“Have you told your brother everything that’s been going on with me?” I blurt out.
Nadine recoils, so she looks like I’ve just dumped a bucket of piping hot water on top of her head and she’s melting into the gym floor.
“What?!” she replies.
Evasive! I remember my father telling me that the number one sign that someone is guilty is when they’re evasive, when they respond to your question with a question and try not to answer you directly. Nadine has fallen right into that category.
“Have you told Napoleon about the curse?”
I can’t be any more direct than that. And neither can Nadine.
“Absolutely not!” she replies, clearly insulted by my lack of faith in her principles and our friendship. “How could you even ask me such a thing?”
Thanks, Dad! Now I feel like an ingrate. After everything Nadine’s done for me, this is how I repay her. With an allegation.
“I’m sorry, Nay, I really am,” I plead. “It’s just that, well, like we said, it’s a stretch to think Arla’s dad figured out the connection between the killings and the full moon on his own, so he must have had help reaching that conclusion.”
Instead of clutching her shoulder, Nadine is now crossing her arms in front of her chest. Different gesture, but same result; she’s protecting herself.
“And you just assumed that I betrayed your confidence and told my brother?” she asks. “That I shared with him everything that I promised to keep secret.”
“Well, right when we were talking about it at lunch . . .” I stop myself. What am I going to say? I felt a butterfly whizz by my ear and then saw Napoleon? That would make me sound ludicrous. So of course I say something that makes me sound doubly ludicrous.
“You know what they say about twins,” I start. “Sometimes they’re psychic.”
Nadine doesn’t smile, but her features soften. She drops her arms to her sides and shakes her head. I can tell that she thinks I’m crazy, but at least she understands where I’m coming from. I’m grasping at straws and not questioning her friendship or her honor.
“Napoleon cannot read my mind,” Nadine asserts. “And I—thank the stars above—cannot read his. Can you imagine the thoughts running around that creepy little head of his?”
Actually, I can. I have a brother, and I know how creepy they can be. And how dangerous.
“It was my brother then,” I manage to get out. “Barnaby must have told Louis about the connection to the full moon.”
Leaning in toward me, Nadine whispers. Her tone is a curious mixture of conspiratorial and condescending and compassionate. “Dom, it doesn’t matter who told Louis,” she informs me. “Someone was bound to figure it out sooner or later.”
She’s right. It’s no use pointing a finger; the finger’s already been pointed. But I still want to know whose hand the finger belongs to. I was convinced that it was Napoleon, but I can’t prove it. He appears to be wearing several gloves to protect his identity.
“Nap and I have never had a psychic connection. He’s always been a bit closed off, not just to me, but to everyone,” she confides. “Lately, though, I don’t know, he’s been weirder than usual.”
I’m about to ask her to explain herself, to define weirder, but I’m too preoccupied watching the silver mist that’s starting to outline her body. It’s just as entrancing as the first time I saw it, but as Nadine chatters on the mist begins to change. It’s no longer intangible like fog; it’s more like liquid metal, thick and shiny and touchable. Clasping my hands behind my back, I compel myself not to reach out and run my fingers through the silvery body stocking that’s now undulating and rippling all around Nadine’s body. I don’t know if I can see this phenomenon as another byproduct of the transformation or if I’m somehow looking through wolf eyes, but either way it’s fascinating. Watching this incredible sight is hypnotic, and I have to shut my eyes tight to break free from the trance. When I reopen them Nadine’s silver outline is gone, and I can finally hear her voice again.
“Nap’s been moody and just plain unmanageable,” she finishes.
That’s a peculiar word. I’ve described Barnaby as lots of things, but never unmanageable. Then again twins do have a different type of sibling relationship, so why not a different vocabulary? I’m the big sister, so I’m usually Madame Bossy Pants, but Nadine is pretty much Napoleon’s equal, so maybe she yearns for more control? Or not.
“That’s what my mother says,” she corrects herself. “She calls Napoleon unmanageable.”
“And what does she call you, Miss Jaffe?”
During our whispered conversation Miss Ro has worked herself to our side of the circle. Standing in front of us, hands on her hips, she doesn’t look happy as she waits for an answer. She looks even less happy when Nadine finally responds. In a way that makes me drop my jaw, and poor Gwen Schültzenhoggen drop the ten-pound medicine ball she was about to throw on her foot.
“The better one.”
For the rest of the day all I can think about is the bee and the butterfly. The imagery just won’t leave my mind, and it’s not pretty images of two insects buzzing and flapping whose only joint goal is to sniff flowers and collect pollen; the imagery is violent. Buzzing is more like dive-bombing and flapping resembles flying for your life. Could my sermon at Jess’s funeral really be coming to life? Does the bee really want the butterfly dead? I’m not sure, but it actually makes me trust the bee more, because she isn’t hiding; she isn’t concealing her true nature. She is what she is. Which means the butterfly is a stool pigeon.
“It has to be Nap,” I declare.
“Do you have evidence?” Caleb asks.
Why can’t my boyfriend just agree with me?!
“Not a shred,” Archie adds.
“Then I’m with Archie, Domgirl,” Caleb says. “Just ’cause your gut thinks it’s Nap, doesn’t mean your gut is right.”
And why must he always agree with his best friend?
I grabbed Caleb and Archie as they were on their way to football practice, thinking I would be able to convince them that Nap cannot be trusted, that he’s the missing link that has led Louis and my brother on this dangerous path that may wind up getting me killed. But now, standing underneath the bleachers, doused in a jumble of shadow and afternoon sunlight, they’re offering logic and pessimism and contradiction instead of sympathy and kudos and acceptance. It is not what I want or expect from these two. Especially Archie.
“Lift the needle, Dom,” he says. “You sound like a broken record.”
I have reason to be stuck in my groove! “Ever since Nap came to town he’s been lying!” I proclaim. “The way he acted at Jess’s funeral is all the proof I need.”
“That isn’t proof,” Archie rebuts. “Just your point of view.”
And just what point is Archie trying to make?
“I get why Domgirl is blaming Napoleon. She’s looking for an explanation,” Caleb states. “But, Winter, dude, why are you defending him?”
Finally! At least I’m not the only one perplexed as to why Archie has become a Napoleonic advocate.
“I’m not defending him, just trying to make y’all see reason,” Archie declares. “I’ll let up if you can tell me what his motivation would be.”
“Sometimes people don’t need motivation to do stupid things; sometimes it’s just their nature,” I say.
“Like choosing not to spend the night in your cage?” Caleb asks.
Newsflash: A fast-beating heart can actually be heard. I can hear my heart pounding so fast in my chest I can’t believe no one is commenting on it. They’re probably not commenting on it because Caleb is waiting for me to speak and Archie is trying to figure out what his question means. It doesn’t take him long to figure out the truth.
“You lied to me!”
“Sorry,” I mutter sheepishly.
“I can’t believe you lied, Dom!” Archie squeals, his voice sounding nothing like the voice of a testosterone-fueled football player
, which is what he is. “You told us you were in your cage and Luba unlocked it again.”
“I never said those exact words,” I say.
“Inferred! You inferred that you went into your cage and then Luba used her magical squawbilities to unlock it,” Archie shouts, his voice still incredibly high-pitched, but now he sounds like the incredibly betrayed friend that he is. “Why didn’t you just admit the truth?”
He has to ask why?
“If I had told you guys that I deliberately chose not to go into the cage, you would’ve flipped out!” I shout back. “You would’ve disregarded our need for silence, and the entire cafeteria would’ve heard everything. I couldn’t take that chance.”
“And why didn’t you tell me last night when I dropped you off?” Caleb asks.
His voice is a stark contrast to our yelling. It’s quiet and contains even more hurt and betrayal than Archie’s yelling could ever convey.
The details aren’t necessary, but I need a diversion, a simple task, so I explain to Archie that last night, Caleb dropped me off at the abandoned barn on his Uncle Luke’s property off Route 75. The land is isolated, uninhabited, and for sale, which is why Caleb felt it was the ideal solution and the ideal location for my transformation. Caleb set up the cage inside the barn because he knew that it would keep me safe, but I had other plans.
I told him to leave before the transformation because I couldn’t bear to have him see me leave my human form again. That was the truth. My lie came when I promised him that I would go into the cage, toss the key far enough away so I couldn’t get to it, and see him in the morning when he came to let me out. He even bought two plucked and beheaded chickens at the butcher over in Pawnee City so I could feed. Now if that doesn’t describe the perfect boyfriend, I don’t know what does. And how do I repay perfection? With a broken promise.
“I’m sorry, Caleb,” I say. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go into that cage again.”
And how does my hurt boyfriend repay his lying girlfriend? With empathy.
“I understand,” he replies.
I know his words are meant to console me, to heal me, but they only serve to humiliate me. My body flinches involuntarily, like a hot poker was pressed onto my stomach. I stare at Caleb’s feet because I’m not worthy of looking into his eyes. I open my mouth to speak, but my voice betrays me, unable to find the right words to respond to Caleb’s kindness. My silence prompts Archie to ask the question I’m too ashamed to utter.
“You understand?”
Smiling, Caleb leans back against a metal pole, his hands clasped behind him to reveal that the armpits of his practice jersey are stained with tiny circles of sweat, the only imperfection on an otherwise perfect body. He looks like he’s resting, taking in the slivers of September sun that are shining through the bleacher seats overhead, instead of contemplating his girlfriend’s considerably reckless actions. Once again he surprises me.
“Sure it’s dangerous,” he starts, “But in the long run it’s the best thing you can do if you want to fully control this wolf spirit and be the more powerful of the two.”
He really does understand. Too bad Archie doesn’t.
“And while you’re trying to maintain control, more people could wind up hurt or killed,” he says, his voice mixed with fear and anger, just like the voices I heard last night. For a split second I think that maybe Archie was one of the hunters, but no, that’s ridiculous. He’s acting strangely, nervous and not his typical carefree self, but he would never join the crusade to hunt me down. I’m unsure about a lot of things, but not that.
“Don’t you see, Dom,” Archie continues, “Even if you can control the wolf, you can’t control this town. What if you got caught last night? What would’ve happened then?!”
I would’ve been killed or maimed so I could’ve been captured, and when the sun returned this nightmare would have been over. For me anyway. Not for the two faces staring at me. The hot poker pushes all the way through my body and emerges out the other side as I suddenly realize that their nightmare is never going to end. They’re always going to worry about me and do whatever they possibly can to protect me. This curse is like a restless octopus whose tentacles keep stretching out, destroying everything they touch.
The air around me is as thick as the silver mist that won’t leave Nadine alone. I can’t breathe very well, and it only gets worse the more I look into Caleb’s and Archie’s eyes. These two have become my family, and I’m terrified to think that my actions and this curse will destroy them just like they destroyed my father.
How quickly things change. A few minutes ago I thought I wanted their support, but right now I want to be as far away from them as I possibly can be.
As I run across the football field I hear them shout my name behind me. I stumble and almost fall to the hard, hateful earth below me, but I force myself to stay upright and strong and focused so I can keep running.
With every stride one thought becomes more and more evident: There’s no place in this world I can run to that will keep the two of them safe.
Chapter 3
She’s staring at me.
I don’t have to turn to the left; I don’t have to look up. I could be blind, and I’d still know that her eyes are on me, peering through my skin to see what’s inside of me, to see if there’s anything left worth looking at. It doesn’t matter that her eyes are wooden and lifeless; The Weeping Lady can see me. She can see who I am, she can see what I am, and that’s why she knows I’m nothing but trouble. But despite that she can’t look away because she feels a connection. Hanging in limbo, residing in two different worlds at once, she knows the two of us are very much the same.
Curiosity wins out, and I whip my head around, certain that there’s going to be a real woman standing next to the tree, her skin the color and texture of bark. Or the tree itself is going to be flesh and blood. Just another everyday miracle in our little freak-magnet town.
But I’m wrong.
The Weeping Lady isn’t a real lady, nor is she really weeping, but she is staring at me. It’s kind of amazing actually. Her eyes are in the same position they’re always in, the way they’ve looked every day I’ve passed by here, every day for decades from what I’ve been told, but right now they look as if they’re fixated on my face.
“Why don’t you take a picture?!” I shout. “It lasts longer!”
The Weeping Lady remains stuck in the oak tree and doesn’t break free of the bark shackles and jump to the ground to confront me for being rude and disrespectful. Really? Is that what I expected would happen? I’m overcome by the absurdity of my thoughts, and I hear a loud gigglaugh pierce the quiet. It’s been a while since I’ve heard that sound, so I don’t do anything to stifle it; I let it expand and grow until it dies a natural death. I’ve missed that sound.
Standing in front one of the town’s prized obscurities I feel good even though the sun is so strong I can feel beads of sweat form on my upper lip and on my forehead and slip down the hollow curve of my spine. My body wants to get out of the sun, wants to hide from the glare; my mind is at peace, so it wins out and I don’t move.
Slowly, The Weeping Lady changes, not by her own choice or by my will power but due to the sunlight. Circles of hazy light surround her face so it looks like gauze is being wrapped round and round her, making pieces of her face disappear. The blazing light lengthens to envelop her body in an attempt to consume and devour and annihilate her. She is fighting for her life, and all I can do is watch.
I refuse to give in to the harsh sunlight and blink despite the puddles of tears that are starting to form in my eye sockets. They collect as much fluid as they can, and soon the tears overflow and trickle down the sides of my face. I’m not crying, but bearing witness.
Still my vision is totally blurred, and I can feel my eyes trying to shut. I hear a voice inside of me. I have no idea who it belongs to—my mother, Jess, the wolf—but it’s telling me to keep my eyes open, to keep looking, to keep starin
g into the sun. I join the voice and tell myself that I can do this; I’m stronger and better and more determined.
And then there’s nothing but darkness.
It only lasts for an instant, but it’s long enough to offer confirmation to me that I lost. I blinked. I gave in to the harshness of the sun; I gave in to the forces outside of me and ignored the spirit living within. The Weeping Lady is back to normal; nothing about her has changed. Her metamorphosis was nothing more than an illusion; I’m nothing more than a girl who’s lost her way.
Well, it’s time to get back on track.
The Retreat looks exactly the same. Boring brick exterior, institutionalized black, gray, and red interior, overall uninviting atmosphere. Its main receptionist, however, has undergone a transformation. Essie looks like she spent a month at a spa or underwent instachange by going on one of those reality TV shows where they make you over from head to toe by performing sixteen different cosmetic surgeries on your body in one weekend. Whatever she’s done, Essie looks beyond great.
“Essie! What gives?!” I shout, ignoring the signs that forbid exclamations of any kind. “You look awesome!”
Smiling like one of the celebrities in her magazines, Essie does a full-swivel in her chair. “You like?”
“No,” I reply. “I do not like.”
Swiveling comes to an abrupt stop. As does Essie’s smile. “You don’t?”
“No, Essie!” I squeal. “I love!”
Her mousy brown-gray hair is no longer mousy brown or gray; it’s the color of mouth-watering dark chocolate and cut in a super flattering bob. Hair parted on the right, her bangs swing over and curve around her eye while the other side is tucked behind her ear. Her makeup is soft and shimmery and sexy in that “I could easily be a grandmother, but I’ve still got some life left in me” sort of way. I’m shocked. I knew she was looking for a solution for the mid-to-late-life crisis she was going through, but I had no idea the result was going to be so physically dramatic.
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