The food smells are the worst: meat grilling, hot dogs exploding under the weight of pickles and mustard and ketchup, fruit rotting, pretzels burning, cotton candy, gum chewed and spit out. My stomach growls so loud it hurts.
I put my hand over my nose, try to breathe out of my mouth. But then stop because I’m trying to smell him.
When I unlock the door to our building I haven’t caught the faintest whiff of the boy and I’m too hungry to think straight.
What happens if I can’t find him?
I can’t bear the thought of the white boy not paying for what he did. I think of Grandmother’s saying: Lupus non mordet lupum. “A wolf does not bite a wolf.”
They don’t bite, they kill.
BEFORE
There was another time I encountered the white boy. A time I forgot.
I was with Zach. We were making out on a blanket in his secret cave in Inwood.
Yes, I’d been there before the funeral. Yes, I made out there before that time with Sarah and Tayshawn. It had been our special place, mine and Zach’s. I didn’t like the idea that he’d brought other people—other girls—there. That it wasn’t just his and mine.
So I lied.
How many lies is that now? I’m losing track.
But surely it’s not so big a lie, really? I don’t think I’ll include it in the official tally. It was just to Sarah and Tayshawn. And you.
Now I’m telling the truth: me and Zach, we went there, more than once.
I thought it was our place. Uncomfortable, cold and stinky, but ours.
And one time—with Zach’s mouth against mine, my track pants pushed halfway down, my T-shirt riding up, my skin tingling from his hands, from the cold, from the heat—one time, my skin contracted, not from cold or desire, but because the white boy was near.
I pulled away, ignoring Zach’s complaints, shielded my eyes to look out of the cave. I couldn’t see anything, but I knew he was there. The tiny human hairs were now standing up all over my body. I scrambled out of the cave, pulling my pants up, my top down, I could smell something that hadn’t been there before.
Zach called to me to come back.
I turned and hissed at him, “Shhh!”
Something was there, someone.
I peered out into the trees and bushes bright with sunshine. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. The wind made the trees move, leaves and branches rubbing against each other. I could feel someone looking at me, but I could not see them. I recognized the odor, but I could not name it. Not till later—after Zach was dead—did I finally put that smell and the white boy together.
But I think I knew even then that the smell, that the boy, was dangerous.
FAMILY HISTORY
We used to take vacations. Back before I changed for the first time, my parents would try to take a vacation once a year. Nothing fancy. We’ve never had much money. One year we went to the Jersey Shore and stayed in a friend of Mom’s family cottage. It was a bit rundown—her friend apologized for it—but it was about a hundred times bigger than our apartment. I loved it. Loved inhaling the tangy salt of ocean and sand only a few blocks away. When I climbed onto the roof I could see it: vast and blue and flecked with white peaks. None of the gray oiliness of the Hudson and East rivers.
We went swimming every day for a week. Our skin—even Mom’s—became warmer and darker and happier. I wish we could have stayed there forever.
Another time, Dad had to review a new top-of-the-line Winnebago. We drove it all the way down to Florida, stopping at every campsite on the way. We couldn’t afford Disney World but we drove past signs for it. I was having so much fun out of the city, seeing new places every day, I didn’t even mind.
Dad bought me my first cotton candy as a Disney World apology. It was tall and blue and dissolved into sweet chemical acid on my tongue. I ate it slowly, savoring it, wishing I could have cotton candy every day.
We went into the ocean in North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida. It was the same ocean in every state. The same ocean as the Jersey Shore. When I was little, that didn’t make any sense to me. It seemed magical.
After I changed there were no more vacations. Not for me. It was the city or the farm or nothing.
I suggested it once. Asked my mom if we could go to France, to where she came from. She gave me such a look, an are-you-crazy-you’re-not-going-anywhere-ever look. “We have not the money,” is what she said. But what she was thinking is, How can a wolf travel? What if you forget your pill and start to change on a plane? In a hotel room? Out on the streets of a foreign city?
No travel for you, Micah. Not ever.
The change has closed down every part of my life.
It’s late when I get home but my parents are awake, both sitting at the kitchen table, looking at me, wanting to talk. I try not to groan.
“How’d it go?” Dad asks, before I have time to dump my backpack or go to the bathroom, or ask—beg—for something to eat.
“Fine,” I say.
“Everyone is well?” Mom asks, even though she doesn’t care. She doesn’t like any of the Wilkins. Nor do they like her. But none of them bothered with the fake politeness of asking after her health.
Their questions make me nervous. This is not about my trip, there’s something else. My stomach growls so loudly they must have heard. No food is offered.
“Funny thing,” Dad says, “I ran into your biology teacher, Ms. Shoji. She wanted to know how you were doing. I told her and she said something about dogs killing Zachary Rubin. How dreadful it was but what a relief it was to finally know what happened. She thought I already knew.”
“Dogs,” Mom says. “We are wondering why you didn’t mention this fact to us.”
I sink down against the fridge, leaning on the backpack between me and it, and close my eyes. My stomach growls even louder. I have a hunger headache. They were bound to find out. I’m lucky they didn’t see it in the newspapers. “It wasn’t me,” I say at last. “It really wasn’t.”
“Four days, Micah. Four days you were missing.”
“You came home barefoot in someone else’s clothes,” Dad says. “You were torn up.”
I know that. Why are they telling me what I already know? “I didn’t kill him.”
“How do you know?” Dad asks. His eyes are wet. My father rarely cries.
“Because I would remember. I remember all my kills.” Dad flinches at the word. Mom looks away, but I push on. “Every single one. I’ve never killed anything bigger than a deer.”
“Deer can be large,” Mom observes. Her lips are pressed tight. Her eyes are clear. “Zach was skinny.”
“He was six foot four. He weighed a lot more than a deer,” I say. I’m not sure that’s true. Some of the bucks I’ve killed could easily have been 170 pounds. “Besides, I’ve never killed a deer alone. Hilliard always hunts with me. My cousins, too.”
“The police say it was dogs. How likely do you think that is, Micah?”
“They’d know if it was a wolf. They’d say!”
My parents are quiet now. The tiny kitchen is full of their disbelief, their sadness, their disappointment. The air reeks of it. I’m not sure I can stand it. If I were my wolf self my fur would be standing on end.
“There’s another one,” I say at last. “Another wolf. That’s why I went up to see the Greats—to tell them about him. To ask them what to do. They told me to bring him up to the farm. I know he killed Zach. He’s been following me, too. He saw me with Zach. I think . . .” I’m not sure what I think. “I think he killed Zach to get at me. He must have smelled me on Zach or something,” I say, before I realize what I’ve said.
“Smell you on Zachary?” Mom asks. Her tone is even, but she’s angry. Her back held straight. Her lips go thinner still. “Why would Zachary have your smell on him? Unless you have lied to us. Again. That you still see this boy? Kiss this boy? Make love with this boy? After you’ve told us you do not. That it’s only happening once, you say, and
that now you’re only friends. You lied to us?”
“Zach’s dead—”
“Micah,” Dad says. “Don’t. You need to tell us what happened. Did you change that weekend because you . . .” He pauses, made squeamish by the thought of me having sex.
“I told you. I told you what happened. I forgot,” I say. “I forgot my pill. I didn’t realize. By the time I was changing it was too late to get home.”
“So you hid in Inwood Park?”
I nod.
“You didn’t go anywhere near Central Park?” Dad asks. He doesn’t believe me.
I shake my head. I’m telling the truth. Why don’t they believe me when it matters? Okay, I know why. But can’t they think rationally? How would a wolf get from Inwood to Central Park without being noticed? That’s almost a hundred blocks. It’s not possible. I was lucky to get up to Inwood before the change was complete.
“You must stop, Micah,” Mom says. “No more lies. If you kill this boy we’ll still love you. Nothing changes that. I think always I know this.” She’s so upset her English is crumbling. “What you do. I know it, but I can’t let myself believe.”
“I didn’t, Mom! I didn’t. I could never kill Zach. Not as a human, not as a wolf. I loved him.”
“So much that you slept with him, changed, and killed him?” Dad says quietly. I’d almost prefer if he yelled.
“I didn’t!”
“Didn’t what, Micah?” Dad rubs at his eyes, making the tears that didn’t quite fall disappear. “Didn’t kill him or didn’t sleep with him?”
“Didn’t kill him.”
I look down at my hands. There’s no sign of the wolf in them. They’re almost hairless. The fingernails are short and square. My stomach growls so loudly they must hear it in the apartment next door.
“So you slept with him,” Dad says. It’s not a question.
“Yes,” I say softly, addressing my words to the backs of my hands.
“You lied to us,” Dad says. “About your relationship with that boy. You knew it was dangerous. You promised us you would be careful. Smart. You were neither, and now he’s dead. You killed him.”
“I did not! The white boy did!”
“The white boy? Oh, Micah,” Dad says. “Don’t. We’ve had enough of your bullshit.” My father never swears. “This is what happens . . .” He stops, too full of despair to give me a lecture. This is bigger than that. “You’re going up to the farm. You can’t stay here. You’re not killing anyone else.”
“Dad! I didn’t kill him. I didn’t. The white boy did. He’s a wolf, too. He did it. Not me. You have to believe me.”
Dad shakes his head. He’s not even looking me in the eye.
“You can’t send me upstate. I have to finish school. I’ve worked my ass off to get this far. I’ve sent off my college applications. I’ve—”
“Let’s say it is true,” my mom says. “That there is this other wolf. It is quite a coincidence, no? That he is changed the same weekend as you?”
“Well,” I begin. It is a coincidence, I realize.
“The white boy, you say. He is a boy wolf?”
I nod.
“A boy wolf needs a girl wolf near so that he may change? That is how it works, no?”
“Yes,” I say.
“This boy wolf? He changes the exact same weekend as you?”
“Oh,” I say, realizing. “He changed because I changed.”
Mom is right. Without a female around, male wolves don’t change. The white boy changed the same time I did. Even though I’m sitting on the floor, I’m dizzy. This means I killed Zach. No. Let there be other wolves. A secret den in the city. Please don’t let me have made the white boy change. All because I forgot my pill.
“Whether this white boy wolf exists or no, you must go upstate. You are a wolf,” Mom says. “You cannot ever forget this thing that you are. Not ever.”
I don’t. How is that even possible? It governs everything I do and say. Something they will never understand. “I never forget,” I say. “I’ll find that boy. I will take him up to the Greats like they said. I’ll fix this,” I say, even though there is no fixing it. Zach stays dead no matter what I do.
“Even if he exists, that boy is not the one who must go to the farm. You are. Your grandmère was right. There is no place for you here. You are too wild for the city. Too much for the city, too much for us.” Mom stands up, ducking to avoid the bikes, steps over me, careful to make no contact, and goes into their bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her. My mother has never not kissed me good night before. Not even when . . . not even the last time they were this angry.
Dad is leaning forward, his head in his hands. He’s quiet but I’m afraid he’s crying.
I get up, open the fridge, and pull out the remains of their dinner: half a chicken. I slip back down to the floor and finish it off, not bothering with knife and fork or napkin or ketchup, eating with my fingers, shoveling the food in so fast I don’t even taste it.
Dad looks at me. I can see the disgust. My daughter eats like an animal, he’s thinking.
I’m not an animal.
I am.
If it weren’t for me Zach would be alive.
I can’t think about that. I open the fridge, looking for more food. I think I will eat till I puke.
LIE NUMBER EIGHT
So, yeah, I was a wolf the weekend Zach was killed.
Yes, that was a lie—yet another one—but not a total lie. I did track Zach in Central Park, did talk to him in the cypress tree, like I said. Just not that day.
There’s truth in most of my lies. You can see that, can’t you?
You can see, too, why I couldn’t tell you? Think about it for more than half a second: back then I wasn’t admitting the wolf within me. Once I did admit it, if I’d told you the truth about that weekend—what would you think?
That I killed Zach.
I didn’t.
You want to know how I know, don’t you?
I can remember what I do when I’m a wolf. Not every detail, not crystal clear. But hunts, I remember. Food, I remember.
Those four days, hiding in Inwood—not Central Park—I remember everything I hunted, everything I ate.
I ate fox, a feral cat, squirrel. Fox tastes god-awful. I remember every foul bite.
I did not eat Zach.
I did not see Zach.
Not while I was a wolf.
How could I have killed him?
In Central Park there aren’t many places for a wolf to hide. Over the course of four days I’d’ve been found, locked in a cage at the zoo or something. And then—surprise!—I’d’ve changed back and they’d have a naked seventeen-year-old girl in a cage.
I couldn’t allow that to happen.
But Inwood, Inwood is more wooded. There are caves to hide in, marshland, less people. That’s why I headed there when the change started to hit and I knew I wasn’t going to make it home.
Yes, I know Zach lived in Inwood but that’s not why I went there. I’d figured out a long time ago that it was the safest place. Hell, it’s probably the only place on the island a wolf could hide for four days. The only place that’s how it was before white people, before cars, and pollution, and skyscrapers. The biggest and wildest the island has to offer.
I did not see Zach. I did not kill him.
I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.
AFTER
Before Dad goes to bed he tells me they’re taking me up to the Greats first thing in the morning.
“What about the white boy?” I ask. “He’s real. I didn’t make him up.”
“I don’t need this now,” Dad says.
“I promised the Greats I’d bring him.”
“Stop it, Micah.” I know he thinks I’m lying, that the white boy doesn’t exist. He thinks I killed Zach. Not indirectly by causing the white boy’s change, but directly with my teeth and claws. I think my mom believes the same.
“I didn’t—,” I begin.
�
�Shut up, Micah,” Dad says. “I don’t care, okay? First thing in the morning we take you up to my mother’s and you stay there. If this boy actually exists then he’s no danger with you gone, is he? Now, go to bed.”
“But I—”
“Micah, we are not having a discussion. This is final.”
His face is cold, narrowed. He’s never looked at me that way before.
I go to my room and shut the door behind me. It’s never seemed so small before. The cage is most of it. Christ, I hate that cage. There’s no cage up on the farm. There’s no life there either.
I could have defied Dad. I am stronger than him. He cannot physically make me obey. But I love him and Mom and I want them to love me. I don’t think they do anymore. I think it’s a long time since they loved me. I have broken our family. Once they leave me at the farm, will they visit? Or will it be the end?
I slide down to the floor, my back against the door.
How can I make this better? How can I get their love back? How can I keep them from sending me away?
I have to find the white boy, bring him to them, prove that he exists, that he killed Zach, not me. Then they can take him up to the Greats and I can stay. I’ll promise never to forget the pill again. In the five years I’ve been changing, I’ve only forgotten twice. I can do better than that. Then I can finish high school, go to college, have a life.
I should be exhausted. I’m not. I climb out the window, quiet as I can, raising it the barest fraction, squeezing myself through.
I will find the white boy.
AFTER
I walk around the neighborhood, concentrating on smell—the white boy’s smell. I’m torn on whether I want to find him. Taking him to the farm is what he deserves. The Greats’ll take care of him.
But what if it’s not enough for Mom and Dad? What if even finding him, proving what he did, bringing him to them is not enough, and they still condemn me to the Greats?
I could not stand it.
Liar Page 19