by Zoe Chant
Before Kesley could sit down, her mom and Grandma Enkel came in, carrying hefty trays to the dining table in its nook off the living room. “Perfect timing, Kesley, dear. Let’s eat!” Doris Enkel said.
As they began passing plates and dishes with long-practiced efficiency, Ed said, “So, Bandit, sold anything today?”
“Nada.” Kesley shrugged. “Listen—”
“Overton’s tourist season is over,” Uncle Lee said, shaking his head. He sounded as mournful as his bloodhound looked. He and Kesley were the only non-cats in the room, except for Rolf, who was as yet an unknown.
“I bet the crying clown woman sold something,” McKenzi said, grimacing.
“But that’s not what—” Kesley began.
“Proving that even locals have the same rotten taste as the tourists,” Doris put in, and smacked Rolf’s fingers when he tried to grab four rolls out of the basket.
“I’ll eat ‘em!” Rolf protested, his voice cracking.
“You don’t need four.”
“I used to eat twice that many,” Uncle Lee pointed out lugubriously.
“And I smacked your hands. Ach, did I not?” Grandma Enkel said, laughing.
“People, I need to say something,” Kesley tried again, but—as usual—trying to focus the family was a cat-herding fail.
“If Rolf wants extra food, there’s vegetables and fruit!”
Kesley picked up her plate and thumped it down onto the table, making the dishes rattle. The family turned identical sets of startled eyes her way, because Kesley was never rude, temperamental, or loud. “There is a spy in town,” she said.
Forks and knives clattered to plates.
“What?” Ed, her dad, said. “A spy?”
“Yes. Saw her in front of Rosens. Says she’s from NPR, to do a story on the naked, animal worshipping cult. Who think animals turn into humans. Or something.”
Ed put his hands over his eyes. “I told Dwayne that stupid flyer he and Chick cooked up was an idiot idea. But as usual, he was too in love with his own cleverness to listen.”
McKenzi and Kesley exchanged looks. Ed and Chick’s dad had been rivals clear back to something or other involving sports during their high school days.
“Anyway,” Kesley said loudly, before Ed could start in about Dwayne Senior’s many faults.
Quickly Kesley described the conversation with Marlo Evans. Instinctively she left out the guy, except to say that Marlo had brought a cameraman. “And we don’t want our pictures to end up on the internet, right? So I think we should spread the word,” she finished. “I got the feeling Marlo was going to hang around. She had a lot of blank papers to fill out.”
Ed grinned. “Soon’s dinner is over I’ll take a lope over to the Poulsens’ and let Dwayne know what he started.”
McKenzi shook her head. “Dad, I gotta say. Elliot with the flyers is hilarious. You’ve never seen him in action.”
“You young people need to be more careful.” Doris scowled down the table. “We always posted lookouts if we knew we’d be shifting a lot. And joking around about cults can’t lead to anything good.”
“It’s a fake cult! The world’s most boring fake cult!” McKenzi rolled her eyes. “And we do watch out! Abe Rosen always goes with us—we always wait until he’s off-duty. And anyway, the peepers come to see T and A, not shifters.”
“Especially T.” Rolf snickered, and the elders all scowled at him. He sank his head into his shoulders like a turtle.
Kesley said, “Elliot is great at scaring peepers off. I’m sure nobody has shifted any time I’ve helped at the Lopez fish farm, or the Pendergasts’ orchard, or any other time we’ve had to put together a work party.”
“Somebody must have.” Ed opened his hands. “And somebody else saw and put it on the internet. Rolf, do a search and see if there’s anything about people turning into a chicken or a hamster. I bet ten bucks it was a Paulsen. Dwayne always used to screw around shifting in order to ditch school.”
Doris patted Ed’s hand. “Darling, this is the whole town we’re talking about here. Not you and Dwayne and your feud in tenth grade. If you go to the Paulsens’, it better be to talk over an idea to chase off that Nosy Parker from NPR.”
Kesley bit her lip. Her mom was usually easy-going, but when she spoke up, her dad listened. Because they were mates.
She sighed.
Those who wanted to eat dessert while watching TV moved to the den, while McKenzi and Kesley went to the kitchen to tackle the cleanup.
Kesley said, “Sometimes I wish we had an alpha.”
“Who wants a big boss?” McKenzi shrugged. “I think the ‘rents and their feuds are funny. Anyway, stop worrying. Nobody will talk to Ms. Nosy. Though I think I might go seek her out and have some fun with head games.”
“No,” Kesley said quickly.
McKenzi set a dish down and gave her the hairy eyeball. “You really think I’d blab?”
Kesley had not been thinking about that at all. She’d been seeing the camera guy’s broad shoulders, that ruffled hair, those long legs, and how McKenzi’d charm him effortlessly like she always did. Jealous? Really? Kesley grumped at herself. You’re really going there when you Do. Not. Want?
“I just think there’s something off about that Marlo,” Kesley said—and the moment the words were out of her mouth, she realized they were true. Though she couldn’t say what might have given her that idea. “I also think the more we avoid her, the sooner she goes away.”
McKenzi shook her head. “And that’s where you’re wrong. If everyone avoids her, then she thinks we’re the next best thing to an M. Night Shyamalan horror town. You know, seething with secrets. I think we need to smother her with boringness. Hey, maybe we could round up some volunteers to be the actual cult, and invite her to a celebration, where we read a thousand verses of weird poetry or long testimonials that all end in hard sells to get her to donate, on a really cold night, and insist that she has to be in the buff . . .”
Kesley was hit by a sudden image of that guy without a shirt.
Or pants.
The pan she’d been scrubbing fell out of her hands and hit the dishwater with a splash. Naturally a tidal wave of suds slopped over the edge of the sink, but at least cleaning it up gave her a chance to hide her neon red face. “And everybody gets sick? Not funny,” Kesley muttered.
McKenzi gave it up, but Kesley knew from her sister’s grin that she was probably going to go for a cat prowl that night (if the rain stopped—McKenzi hated water when she was a cat just as much as regular cats did) to try and find volunteers.
All in all, Kesley was glad to get home and fall into bed . . .
Where she dreamed all night about a tall, dark-haired guy with shimmering hazel-brown eyes.
Naked . . .
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