by Hal Schrieve
“What?” Azra’s voice was almost a yell, which was odd because Aysel had spoken softly. Azra’s face was drawn and pale. “What?”
Aysel started to cry again.
Azra took a few deep breaths. “Aysel, you told her—Zee? You told Zee?”
Aysel choked on her own spit and coughed. “I’m sorry, Mom. I had been really mean to them because I was worried Mr. Weber would be hurt, especially if they got it out of him that he’d been protecting me. And Z thought I was mad at them, so I had to explain . . .” Aysel felt herself swallow a sob and her eyes clouded with tears.
“What happened when you told her?” Azra asked intently.
Aysel paused. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? What did your friend say?”
“I ran away after I told them. I didn’t want to see.”
Azra put her hand to her face. “Of course you ran away,” she said.
“What? I was scared!”
“With all this nonsense with the police happening, it’s not a good time for anyone to find out about you. I’m not mad at you,” she added, again touching Aysel’s shoulder, “but think.”
“I mean,” Aysel said, “I don’t want to get all paranoid.” She was trying to talk herself down.
“People think werewolves are dangerous, Aysel. You are dangerous in their mind.”
“I know.”
“The police who take you won’t give you back to me. I could go to jail for hiding you from them. You’ll go into a treatment facility until you are eighteen and be under probation for the rest of your life. With all this happening right now, it couldn’t be a worse time. The police think there is some kind of werewolf radical cult that killed Archie Pagan. They’re looking for unregistered wolves to blame. I never wanted that for you. I wanted you to be safe. I wanted to protect you. We’ve worked so hard to do this.”
“I know! I said I’m sorry! You’ve told me a million times already. I don’t need to be any more scared than I am!”
Azra looked away and made no reply. Aysel felt embarrassed of her anger. She got up and made tea and brought it back without speaking. They turned on the television and watched a competitive housecleaning show. The television distracted from the fear both of them felt. Gradually, the atmosphere calmed.
“I’m sorry,” Azra said, over the noise of a power saw on the television. “You’re right. You didn’t need that outburst from me. I’m being stupid, darling. I should be tougher than this.”
“It’s too late for that,” Aysel said.
Aysel got up and walked past her mother. She carried her plate to the sink. Then she went into her room and turned on her music as loud as it would go. She didn’t come out to brush her teeth until after she was sure Azra was asleep.
In the morning Aysel did not want to go to school. She covered her head with the pillows and sat and felt the comforter curled around her. Her room was dark and she could hear the wind outside rattling the trees against one another. Her alarm went off twice and so she arose, scowling.
Azra had already left for work and Aysel dressed in a hurry.
The gym teacher hadn’t arrived and Tommy was getting shoved into the big trash bin by the art room when Aysel finally reached class, ten minutes late. Nobody was helping him; the other students were gathered near the doors to the gym, talking among themselves like nothing was happening.
“What are you doing?” Aysel demanded, running over. Tommy’s feet stuck out of the bin. The rest of him was submerged in wood scraps and old charcoal drawings.
“We’re showing him what kind of treatment he’s going to get when Fey Regulation comes for him,” Charley Salt said, turning around. “They take fey and put them in these big silver boxes so they can’t get out and destroy society.”
“Why is it always you?” Aysel asked. “Can’t you stop picking on someone for maybe two seconds?”
“He’s a fairy,” Charley said. “In more than one way,” he snickered. “I heard his granddad was born in this Celtic circle and changed into five animals a day.”
“Oh, okay, yeah,” Aysel said loudly. A few students who were waiting by the gym looked over. “Harassing him because of his relatives and because you think he’s gay. That’s really cute, Charley.” She wasn’t scared of Charley today. She was too tired and too angry.
“I think it’s realistic. He needs to know what the world has in store for him. I’m only helping.”
“Maybe you want to tell the nurse how realistic you thought it was after I break your nose. It’s only fair that I get a shot at yours, since you did mine.” Aysel rolled up her sleeves and felt the hair on her arms and head rise with crackling electric current.
“Chill out, Tay-her.”
“You chill out, you toad!” Aysel said. She stepped forward solidly and swung at him. Her fist made contact with his temple, and his head swung around sideways. She kicked him in the gut and he doubled over. His friends rushed over to him and tried to haul him to his feet.
She went over to the bin where Tommy was. “Are you okay, Tommy?”
“I’m fine.”
Aysel was too short to lift Tommy out, so she tipped the bin over as gently as she could. It clanged against the ground.
“Jesus,” she heard Bill Oswald say behind her, as she and Tommy turned to head back to the gymnasium. “If Tom-my’s a fairy, she’s a troll.”
“Is she a dyke?” Neil Trotter said. He laughed nervously.
Aysel wheeled around to face Bill and Neil. Her hair flew out behind her, a black frizzy wave of sparking static. She stormed forward, her fists ready to hit something again. Punching Charley had been the most fun thing she had done all month.
“Oh shit, here she comes,” said Neil.
“Yeah, here I come. What did you just say about me?”
“I said you were a dyke. You don’t even look like a girl. You look like a whale with eyebrows.”
Aysel grinned. “Well, Neil, joke’s on you. I am a dyke and I think it rules.”
They all stared at her, then laughed dumbly.
“Are you serious?” Bill asked. “You’re a lesbian?”
“I am serious,” Aysel said. “I am a big mean whale dyke!” She shouted this last phrase loud enough for the people by the gym to hear it. “I’m hairy and fat and have huge fists and I will break your jaw if you mess with people I care about!” She shook her head to get her hair out of her eyes and her mouth. She felt like she might start shooting fire out of her eyes.
“You care about Tommy Wodewose?” Bill asked incredulously.
Neil laughed. “Do you lick each other’s”—he held up his fingers in a V and stuck his tongue out of his mouth.
She launched herself at Neil and punched him in the teeth.
That, of course, was the moment the substitute gym teacher chose to appear from inside the school with his coffee and keys, and of course the only thing he saw was Aysel trying to pin Neil on the ground and punching him in the face.
“This is the earliest in the day I’ve ever seen anyone be sent to the principal’s office,” Mr. Bentwood said thirty minutes later.
Aysel stared at him and did not speak. She had a bruise near her eye and a split lip, but was otherwise whole.
“This is the first time you’ve been in here for disciplinary issues, Aysel,” Mr. Bentwood said, sighing a little as if he regretted that Aysel had gotten into a fight. Aysel knew he didn’t care.
“Sorry, sir,” she said as politely as possible.
“What possessed you to get into such a fight, Aysel? You’re not a stupid girl.”
“Charley and his friends were harassing Tommy Wodewose, sir. I stepped in because they shoved him in a trash can.”
“Let’s not talk nonsense,” Mr. Bentwood said quickly. “I’m sure they did nothing like that. Don’t spread rumors, Aysel.”
“I’m telling the truth.” Aysel sucked on her split lip, tasting the blood.
Mr. Bentwood looked seriously down at Aysel, his skinny face hollow
and dour. “Charles Salt and his friends are good boys,” he said. “I’m sure they and Tommy were only having fun, like boys do.”
Aysel scowled up at him and stayed quiet. She knew better than to contradict Mr. Bentwood directly. He had a grisly expression and tiny crumbs of something in the grasslike red fur on his chin.
“Perhaps you misunderstood the situation, Aysel,” Mr. Bentwood said slimily. “After all, maybe it looked as if Tommy and Charles were fighting. No adults were there, after all. It must have been very upsetting.”
“Maybe,” Aysel said, sensing an out.
“In that case, I won’t suspend you. This is the first time a disciplinary situation with you has involved violence, and I admit that it is partially the fault of our faculty for not being present to supervise.”
“Thank you,” Aysel said, looking at her shoes. The early morning light shone through the window. The streetlights outside still hadn’t gone out. The day had barely begun.
“I still have to call your mother,” Mr. Bentwood said. He smiled primly and shuffled the papers on his desk.
“She’s at work, so she won’t be able to come talk to you,” Aysel said.
“Well, it’s school policy.” Mr. Bentwood shrugged at Aysel apologetically, but he was smiling. He reached over and dialed the phone. Aysel made her face as blank as possible, because she didn’t want to look scared. What would her mother think?
Azra was indeed busy, and did not pick up her phone. A crackling voicemail message sounded distantly on the other end, and then there was a beep.
“Hello?” Mr. Bentwood said. “Mrs. Tahir, I am calling about your daughter, Aysel. She got into a fight today with some boys before first period. I’m calling to let you know that this has happened so you can speak with Aysel, as it was her first offense and I am choosing not to suspend her. I have to inform you that if this continues to happen, she will be suspended and you may be obliged to attend a hearing before the Court for Magical Juvenile Affairs. That’s all. Have a nice day. Goodbye.”
Aysel knew the message would horrify Azra.
“Are you all right, Aysel?” Mr. Bentwood asked, his yellow teeth showing.
“I can’t really go to court, can I?” Aysel asked.
“Not for this, Aysel. But be careful how you deal with conflict in the future.”
“I can’t help getting into fights that other people start,” Aysel said, trying not to make this statement sound too contrary. There was something tricky about using polite tones of voice and Aysel wasn’t sure she had gotten the hang of it yet.
“Careful, Aysel. Charley doesn’t see it that way.”
Aysel looked blankly at the principal and then turned and looked blankly out the window.
“Aysel, is there anything going on at home?” Mr. Bentwood tried to make his voice soft and sympathetic.
“What?” Aysel asked. The question had come from nowhere and it surprised her.
“Well, is everything okay at home?” Mr. Bentwood asked. “Sometimes when children have trouble dealing with their anger, it means that their home situations may not be the best. I want to let you know I won’t tell anyone what you say to me here. You can trust me.”
“My mom is a great mom,” Aysel said angrily. “There’s nothing wrong with her or with my home.”
“I’m sure she is,” Mr. Bentwood said. He looked taken aback by Aysel’s immediate and intense defense of her mother. He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Still, uh, Aysel. If you want to talk about anything, I’m here, and uh, the school counselor Mr. Peach is also here if you want to talk to him. I can make you an appointment with him, if you like. He’s here Wednesdays and Fridays from eleven thirty until one, and you can talk to him about anything. Your feelings, your family . . .”
“Are you going to make me have an appointment with a therapist?” Aysel asked.
“No, of course not,” Mr. Bentwood said carefully.
“I won’t then,” Aysel said.
“Okay,” Mr. Bentwood said, trying to sound accommodating. It did not work. He tapped both hands firmly on the desk. “Well,” he said, “if you’re sure you don’t need to talk, Aysel, you can go back to class.”
“Gym class is almost over,” Aysel said. “I can just wait in the hall,” she added as a worried expression passed over the principal’s face.
“Yes, all right,” Mr. Bentwood said. “You can do that.”
Aysel got up and left. She let the door shut loudly behind her.
It was then she remembered the other reason she had been grumpy this morning: she had told Z her secret.
Aysel looked for Z after second period. She couldn’t find Z in the bathrooms or the library, though, and the bell rang before she could check back by the dumpsters, so she went to third period.
Aysel didn’t think that Z would outright reject her. Or—maybe she did. She wasn’t sure what she thought. Everything was so convoluted. Aysel knew how people thought about werewolves. They thought werewolves were sick. Z was a monster too, and so should understand that not all the prejudice against werewolves was based on fact, but they wouldn’t understand everything, and they might say something awful. Aysel didn’t know how she could stand it if Z did that.
Aysel’s pen shook in her hand and she could barely write during class.
By lunch, Aysel didn’t feel like looking for Z anymore. She also didn’t feel hungry.
At the end of fifth period, after forgetting to draw the sigils from the board in her notebook, Aysel tried to get up but was shaking too much. She sat down hard on the lowest step of the staircase and stared at the frosted glass window and the wall. It took her a few minutes to pull herself up enough to go to Spanish class. She walked down the halls, pulling hair out of her face and lint off her sweater.
Z was in class, staring straight ahead. Aysel froze in the doorway and almost turned around again, but made herself take the few steps to her desk. She sat down and stared resolutely at Z.
“Hi,” she said grimly.
Z turned and half smiled. Aysel had a hard time figuring out if there was anything odd about the smile or if she was just being paranoid.
“How are you?” Aysel heard herself ask from far away.
“I’m glad you’re in school today,” Z said.
In Spanish class that day, they all had to walk around the room with little cards that had Spanish present progressive verbs on them and define them for each other. Z couldn’t really stand up and walk around easily, and so would lean on one desk or another and wait for someone to approach them. Nobody did except for Aysel and Mrs. Cortez, the teacher. Z didn’t seem to mind too much.
After class Z and Aysel went into the hall with everyone else. People bobbed around them, hurrying to their next class, not paying attention to the way Z leaned against the wall or Aysel’s black eye. Z turned to Aysel and hugged her abruptly. Is this weird? Aysel wondered. She realized she had hugged Z yesterday, so maybe it made sense that Z would hug her back.
“Wow, okay,” she said aloud.
“I just—I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re my friend,” Z said.
“Why?” she asked.
“Because you’re great,” Z said, rocking back onto their heels. Their yellowing eyes shone and they smiled with teeth that were too long because their gums were receding. “I hope I am friends with you for a long time.”
Aysel felt tears coming to her eyes. “You too, buddy,” she said, trying to make it sound sarcastic so it wouldn’t sound too soppy.
They went to Mrs. Dunnigan’s place after school that day.
“Is it all right if I tell her?” Z asked as they and Aysel walked toward the house. Aysel and Z had decided not to take the bus so they could talk privately.
“That I’ve got problems with the moon, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
Aysel considered. Azra had made Aysel promise that she would never tell anyone about her lycanthropy. This secret was the backbone of her life. She remembered how many tim
es they had moved because her mother had thought someone knew about her. “No,” she said. “I told you because I trust you. I’m sure Mrs. Dunnigan is great, but even great people don’t act so swell around werewolves. I don’t trust her yet. She might not be okay with it.”
“I guess so. I mean, she had a rock thrown through her bookstore window because she has a werewolf section that has books by werewolves, and she had a werewolf author come speak once,” Z said.
“Oh,” Aysel said. “Well, cool. I’m still not going to tell her.”
“Do you ever think that you could change someone’s mind about werewolves by telling them?”
Aysel laughed.
“Why are you laughing?” Z asked.
“Well, I mean, it doesn’t work like that,” Aysel said.
“Like how?”
“One time when we were living in California after my parents broke up, there was this guy who started dating my mom. He was from Texas. My mom liked him. But I remember one time he was at our house, and I heard him tell my mom that she wasn’t like most Muslim women. He told her she was smarter than them. Like that was a compliment.”
“Oh,” Z said.
“So it’s kind of like that with werewolves, too. Even if you prove that you’re human,” Aysel said to Z, “they just think you’re the exception, and it just allows them to contrast you with everyone else. Someone might say, 'Oh, sure, you’re a good werewolf, you aren’t like the other ones.'”
The trees were icy and their branches were silver spears against the sky, except for the pine and conifer trees, which were black and prickly. Aysel tracked pine needles into the apartment. Z turned around and gestured for her to remove them. Aysel felt smaller without the rubber soles giving her an extra half-inch in height. The apartment smelled like cats.
Mrs. Dunnigan was sitting and crocheting something which looked like a very large potholder in black yarn.
“Are you dears all right to study quietly for a while?” Mrs. Dunnigan asked them as they came in. “I have a terrible headache. I don’t think I could possibly watch the news or listen to music.”
“That’s all right, Mrs. Dunnigan,” Z said. “We’ll just be in my room. Thanks.”