But over the break, Lynda began to worry less about the reports and more about her lab partner. What kind of friend was she, she wondered, to humiliate him in public like that? All Greg had done was try to make sure she got home safely.
The day after New Year's, Lynda spotted him on the way to school and ran to catch up with him. “Greg,” she panted. “Can I talk to you?”
Greg waited, but didn't meet her gaze. “I'm sorry I was such a jerk last quarter. I was mad about a lot of things—my dad mostly.” He looked up and his eyes blazed with ice blue longing. “Can we be friends again?”
“I'd like that,” she said, breathless in a way that had nothing to do with running.
The ice melted into a grin. “Good. I'll need your help staying awake in class.”
Before Lynda could figure out what that meant, Greg lifted her backpack from her shoulder and started trotting toward school. Running to keep up with him, she didn't have a chance to ask.
Lynda's questions multiplied throughout the day. Greg moved slower and yawned more than he had before the break. He dozed off in biology and fell asleep over his lunch. Lynda cornered Greg by his locker after school and demanded an explanation. He assured her winter sleepiness was a family trait, a reaction to shorter days and reduced sunlight. He claimed his father spent most of the winter napping.
* * * *
GREG'S EYES drifted shut while Mr. Pullman droned about the Endangered Species Act. Lynda shoved her el-bow into Greg's ribs, and his head jerked up. With his eyes open, he made a decent imitation of someone listening, but Lynda wasn't fooled. Neither was Mr. Pullman.
He strode over to their lab station and glared at Greg. “Ursek. Explain to the class what an endangered species is.”
Greg yawned, causing half the class to break into giggles.
“An endangered species?” He began slowly and yawn-ed again before continuing. “An endangered species is a species of plant or animal that is becoming rare due to Man's interference. Sometimes the endangered creature has been hunted to the brink of extinction. Sometimes it's endangered because its habitat is being destroyed. We don't always know why its numbers are decreasing, but in any case, things are done to protect it, both the individual members of the species, and their habitat, so they can thrive and become more numerous.” Greg started to add some-thing, but it was lost in another yawn.
Lynda grinned. She could tell Greg's father was a professor. Even half asleep, Greg tended to pontificate.
“All right, Ursek. I see you can listen with your eyes closed.” While the class snickered, Mr. Pullman returned to the front of the room. “Next week, each team will research a species that is threatened by its proximity to man. It doesn't have to be officially endangered, but you must show how human interference is causing its numbers to decline. Your presentations are due Friday. Questions?”
The class bell rang before he finished speaking. Any questions were lost in the clamor of scraping stools and rustling papers.
Lynda was halfway to the door when she heard Greg call her name.
She stopped and turned back to him. “Yeah?”
“Want to have lunch together? We could work on the assignment.”
The hesitation in his voice made her stomach flutter. “Sure.”
Greg smiled. Standing, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and hurried to join her.
Pushing through the lunchroom's double doors, Lynda led him into tuna-scented chaos. She dodged elementary school students running for lunch recess and chose a table near a bank of tall windows. She gazed longingly at the deserted courtyard, then shivered as an icy draft curled around her ankles. With a wind-chill of twenty below, it was too cold to eat outside.
“How about the brown bear?” Greg asked while he took out his lunch.
Lynda blinked and looked away from the window. “What? Oh, the assignment. I didn't know bears were endangered. Aren't there tons of them in Alaska?”
“Yeah, and more in Siberia and the Ural mountains. But they used to roam over the whole European continent.” Greg's eyes brightened and his expression became more animated. “The report can compare conditions in Western Europe, where bears are rare, to conditions in Russia, where they're numerous. My dad has lots of articles and books on the subject.”
“Cool.” Lynda opened her lunch bag and took out a container of yogurt.
Greg smiled, yawned, and took a bite of his sandwich. Lynda wondered what had happened to his appetite. He used to bring three sandwiches every day. Now, he was making do with just one.
“If you're free, we could go through Dad's books this afternoon,” Greg suggested. “We could collect the information and get together over the weekend to write it up.”
“Sounds great. Want to meet in front of school at three-thirty?”
“I'll be there.” Yawning, Greg lay his head on the table. The deep rhythm of his breathing told Lynda he'd fallen asleep.
He looks like a little kid when he sleeps, she thought. She glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then reached forward and brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. Even after she finished her yogurt, Lynda stayed with Greg and didn't wake him until the bell rang for sixth period.
* * * *
A FRIGID GALE roared off the lake. Too cold for snow, the wind hurled icy bits from the ground into Lynda's face. Huddled in her down parka, gloves, and knit cap, she glanced at Greg's bare hands and shivered. “You're going to get frostbite if you don't put on some gloves.”
“My hands aren't cold. See?” Greg smiled and slipped his hand around Lynda's.
Heat flowed through the heavy gloves and up her cheeks. “Must be because you're so furry,” she teased.
“Runs in the family.”
“Like falling asleep in class?”
“Exactly.”
Walking beside Greg, Lynda forgot the biting wind. His bulk sheltered her, and his hand stayed warm all the way to his apartment.
Greg guided her past the white limestone facade and up the steps. Opening the heavily carved door, he motioned Lynda to go ahead.
They climbed to the second floor, and Greg unlocked the door to his apartment. Walking in, he called, “It's me, Mom.”
Lynda followed him into a corridor. She'd seen similar apartments. Called railroad flats, their rooms were strung like beads along a hallway.
From somewhere deep in the apartment a cheerful voice called, “Hi, honey. There are snacks in the refrigerator if you want one. I'll be out as soon as I finish this article.”
Greg glanced at Lynda and rolled his eyes. “Mom's a freelance writer. She'll probably finish sometime after midnight. Come on, let's check out the fridge.”
The clicking of fingers across a keyboard grew louder as they walked down the hallway. Passing a bedroom, Lynda looked in and saw a large woman, presumably Greg's mother, seated at a computer. She waved but didn't look up from her monitor. Lynda wondered if she even realized Greg had company.
Greg had the refrigerator door open when she joined him in the kitchen. “Orange juice okay? Mom doesn't believe in Coke.”
“Juice is fine.”
Looking around the kitchen, Lynda saw the normal appliances—refrigerator, dishwasher, stove. She noticed a large piece of peg board on the wall beside the stove. An assortment of pots and pans, all huge, hung from it.
Lynda pointed to an enormous frying pan. “I thought you said you were an only child.”
Greg followed her gaze to the peg board. “I am. Dad and I eat a lot sometimes, so Mom cooks in big batches. Want anything with your juice? I could make a sandwich.”
“No, thanks.”
Lynda took the juice, and they returned to the front of the apartment. A curved bay window, only partially hidden by heavy curtains, dominated the living room. There was a fireplace to the left. Bookshelves lined the remaining walls.
“The factual books about bears are over here.” Greg walked up to the shorter wall and took down a half dozen books. He nodded toward the lo
nger set of shelves behind a threadbare couch. “The rest are all fairy tales and legends.”
A butcher block table and three mismatched chairs took up most of the floor space between the couch and the window. An ancient typewriter sat on the table amid a pile of scattered papers.
Greg carefully picked up the papers and set them aside “Mom works in the guest room; Dad works in here,” he said, holding out a chair for Lynda.
She set down her glass, sat, and pulled a notebook from her bag.
They worked for over an hour, scouring books and journals for statistics on European bear populations, their decline and migration. They'd covered five notebook pages with information when Lynda nudged Greg's arm. “Get this. ‘Rangers in Yellowstone report grizzly cornered by miniature terrier. Big bear terrified by tiny dog.’ Sounds like something out of the National Enquirer.” A giggle bubbled past her lips before she remembered who else was afraid of dogs. “I didn't mean—” she began.
“No problem.” Greg pointed to the book he'd been reading. “How about this one? ‘In some places bears are becoming so rare, mating patterns have been affected. When bear population density falls below required limits, even the male's ability to sense and track the female for miles by her distinctive scent is insufficient to insure he'll find a mate.’ It doesn't say what the required density is, though.” Greg flipped through the rest of the book, then closed it. “Interesting, isn't it? People fall in love at first sight; bears fall in love at first scent.”
Lynda sipped the last of her orange juice and shrugged. “A lot of animals use scent to find a mate. It doesn't have anything to do with love.”
Ignoring her, Greg dropped his voice and waved his hand through the air as if painting a picture. “Imagine a bear sitting alone in the forest. Suddenly, the most wonderful fragrance in the world blows by. He follows it over hills and through dense brush. He fords rivers, roams miles in his search. Sometimes he loses the scent and wanders lost until the fickle breeze blows it back to him. Only with luck and perseverance will he ever reach the end of his quest.”
“A beautifully smelly female?”
“Why not?” Greg asked, suddenly serious. “Why couldn't someone fall in love with a scent as well as a sight? It's at least as accurate an indicator of what a person's like.”
He sounded so sincere, Lynda had to smile. “But we're not talking about people, Greg. We're talking about bears, European brown bears.” She paused. “It makes a great story, though. You should write it up for your creative writing class.”
Greg shrugged. “Maybe. How about a snack? I'm starved.”
Lynda handed him her glass and turned back to her book. “No, thanks. I want to read the next article. It's about a congregation of bears in 1955. Apparently, nearly seven hundred of them converged on a valley in Romania.”
Greg leaned over scanned the page. “Sounds like a family reunion.”
“Or maybe they were lonely.” Lynda nodded toward the hall. “Go on, I'll just be a minute.”
Greg stood, and left the room. The article was shorter than Lynda had expected, and she finished taking down the pertinent facts before Greg returned. She stood and stretched, intending to join him in the kitchen, when her eyes strayed to the papers he'd moved earlier. In bold letters across the top page Greg's father had typed, “Were-bear Chronicles.”
Picking the pages up, Lynda started to read. Written in the first person, the chronicles were apparently a novel, a fictional autobiography of someone who was a man by day and a bear by night.
Like a werewolf, Lynda thought.
But the author scoffed at werewolf legends, maintaining the original stories were about bears, not wolves. He wrote of being one of a race of men who transform when struck by moonlight, about the joys of wandering moonlit forests, about the problems facing an urban shape shifter. She read how even the weakest sunlight turned him back into his human form, leaving him naked and defense-less.
Lynda was just turning to a page titled, “My Youth,” when a deep bellow startled her.
“Who are you, and what are you doing?”
Lynda dropped the papers and looked up. A man filled the hallway. He was taller than Greg and even more massive. A graying beard obscured his face, and his grizzled hair was tousled, as if he'd just woken up.
“Dad, you're awake.” Lynda heard Greg's familiar voice and let out the breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
“Yes. Who is this?” His voice had mellowed into an approximation of Greg's bass rumble and was colored by a slight European accent.
“Lynda Malone, my lab partner in biology. Lynda, this is my dad.”
Greg's father stepped into the living room. “It will be dark soon. Please walk the young lady home.”
Lynda handed him the papers. “I hope you don't mind my reading your book, Mr.—I mean Dr. Ursek. It's wonderful.”
“Thank you. And ‘Mr.’ is fine. I am a scholar, not a physician. Now please go. I must work.”
Greg walked up behind him. “Come on, Lynda. Dad's kind of grumpy when he first wakes up.”
“I am not grumpy,” he growled. “Just busy.” Suddenly, he chuckled. Mr. Ursek had a warm, infectious laugh. He shook his head and combed his fingers through his hair. “My father used to say that. Mother would accuse him of being a grouchy old bear, and he would deny it. Mother was always right.”
He chuckled again before taking Lynda's hand. “It is very nice to meet you, my dear. Please excuse a grumpy old man's lack of manners.” Then he completely disarmed her by raising her hand to his lips and kissing it.
“Hey, Dad, none of that. She's my girl, remember.” Taking Lynda's hand, Greg picked up her backpack and led her out of the apartment.
Lynda didn't hear anything Greg said on the way home. All evening long, his parting comment kept running through her mind. “My girl,” she repeated to herself that night while she got ready for bed. “Greg's girl.” The words echoed in Lynda's dreams all night long.
Interlude
“HE CAN'T GO to school like that.”
A woman's voice, warm and comforting, drifted through his sleeping mind. Her words merged with his dreams and faded before they could touch him.
“I told him last night to stay home,” growled a deeper voice.
Those words threatened to wake him. Groaning, he buried his nose deeper in the pillow.
“With the storm outside, we might as well let him sleep it off,” the soothing voice said. “He won't sleep too long. Will he?”
“No. The sun will wake him when the storm breaks. Come, you had better call and report him sick.”
Footsteps receded into silence, leaving him to float on the aura of the stormy winter morning.
Chapter 8
ELLEN FROWNED at her reflection in the lunchroom windows. “I can't believe Mom made me come to school today.”
A storm had howled into the city during the night. Half a foot of snow had already fallen, with at least that much more expected before the storm blew itself out. Wind whipped through the trees outside and whistled through the electric power lines.
Lynda swallowed the last bite of her cottage cheese. “Greg was smart to stay home.”
Ellen turned back to the table. “I thought maybe he was sick. I mean, he is always going around with his jacket open.”
“He was fine yesterday after school.” When Ellen wiggled her eyebrows, Groucho Marx-style, Lynda groaned. “Get a life, Ellen. I ran into him at the library.”
Hiding her smirk behind her sandwich, Ellen nodded. “Sure you did.” She giggled and added, “So tell me, are you trying out for the Spring musical?”
“Of course, are you?”
“Not this year. Ms. Cavelini asked me to audition for a solo in the dance recital. If I get it, I won't have time.”
Lynda studied the gleam in her friend's eyes. “You know you'll get it.”
Ellen grinned. “Ms. Cavelini never asks someone to audition unless she already has them in mind for some-thin
g.”
Glancing at the clock over the lunchroom door, Lynda slid back her chair. “See you in pre-calc.”
“See you.”
Lynda waved and headed for the door. Ellen turned her face to the window and stared through it, as though mesmerized by the swirling madness outside.
* * * *
TWO DAYS later, Lynda spotted Greg jogging down Ken-wood Avenue on the way to school. She called his name, and he waited while she caught up with him.
“You missed all the excitement,” she said handing him her backpack. “School closed Tuesday during sixth period. The power went out, and they sent us home early.”
The storm had finally blown itself out, and sunshine glittered off the snowy blanket left behind. The main thoroughfares had been plowed, but the side streets, sidewalks, and lawns were shrouded in unblemished white. Leaving calf-deep imprints in the pristine surface, Lynda lifted her face to the southern breeze and inhaled the promise of a thaw.
Greg churned through the snow like an angry snowplow. “My parents heard the weatherman talking about the blizzard of the decade and kept me home.”
Lynda had to trot to keep up with him. “They're not used to storms?”
“They think I'm an infant.”
“What happened?”
“Dad and I had a fight this morning. I went on a walk Monday night—just to see what the storm was like. Dad went ballistic. He started bugging me about it again at breakfast. When I told him to chill out, Dad turned purple, accused me of disrespect, and grounded me for two weeks.”
“Ouch.” She thought a moment and added, “What about the auditions this afternoon?”
Greg kicked up a cloud of snow. “They're out. No way will my folks let me stay late for rehearsals.”
“I'm sorry.” Lynda slipped her hand out of her coat pocket and lay it on his sleeve. Despite her gloves, she could feel the tension pulsing through his arm.
“Yeah, well. That's the way it goes.” Greg almost smiled. When they reached the school entrance, he added, “I can still meet you in the library to study after school. For an hour, at least. I explained that you need my help to pass biology, and Dad—”
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