by Allison Moon
“Dude, did you know that when I enrolled at Milton, I got a little pamphlet with all my forms that told me not to drink and to travel in groups so I don’t get raped? It told me to be ‘conscious’ of my dress and to be careful about being ‘overly flirtatious.’ Apparently they send it to all the female students. Did you get anything like that?”
“How Not To Get Raped pamphlets?” Duane chuckled.
“How about How Not To Be A Rapist pamphlets? Did it tell you not to drink so you wouldn’t accidentally rape someone? Or to travel in groups so your friends can stop you from raping someone?”
“No, of course not,” Duane laughed.
“Of course not.”
“Okay, okay, okay, I get it.”
Sure you do, Lexie thought. They continued their walk to the dining hall in silence. It glowed like a lighthouse across the quad. Her fingers grazed the hilt of her knife, and she took comfort in the simple power of carrying a weapon in a space where most people did not. Even better was knowing, however slightly, how to use one. Duane was beautiful, smart, and fit. He could excel in nearly any setting, rising by sheer force of will and charm. But there was one place where his wits and composure failed him—indeed where they were impediments. And that was the place where Lexie survived. When she tugged at her ill-fitting clothes and cracked her wily knuckles, she remembered: in the mundane world, where Duane had once moved like a would-be hero, Lexie failed at five-paragraph papers and the myriad subtle cues of proper human female behavior. But in the woods, where Duane lost his innocence and very nearly his life, Lexie had fought and lived.
Their footsteps echoed against the faces of silent buildings.
“So … ” Duane said, in an awkward attempt to redirect the conversation. “You been … ”
Lexie quickened her pace, trying to deflect whatever he was about to ask, but Duane matched her steps and kept on. “I mean … are you seeing anyone?”
Lexie bit her lip, hoping the darkness would hide her reddening ears and cheeks. “Yeah,” she admitted finally. “I guess. But not anymore.”
“Is he a student?”
Lexie held air in her cheeks and released it like a broken balloon. “Ah … She was not.”
“Oh.” Duane’s eyebrows rose. “Huh. Cool.”
“Well, not really. It didn’t end well.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged.
“Are you like … fully lesbian?” He laughed and rubbed his stubbly jaw. His round, brown eyes caught Lexie’s and then dropped away, only to seek them out again. Lexie couldn’t help but laugh at the awkward phrase. She wondered what that might mean: ‘fully lesbian.’ Golf-playing? SUV-owning? Married and cat-breeding?
“I don’t know. I think so. Probably. Why?”
Duane’s face lost its usual composure. He struggled with expressions Lexie couldn’t place.
“Just. I’ve known you for a long time. It’s kind of surprising.”
“To me too, I guess.” Lexie wiggled her mouth.
“Though I guess in retrospect it makes sense. I mean, you are fairly … ”
“Fairly what?”
Duane shot her his movie star grin, and she had to tease him.
“Fairly what, buddy?” she goaded.
“You know … ” he chuckled and made an ambiguous gesture with his hands.
Lexie tipped her head and gave him a daring look. “You’re batting a thousand right now, bucko, so you may as well spill.”
Duane shrugged, laughing at his own loss of composure. “Like, woodsy. I mean, you never really dressed like a lot of the girls at Wolf Creek High. And you, like, hung out alone in the forest a lot.” He laughed nervously. “I’m going to shut up now.”
“Uh huh,” Lexie said with a grin.
They walked together in more thick silence.
“Woodsy, huh?”
Duane smiled. “Sooo … bacon cheeseburgers?”
Between gargantuan bites, Duane tried to get more details about the wolves that attacked Bree, but Lexie, regretfully, had none. None that she could share with a boy who thought Rares were animals and nothing more. The last thing Lexie needed was for Duane to start suspecting that the townspeople of Milton were other than human. If he even got an inkling that Renee was involved in his own attack, so many things would topple over.
Lexie shook the thought away and squeezed more mustard on her plate.
“Good call on these,” Lexie said, her mouth full of meat. “The Den never has good stuff. It’s all tempeh and mushroom bullshit.”
“I could go for a bit of that. Phi Kappa Phi is overloaded with bread and cheese. It’s killing me.”
“Maybe you and I could both benefit from time outside of our lives.”
Duane sighed and smiled. “That sounds terrific.”
Lexie shoved another hickory-smoked bite into her mouth. “Do your brothers feel like real brothers?”
“You mean the Phi Kappa Phi guys?”
Lexie shrugged and chased her burger with a glass of water. Her stomach gurgled with joy.
Duane shook his head and made a moue. “Not really. The frat experience is really deep for a lot of the guys, but I have a family already, and the two don’t feel like the same. Girls or not, my sisters will always be more to me than these guys will. PKP is like most frats I guess; it’s just a presumed family by proximity. I love a lot of the brothers, but they’re not, like, capital ‘B’ Brothers.” Duane took his own hearty bite. “What about you and the Pack?”
Lexie made a face. “Nah. I’m not really like them. I think we all want me to be, but I feel like a different species. I’m like the weird half-sibling from Dad’s secret family. None of them really know what to do with me. And I don’t know what I want done with myself.”
Duane nodded sagely and they finished their burgers in silence. “I do actually dig Rory, though. He’s been having a pretty hard time of it since the guys died.”
Lexie wiped her hands and stacked her empty plate. “Well, Bree too, right?”
Duane shrugged. “Yeah, of course. But I think he was more torn up about their breakup before she died.”
Lexie’s hand slipped. Dishes clattered. “Wait, what?”
“What?
Lexie gave him a hard look. “They broke up?”
He nodded. “Yeah, he broke up with Bree the week before she died.”
“Do you know why?”
“He wouldn’t say, but it sounded pretty dramatic. Lots of yelling and crying. I do know that his dad didn’t like her.”
“Governor Blackwell?”
“That’s the guy.”
Lexie cleaned her side of the table with a napkin and tried to think of a casual way to phrase her question. She gave up. “Do you think you could find anything else out?”
“What will I get in return?” Duane asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Ick.”
“Oh, stop. You’re the gross one,” Duane said. “How about being my research subject for Abnormal Psych?”
“I’m not even taking that class.”
“Better if you aren’t.”
“Will I have to wake up early?” Lexie asked.
“No.”
“Show up anywhere on a regular basis?”
“No.”
“Homework?”
“No.”
“Fine. Dig up some juicy dirt on Rory, and I’ll fill out all the surveys you want me to.” Lexie curled her hand into a fist and met Duane’s with a friendly bump.
13
Only Mitch was home when Lexie returned. He sat in a pool of yellow light, reading next to the empty fireplace.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” she said.
Lexie felt bad for Mitch; his position as the Pack’s whipping boy was now fully in effect. She didn’t know what to say to him, or what to ask, though her mind was aswirl with questions. The fact that most of the questions started with the word “Why” was enough to convince h
er to keep her mouth shut.
“How you doing?” Mitch asked.
Lexie shrugged. “I’m getting kind of worked up about the whole Bree thing.”
“Why? You scared?”
“Not scared. I think I just feel this strange affinity. Like I want the Pack to help her out of a sense of sisterhood—” Lexie flinched. “I mean, sibling-hood, or … ”
“I can be your sister.”
Lexie nearly laughed. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Why should it have to? None of this makes sense. Us being werewolves doesn’t make any sense, and the Pack treats it like it’s totally normal.”
“I wouldn’t say normal.”
“What’s the point, is what I’m saying. Why the hell should we, of all people, be saying what’s normal? If I become a dude, use a male pronoun, start looking to the world like I’m a guy, does it change who I am? More than me turning into a wolf every once in a while?”
Lexie picked at the frayed corner of the couch. “It’s different.”
“How?”
“It just seems … god this going to sound awful, but it seems unnatural. Like, being a girl is hard, but that doesn’t mean you have to become something else.”
“Yeah, being a girl is hard, but I bet you don’t think about it as much as I do. I mean, you have your hair and your clothes. When people call you ‘she’, you don’t flinch. You don’t think that there’s something wrong, something off, about you that they can’t see.”
“You sure about that?” Lexie said, raising her eyebrows.
“Fair.” Mitch nodded. “Moving through the world as a man just feels more right to me. It’s almost like when I run as a wolf.”
Lexie snorted. “The idea of running as a wolf feeling ‘right’ is so far from my reality.”
“Being a wolf is a kind of magic. You don’t force it. It’s part of you. It’s effortless. I want my gender to be the same way. A synergy, a harmony so tight you can’t even tell it’s a bunch of different notes smooshed together.”
Lexie had never known Mitch to be so eloquent. It indicated that perhaps he’d thought more about all this than she had. It gave her a stab of shame for ever doubting him. “I don’t think I know that feeling.”
“But what if you could? What if your wolf could feel as true to you as it does to me?”
“I’d probably be a lot happier.”
Mitch shrugged. “There you go.”
“But you’re talking about changing your body chemistry.”
“Renee and Sharm are the closest things to scientists we have in the Pack, and they don’t understand the werewolf thing, either. How should we know whether werewolves are magic or science? Does it matter? Magic is just science we don’t understand, right?”
“I’ve heard that,” Lexie said with a faint grin.
“Listen, all I’m saying is that masculinity has always been part of me. Longer than my wolf has. I was a butch since I was old enough to hold an ax. I think society’s just starting to catch up with people like me. Why can’t I use science, and a little bit of magic, to turn myself into something new, something that feels more right for a reason that no one really understands?”
Lexie didn’t want to argue with Mitch, and couldn’t anymore anyway. He had a point. She nodded. Mitch picked up his book and continued reading. Lexie cracked her neck and grabbed her backpack, ready to finally do some homework.
She put on a kettle and settled into the corner of the couch with the newest novel in her Gender and Literature class while she waited for it to boil. The kettle screeched at her just as she struck her highlighter across the words, “Truth is a matter of the imagination.”
“Tea?” she asked Mitch, who still had his head buried in his own book. He grunted an affirmative. Like a dude. Lexie was still smiling over that when she handed Mitch a mug of chamomile.
She curled up on the couch with her book, but a creeping discomfort wouldn’t let her sink back into reading. She tried to shake it off, knowing her subconscious was merely distracting her from her work, like always. After reading the next sentence six times without absorbing a word of it, she dropped her book and sighed. The ill feeling remained. Lexie took a sip of her tea, but it wasn’t enough. She needed a snack.
She headed to the kitchen, going for the fridge, when a tiny crunching sound tickled her ears. She glanced out the back door and saw a shadow at the edge of the woods in the backyard. She flinched, then bristled, a whine low in her throat.
“What?” Mitch asked.
The shadow slid into view and Lexie saw it was a person, stumbling. A person she knew.
“Holy shit.”
Mitch jumped to the window. “Oh no.”
They ran to the door and out onto the deck.
“Sharmalee?” Lexie smelled blood. Heavy like iron and salt, the odor lay thick in the air.
Mitch ran to Sharmalee and draped her arm around his shoulders. She leaned on him, limping, cringing with each step.
They lowered Sharmalee to the living room floor atop a pile of pillows. The soft glow of the lamps gave them a better view of her wounds. She had a deep gash across her abdomen that had just started to crust. Bite wounds punctured her shoulder, front and back. Dried saliva—Lexie prayed it was saliva—crusted on the tatters of her shirt and jeans. Blood soaked the purple satin of her top, dying it a putrid brown. It clung to her skin, making her look like a burn victim with flesh flayed. Her jeans were torn and filthy, her exposed calves and thighs marked with scrapes of embedded pebbles, as if she had been dragged a long distance.
Mitch ran for the first aid kit. Lexie stroked Sharmalee’s face with the back of her fingers. “Who did this to you?”
Sharmalee strained to speak, the effort it took clearly paining her. “Morloc.”
“How many?”
Sharmalee’s eyes rolled back in her head and Lexie smacked her cheek. “No, no. Don’t pass out. Stay here, Sharm.”
She whined again, and Lexie shook her. “Sharm, how many?”
“Twwwwww … ” she strained.
“Two? Two Rares did this to you?” It was a miracle she was alive.
Sharmalee head lolled on the pillows. “Twwwelve.”
14
“Come fucking on, Corwin!” Renee yelled into her phone when Corwin’s voicemail greeted her for the seventh time.
The Pack was assembled in the hospital waiting room. They were the only people there except for a janitor who lazily mopped the hall.
Though Sharmalee was stable, the nurse said they’d need to keep her overnight for observation.
When Corwin got there, everyone rushed to be the first to tell her how she fucked up by going on a date with some random boy. But no one could answer Corwin’s first question: “What the fuck was Sharm doing out in the woods alone?!”
Corwin settled in one of the uncomfortable molded plastic chairs, and soon all the girls were snoozing in the glare of the buzzing fluorescent lights. All except for Lexie, who read and re-read the same three pages of Things Fall Apart, trying to find the irony but stuck in a pointless loop of distraction.
Soon after dawn, Renee and Jenna ran home to get decent coffee and snacks for everyone, while Lexie went outside to get some fresh air.
In the nearly-empty parking lot of the tiny hospital, a news van was raising its antenna. Two black sedans, parked diagonally across three spaces, idled behind the van.
A harried-looking assistant slathered makeup on a perfectly-coifed reporter by the van. Governor Blackwell stepped from the sedan, flanked by two young aides. They looked young and bright enough that they could be Milton students, except for the pressed suits and Ivy League haircuts.
A small crew adjusted a light tree, and the reporter began rolling before Lexie could even figure out what was happening.
“Governor Blackwell,” the blonde, crimson-lipped reporter began. “Can you tell Miltonians about the horrific events of this evening?”
“Yes, Gretchen. I’m afr
aid that Milton has suffered yet another attack on a young woman by a Rare wolf. Tonight we thank the Lord that she survived, and that the terrific doctors here at the Rogue River Hospital gave her the attention she needed. I’m happy to report that she is in stable condition and is expected to make a full recovery.
“Attacks like the one on this poor young woman are unacceptable. I won’t let the good citizens of Milton and neighboring communities be terrorized by these wild animals any longer. I continue to encourage citizens to arm themselves and take common-sense precautions when enjoying Milton’s natural beauty, but remember that it’s easy to underestimate these animals. So much of our population is comprised of seasoned outdoorsmen and women, but we’ve lost even seasoned hunters to these beasts. Rare wolves are aggressive animals and should not be underestimated.”
“Governor Blackwell,” the reporter continued, her big blond hairdo bouncing with each word, “are you concerned that your new highway project will put more citizens in harm’s way?”
“Gretchen, I’m a Miltonian. I was born here, and I raised my three children here. It is not my intention to bring any more harm to my fellow citizens. Sure, the new highway will make everyone’s commute to the capitol much easier, mine included.” He chuckled, his bright smile bringing a blush to the reporter’s cheeks.
Blackwell’s smile faded into a grave frown. “It seems to me, from talking to wildlife experts, a project such as this new state route will divide the current Rare wolf territory. While it may be tempting to further assert our territory, I strongly urge Miltonians not to engage with Rares in any way. This young lady is evidence enough of that.”
“Governor Blackwell,” the reporter pressed, “is there any evidence the injured young woman was seeking out Rares?”
“It’s not my job to speculate, but her fate clearly demonstrates the risks of vigilantism. For this reason, I am instituting a partial ban on all new weapon and ammunition sales. And until buck season begins in the fall, we will not be issuing any new arms permits. I believe that Milton residents have every right to protect themselves, but I do not wish for untrained citizens to engage with these animals out of vengeance or bravado.”