Mrs. Doyle reassured her.
“So if I wanted to write about, say, how I think werewolves are real, that would be OK?”
Pretty much everyone in the class snickered. Mrs. Doyle looked a little confused but told Sophie that would be fine. I could feel my face go red.
From the back of the classroom, Mike Jacobs asked, “What if I wrote about the benefits of living in a tent and not showering and stuff? Would that be cool?”
“I suppose so.”
Everyone stared at me, waiting for me to respond so they could make even more jokes at my expense. It was like all the things I most dreaded about high school were actually happening. There was an entire roomful of people mocking me. I glanced around to see if I had a single ally but only saw smirks. I wanted to disappear.
“What if someone tried to persuade the reader they’re normal and not a total pathetic loser, even if everyone knows otherwise?” Sophie asked.
I got up and walked out of the classroom. I still had two classes left, but I couldn’t deal. I knew ditching class and running away was the exact opposite of what you’re supposed to do if someone is being a bully. But you’re also not supposed to let the bully know she’s getting to you, and I was about two seconds from screaming at Sophie that I hated her and hoped her homecoming gown made her look fat.
I hurried through the parking lot and climbed into my car, praying that it would start. The jet plane sound came from the engine, as if the car might take flight at any moment only to crash and burn. But at least the car was running. I needed to take it to the shop. Really take it, not just swear to myself over and over I was going to. That’s why I’d gotten a job in the first place. Sort of.
I was relieved when I pulled out of the parking lot without the security guard stopping me. I didn’t usually ditch school and didn’t have an excuse to give them. Probably, I would have been honest and hoped for sympathy. Hoped that I was persuasive enough.
I didn’t really think about where I was going. But, of course, that was a lie.
• • •
Enzo took so long to answer the door that I had time to panic. What if he had a roommate? What if I’d gotten the apartment number wrong? What if Lizzie had come back and they were inside together, r
econciling?
Maybe I should run away. But then Enzo might look out the window and catch a glimpse of my car tearing out of the parking lot, and it would be so awkward that I’d have to spend the rest of my life avoiding him.
My worries were unfounded. Enzo lived alone, and no one was inside with him. He didn’t exactly jump for joy at the sight of me, but he let me inside.
I immediately looked around for signs of Lizzie, but the studio apartment didn’t have any traces of a feminine touch. The cramped room was lit primarily by a lava lamp and a fish tank that didn’t have any fish. Amateurish artwork covered the walls, and there were stacks of notebooks and papers on every surface. The apartment was cluttered but not really messy. Enzo apologized anyway.
“Don’t be sorry. I like your place.”
I tried to take in everything at once. Like I thought he was going to kick me out or something.
“Shouldn’t you be in school?” Enzo asked.
I looked at him. He was wearing torn jeans and a ratty sweater. He looked like a dark-haired Kurt Cobain. I could imagine Enzo sweating under hot stage lights, scrawny but strong, made into a god by the crowd below him. He’d told me he was a drummer in a band once. He said they hadn’t been very good.
“I left.”
“Why?”
I tried to sound flippant. “Because I hate everyone there.”
“Something happen?”
“Just the usual,” I said. “They’re all awful. I try to ignore them, but it’s pretty much impossible. I end up spending most of the day wishing horrible things would happen to them. Like every time they try to stream a video, it’s laggy, or that all their important emails get sent to the junk mail folder.”
“Whoa there, kid. You don’t want to inflict too much damage.”
I laughed. “When I was little, I got mad at my mom and told her I wished she was dead. She gave me this whole lecture about being careful not to wish for something you don’t really want to come true. So, you know, I try to moderate.”
Enzo’s brow furrowed, like I’d grown a second head, so I changed the subject. “Did you paint all these?”
“Not all of them. But most.”
I didn’t know enough about art to name the different styles, but there were a lot. I wondered if I could pick out the ones Enzo had done. I felt like they would be the darkest of the bunch, the paintings that were anxious and angsty.
I was wrong.
The strongest painting was of a beautiful young girl sitting in a field, knees pulled up to her chest. Her head was tilted up to catch the sun, eyes closed, a half smile on her face. It was a smile I knew. Even in Enzo’s painting, Lizzie Lovett was hard to look away from.
“This is really good.”
“It’s probably the best thing I’ve done. The last thing too. I haven’t painted since she disappeared.”
The painting was hung so it was visible from the bed. It was the last thing Enzo would see before he went to sleep and the first thing he’d see in the morning. I wondered if every time he looked at the painting, he thought of the day Lizzie had posed for it. Had they talked while he was working? Had Enzo made jokes? Had Lizzie laughed? Did she already know what she was and that it was almost her time to turn?
I sat down on the bed, because there was nowhere else to sit. “So you’re a painter. I didn’t know that.”
“I try. I’ve been getting more into photography lately. I work part-time at a photo studio.”
“I didn’t know that either.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
He was right.
“Do you like your job?”
“The pay is shitty, and I mostly shoot weddings and baby portraits. But it’s something.”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t even know what I was doing there. Enzo was practically a stranger, and I’d burst into his life. I felt sure he wanted me to leave.
“Maybe I should go,” I said.
“You just got here.”
“I feel awkward.”
Enzo laughed. “Telling someone you feel awkward just makes the situation more awkward.”
“Talk about something that’s not awkward then. Tell me about Lizzie.”
“What about her?”
“Anything. How did you meet her?”
Enzo sat on the opposite side of the bed from me. “There isn’t much of a story. We knew some of the same people and ended up at a concert in Pittsburgh. Neither of us was into the music. I went outside to smoke, and she followed me, and that was that. She was wearing this beaded headband with a feather stuck in it. That’s what I remember most.”
It was so normal. I’d expected something cinematic, like Enzo pushing Lizzie out of the way two seconds before she got flattened by a runaway train. Not that Enzo gave off movie-hero vibes.
“And you’ve been dating for a year?” I asked.
“A little less.”
“Do you ever wonder why she chose you?”
“Chose me? Thanks, kid.”
“But do you?”
“We chose each other. That’s how it works.”
I suspected that Enzo was wrong. Lizzie always got to choose. But I decided to let it drop.
My eyes wandered back to the painting of Lizzie. It was so lifelike, she could have been in the room with us. How would she feel about me sitting on her boyfriend’s bed, quizzing him on their relationship?
“What’s your favorite thing about her?”
“Her laugh,” Enzo said without hesitation. “She laughs all the time. She makes life seem so easy.”
“What else?” I pried.
“She always sees the best in everyone, even when they don’t deserve it. And she’s just…nice. Not that many people are nice, I guess.”
“I don’t think she was like that in high school,” I said.
“People change. Thank God. I can’t imagine a world where everyone’s the same as they were in high school.”
I wanted to know more about Lizzie. I wanted to know everything about her. But the truth was, Enzo could only tell me so much. I wanted to crawl into Lizzie’s head and know her thoughts and feelings and what made her tick. I wanted to slip into her life. I wanted to be the kind of person who made life seem easy.
“What were you like in high school?” I asked Enzo.
If I couldn’t learn everything there was to know about Lizzie, at least I could find out more about him. Besides, Lizzie loved Enzo. Don’t the things we love say a lot about us?
“High school was miserable,” he said.
Now that was something I could relate to. I turned my back on the painting of Lizzie and tried to push her out of my mind, focus on Enzo instead.
In the woods, he’d told me he liked Lizzie’s outlook on life, that he was happy she didn’t overanalyze everything. But from the way he started spilling out information, I wondered if that was entirely true. He seemed like someone who had plenty to say.
Maybe he’d just been waiting for someone to ask.
Chapter 17
In Lizzie’s World
A few days later, a body was pulled out of the Ohio River just north of Wheeling, and everyone was like, Oh my God, they found Lizzie. It was less than a day before the police announced the body wasn’t hers. It wasn’t even a female.
“That should teach people not to jump to conclusions,” I told my family at dinner.
Rush gave me an incredulous look. “Seriously?”
After dinner, I went outside to talk to Sundog, partly because I wanted to talk to Sundog but mostly because my mom would make me do the dishes if I stuck around the kitchen.
“Join us,” Sundog said.
I took a spot next to him near the fire. A few of the other hippies were sitting around, talking or meditating or doing whatever it was they d
id. One of the older women was making jewelry out of twine and beads.
“You know, marshmallows would really make this campfire better,” I said.
Sundog laughed, even though I was pretty sure he was morally opposed to marshmallows since they were made with gelatin, which was made from animal bones and skin, which my mom told me all about when I was little. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten a s’more.
“Do you think everyone changes after high school?” I asked Sundog.
“Young Hawthorn, everyone changes always. The universe is in a constant state of flux.”
“But let’s talk about high school specifically.”
Sundog thought for a moment. “You could say high school is a time to figure out who you want to be, so you can go out into the world and work toward becoming that person.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Timothy Leary wandered over to us and plopped down in front of me. I used my fingers to comb through her tangled fur.
“Where’d you live before you became the commune pet?” I asked her.
She tilted her head at me.
“Timothy Leary is a companion, not a pet,” Sundog explained.
“Right. Of course.”
“On the subject of animals, how fares your werewolf hunt?”
I thought for a moment. “It’s progressing, I guess. You know the guy I told you about? Lizzie’s boyfriend? I went to his apartment the other day. He had this painting of Lizzie. It was so…I don’t know, so real. Like I could see her whole self captured in it.”
“True artists know how to cut their subjects open and bleed them onto the canvas.”
“That’s probably not the best phrasing, considering, but I get what you mean,” I said.
I let the fire warm me and imagined I was in Enzo’s apartment again. Art covering the walls. Blue light coming from the lava lamp in the corner. Books stacked on the floor instead of on shelves. A tiny kitchen where it didn’t look like any cooking had ever been done.
The Hundred Lies of Lizzie Lovett Page 12