I nonchalantly pull a piece of paper out of my sweatshirt pocket and lay it flat in line with the pages of my textbook so I can study it and look like I’m reading the assignment at the same time. It’s a list of names that I’ve gone over a hundred times already. Last night our lonesome trio went through Jefferson’s records and identified all of the teenage werewolves in town. There’s a good fifteen of them and Jefferson is sure there are others not yet identified. I double-check the names against the brief physical descriptions I had scribbled down, but it’s a little hard to identify anyone from “tall, dark hair, male.” That describes about five boys in front of me in this class alone. I’m sort of hoping the teacher will do a roll call but she doesn’t.
So, I lean back and wait for the tedious minutes to crawl by. My mind wanders and I scribble a line on my notebook then push it to the edge of my desk towards Hawk. He discreetly leans to the side and props his chin in his hand so he can read it.
Wish we were fighting a berserker right now.
He smirks and pulls the notebook over when the teacher has her back turned. After taking a good long time writing something down, he pushes it back onto my desk.
If we get in trouble our first day, I’m sure Jefferson will be able to play the part quite nicely.
A little drawing of Jefferson bulged out with enormous muscles and crossed eyes follows underneath. I hide a laugh behind a cough and clamp a hand over my mouth. The teacher’s eyes find mine so I force the cough a bit more into a convincing fit and hold up a hand to show I’m okay. She moves on and explains our homework assignment. I jot it down quick as the bell sounds.
We move out into the hallway and Hawk taps me on the shoulder. He points to the side and leans in to say, “There’s Ben.”
I stand a little straighter to see over the crowd and spot Ben by himself. His shoulders are hunched and he looks exhausted. Hawk immediately moves through the foot traffic to reach him but I hang back when I notice something odd. There’s a very tall boy wearing a baggy black hoodie and a beanie at the end of the hall watching Ben intently. In the opposite direction about half way down is another boy, this one in a sweater vest and thick glasses watching Ben as well. Two completely different people keeping their eyes on Ben like they’re waiting for him to react. The next second they turn away, walk in opposite directions, and disappear.
The number of students thin so it’s easy for me to track hoodie-boy at a distance and see where he goes next. I keep my footsteps light and stay in a straight line behind him so he doesn’t catch me in his peripheral vision. He passes the classrooms and makes a beeline for the rear exit. Soon it’s just us in the hallway. I guess I’m not as quiet as I imagine and he spins around. I automatically move for a water fountain nearby and take a drink like that’s what I meant to do the entire time. I don’t dare look in his direction again but hear him continue on. The door creaks open then thunks closed. I straighten in time to see him jog across the rear parking lot and to the forest on the far side. Who comes to first period then ditches immediately after?
But I’ve taken up too much time. The bell over me rings and I cringe away from it.
“Ah, crap, crap, crap.”
I sprint back the way I came, shove my English textbook into my locker, then take a left, run some more, and skid into the classroom at the end of the hall. Everyone is already seated and a beach ball of a man, whom I assume is the teacher, stands at the front of the room. He’s wearing some freakish sweater with all the colors of the rainbow and the whole thing looks like it’s about to rip off him at any second. His graying mustache quivers and his pinprick eyes behind his glasses put me under a laser beam. I’m on my own for this one. Hawk’s in a different class this period.
“You’re late,” he says in a thin voice. “I take it you’re Phoenix Mason?”
As I expect, when he says my name there’s some soft laughter from the room. I guess Phoenix isn’t a real common name but I still haven’t figured out what’s funny about it. The teacher looks me up and down just like comic-book-boy had. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to go find myself a seat or remain where I am to be scrutinized. At last he hustles to his desk, picks up a sociology textbook which he then shoves into my hands, and makes a shooing motion.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he says. “Take a seat.”
I grind my teeth together and walk down the narrow aisle between the desks. I’m trying not to look at anybody but my eyes fly up when I see a sweater vest and thick glasses. It’s the same boy that was staring at Ben earlier. He locks eyes with me. I hold his gaze for just a moment, noting the faint golden ring around his brown eyes, before gliding past him to an empty spot at the very back. I sit down and immediately pull out my list of werewolf names while the teacher begins to drone on about criminology. There are five boys on my list who have brown eyes, and only one of those wears glasses. I make a note in parentheses next to the name Adam Glass.
(loves his sweater vests, prep)
It’s not a particularly nice notation but at least I know I’ll recognize him from the description. I lean to the side to get a better look at Adam and make a few more notes.
“Ms. Mason.”
My head snaps up. Mr. Beach-ball-jerk is staring at me down the row of desks and several of the students have turned around in their chairs to find me.
“Yes?” I say uncertainly.
“I hope the doodles you’re making are pertaining to our study of the FBI and that you are, in fact, paying attention.”
“Of course, sir.” I tap the end of my pencil on my notebook for emphasis. “Just remarking on how Hoover institutionalized the training of FBI agents and created Hogan’s Alley at Quantico for that purpose.”
The teacher’s mouth thins and color dashes his cheeks. “I haven’t mentioned that yet.”
I can’t stop myself. “I’m sure you were working up to it.”
“That’s enough lip from you unless you want detention.”
I clasp my hands together on top of my paper and don’t say another word. His moustache trembles and he turns back to the chalkboard. I mouth “wow” to myself and slide my list into the safety of my pocket before he can chew me out some more. The rest of the period ticks by as slow as my previous class. I keep my eyes on Adam whenever possible. Two times he glances back at me. I wonder if he knows who I am, then I remember what Ben had told me when we first met. I smell different. I assume that’s part of me being Blessed. Hawk’s never mentioned anything like that before but it could be he’s just used to my scent being what it is since we grew up together. Can werewolves really sniff out the magic in me?
Finally, I’m saved by the bell and file out last. As I pass the teacher, he sniffs twice. I pause but he gives me the stink eye and shoos me out. I’m bumped and pushed in the sea of students on my way to my locker. I sincerely hope that teacher was just being weird and isn’t actually a werewolf too. That would mean I might have to interact with him at some point. What a pain.
Hawk meets up with me and boasts about finding five of the werewolves on our list already. I don’t even bother pointing out that he can probably sniff them out. I’m in a sore mood already and anxious to have this whole thing over with. I honestly wish someone would jump up and say “The problem’s solved! The serum is working fine again! You can go home.” I miss my old friends. I miss Celina the faun helping me with my homework. I miss Old Man Two giving me free refills of soup and telling me stories of Scotland. I miss talking tech with Witty. I consider calling Witty after school. I should chat with him and see how he’s doing. It’ll take my mind off how I’m doing.
I share my next class with Hawk and am, thankfully, not late again. We make it through biology without any difficulty and then on to physics. When the bell rings and it’s time for lunch, my hands are all sweaty again. It’s one of those times during the day where it feels like everything is chance. The food could be good or bad, there might not be any good places to sit, and you could end up being separat
ed from your friends. So, as usual, there’s an intense rush to get to the cafeteria first.
The instant we reach the open lunchroom, it’s easy to pick out the cliques. A group of four girls in what I’m sure is considered “high fashion” have already claimed a table. I have no idea how they got here so fast in those high heels. The group of jocks we passed this morning are in line together having a shoving match. Behind them are a couple of boys and girls wearing gamer shirts. I spot what you might consider your regular “preppy geeks” wearing sweaters and slacks, one even holding a calculus textbook, and I expect to see Adam Glass the werewolf with them but he’s not.
Gathered at a table in the farthest corner is Adam along with Ben, the crabby comic-book boy, and a number of others. Preps, jocks, Goth types, nerds, and drama queens all sit together like ambassadors from their respective stereotypes. I count fifteen—the werewolves assembling together like a pack. Despite the tendency of werewolves to congregate, it’s odd for them to be so unified. Werewolves are still individuals and normally stick to their usual human patterns. It’s only when they’re in wolf mode that they really form a pack.
Hawk and I get our meals dished out on plastic trays—foot-long hot dogs, thank goodness—and we gravitate toward the werewolf table. Once we’re close enough, several of them wave Hawk over to join them. I follow in his wake only to discover there’s only one spot open. The only way I’d fit is if I put my tray at the end and either kneel or stand to eat. Either option is embarrassing and not worth it.
“We can sit somewhere else,” Hawk suggests.
The werewolves are looking up at us expectantly and listening to every word. I swallow and fake a smile.
“No, it’s fine! You can hang out with your friends.” I’m fighting back social anxiety, but Hawk needs to blend in with the pack. He needs to know who’s having symptoms like Ben and if they know about that black wolf. And if I’m honest with myself, he’ll do better if I’m not there ruining his conversations anyway. I make the sacrifice and start to walk away. “Go ahead. I’ll find somewhere else.”
Hawk doesn’t look remotely happy about forcing me out but he eventually sits down among his kind. I take ten steps back the way I came before I stop and realize I have no idea where I’m going. One of the most uncomfortable moments in high school is standing with a tray in your hands, visible to everyone in the room, glancing around at every table with empty spots, but not knowing where you can sit because those open spots might be reserved for friends. It’s obvious you don’t know where you belong and lacking that surefire confidence can single you out instantly. Unfortunately, without Hawk as my wingman, I become an easy target.
I tread slowly forward and pause at an open end. A boy purposefully slides his tray down to make it clear the space is reserved—or he just doesn’t want me there.
“Right, it’s cool,” I say, my face growing redder by the second. Fighting monsters feels less hostile and complicated than this. I move to another table and all conversation silences at my presence so I move on again. I have a horrible sinking feeling that I might end up eating alone in the bathroom or hiding down a hallway somewhere when someone calls my name.
“Phoenix! Sit with us.”
I’m drawn to the voice like it’s a beacon in a storm and find myself sitting down next to Ashley. She’s got a smile and a t-shirt proclaiming “I fell in love under the Love Moon.” Two other girls with mousy hair sit opposite wearing similar screen-printed shirts professing love for some pretty-pretty boys I don’t recognize. I’m grateful for the friendly invitation to escape attention but I’m terrified what their conversations might involve.
“Thanks,” I mumble and rip open my cardboard container of milk.
“No problem,” Ashley says. “You looked a little lost.”
I nod and decide it’s best not to elaborate on how accurate that is.
“I like your sweatshirt,” she says, clearly trying to keep a conversation going. I glance down at myself. I’ve forgotten what I’m wearing.
“Oh, yeah. Thanks.”
“Are the Fire Sprites the mascot from your old school?”
They’re actually elemental beings that compete against the other sprites in a sport like polo except with glass stones, fireballs, tidal waves, earthquakes, and hurricanes. Aetherball is a thousand times more exciting than sports like basketball when you throw natural disasters into the game.
I smile to myself. “They’re a team. It’s from a game.”
“Oh, you mean like Mystic Universe?”
I’m shocked she even knows what that is. It’s both a computer game and card game based on a fictional fantasy world. Hawk and I have used it frequently as a cover when we’ve been overhead talking about our world. Everyone buys it without a second thought. Although Love Moon and Mystic Universe both technically have monsters, there’s an enormous gap between the two. From my experience, fans of one or the other can’t even look at each other.
“Exactly. It’s from Mystic Universe,” I say, happy I don’t even need to make up a story since she’s provided the perfect one for me.
Her smile brightens. “I used to play with Jason.” Her eyes travel to the werewolf table and she lets out a sad little sigh. “But he doesn’t care for it anymore. Or me, I guess.”
I shift about so I can see where Hawk is sitting. “Which one is Jason?”
“Oh, the tall dreamy one.”
Yeah, like that helps. I have no idea who she’s talking about but she doesn’t elaborate and gazes wide-eyed with one hand propping up her chin.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I abandoned Jason for true love.” She points to her shirt for emphasis and all three of them giggle. “The guys from Love Moon wouldn’t keep secrets like Jason does.”
Considering Jason is a werewolf, I can’t blame him for keeping his secret. I would like to know what Ashley thinks, though. Maybe she knows more than she realizes.
“What kind of secrets?” I ask and finally start on my hot dog. It’s freakin’ delicious.
She shrugs and pushes her baked beans around on her plate. “I don’t know. We used to hang out every day but then all of a sudden he changed friends and it’s like he doesn’t even know I exist anymore. I heard he’s passed out a few times and can’t remember the night before. Sounds like he’s turned into some kind of alcoholic and gets himself blackout drunk. Idiot. My stupid, beautiful idiot.”
Blackouts. Missing memories. Yeah, this Jason could be getting drunk. That, or he’s having the same problems as Ben.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “When did all this happen?”
“Oh . . .” She pursues her lips and squints up at the ceiling as if the dates are written up there somewhere. “It hasn’t been that long. A couple of weeks? Maybe three?”
So the change was recent. If it’s because of a defect in the serum caused by those shapeshifters, that would make sense. They couldn’t have been at Werevine Pharmaceutical for long. I definitely need to call Witty after school and discuss this. Maybe they’ve gotten some answers from the shapeshifters by now.
“Hey, do you need any more help navigating the school?” Ashley prompts. “I kind of noticed you were late for Mr. Webster’s class.”
“Webster?” I realize I never caught the teacher’s name. “Looks like a beach ball? Hideous sweater? About yea high?” I hold a hand about two feet above the floor.
Ashley laughs and gives my arm a friendly swat. Her laugh is kind of high but at least it’s genuine. “Yeah, that’s him. If you need a buddy to show you around so you aren’t late again . . .”
“I’d really appreciate that,” I say and mean it. She may be a little much but she’s been the friendliest person here so far.
Suddenly there’s a high pitch screech directly behind me. I hunker down automatically, brace one hand on the table and spin about on my seat ready to launch into action. I expect some werewolf to have changed in the middle of the lunchroom, but instead I find myself face to face with
three muscly boys sporting jerseys.
“Oh my gosh!” one of them screeches and claps his hands together like an over emotional fangirl. It takes me a minute to realize they’re making fun of Ashley and her friends. I’m probably lumped into that group as well. “It’s a vampire! Bite me, I’m a loser, and want to love you forever!”
“Seriously?” I say and give them an exaggerated roll of the eyes. “You’re going to buy into your stereotypes and be the bully jocks? Why can’t you be jocks and intellectuals with a fetish for chess or something? Or maybe have a secret desire to become a chef?”
Their apparent leader bites back, “Oh, go cry to your vampire boyfriend, Red.”
“I wouldn’t want to disturb your ‘male-bonding’ time with him. Wait, don’t tell me. You’re actually Team Werewolf.”
In my previous high school experience, associating your aggressor with the material they’re picking on you for tends to make them blue in the face. It seems to work here and he goes into a tirade of how he’s not a fan and how I’m really the fan and blah, blah, blah. I hold up a hand and turn back to my uneaten food.
“Too long, did not listen.”
“Leave us alone,” Ashley snaps. She’s red in the face. Clearly the insults did get to her. “Find some other way to fill that empty feeling in your jock strap.”
We turn our backs to ignore the bullies—I’m silently congratulating Ashley in my head—but then one of the three passes over his milk carton to their vocal leader who then “trips” and spills half of it down the back of Ashley’s shirt. She gasps and sucks in a sharp breath, her hands shaking. Tears instantly spring in her eyes and the cold malice of the bullies’ laughter fills my ears. Something inside me snaps.
The Curse of Moose Lake (International Monster Slayers Book 1) Page 14