It was hard to follow Selene’s advice and ignore Simon. My curiosity ached.

Pierson proved difficult to ignore for other reasons. He displayed his maturity one day at the start of homeroom by hitting the back of my head with a balled-up sheet of paper. Cheryl grabbed it from where it landed on the ground, then threatened to dock him in the face with it. I had a growing admiration for her ferocity, accompanied by the fear that maybe she would actually fight him fang-for-fang one day.

As he promised, Simon brought the book with him to English. He pulled it from his bag after we sat in our seats for English, and passed it to me over his shoulder the way relay runners pass batons to each other. I grabbed it before it slid out of his hand and onto the linoleum floor. Nearly fumbled it, too.

“Thanks, Simon,” I said, making sure to really use his name this time. “You didn’t have to.”

“I did.”

“Well… thanks anyways.” I decided to use the opportunity to try and start a conversation. “Do you, uh, like to read?”

“I've gotta talk to my partner. Just return it to me when you’re done.”

Conversation... ended. David hid a snigger under his hand, using the term hide liberally.

I knew David's opinion of Simon wasn’t low, but like the rest of his pack, it wasn’t high either. David had jokingly voiced that he didn’t pity Simon’s partner. Which, instead of throwing me off, made me sort of wonder what working with Simon was like.

Was he… easier to talk to, once you got to know him? Did he chat about himself at all, or stay on task? And when it came to school work, was he stringent on splitting tasks up evenly, or did he have a more laissez-faire approach?

All I knew for sure was that Simon was competent. Competent enough, he’d probably put someone like me in a back corner to avoid fuck-ups.

David’s opinion of his own partner for class wasn't any higher; in fact, it was significantly lower. Her name was Becca, and she was the sort where you could pretty much hear her eyes roll.

“Might as well be getting a mule to read,” he complained under his breath while she was in the bathroom. “She probably goes home and watches that Bachelorette garbage.”

I also watched that Bachlorette garbage with my sister and Sam on Tuesday nights. Before I could respond, Cheryl cut me off.

“Stop distracting my partner,” she said. “Collin, Mrs. Lovette said we could either use this time to talk or read. Want to just start reading the book now?”

“Reading?” I asked. “Oh, right, the book. Reading the book. Yeah, sure.”

I cracked open the book Simon loaned me and spotted an elegant script of penmanship on the first page.

For Our Sine, someone beautifully wrote. You are our Moon and Stars, shining even on blackest nights. -Mom and Dad.

A tingle went up to my spine. Even if all I was given was just a single line of his life story, I suddenly felt like I was intruding in on Simon’s personal life.

Something in me savored that.

🌕 | 🌗 | 🌑

The rest of the week passed without incident. I got used to the bus system. Pierson only harassed me every once in a while, typically by long-range assault via wadded-up, paper balls. Friday, while packing my English books into my bag at the end of class, I discovered either he (or someone in cahoots) had slipped a crumpled note into it.

I flattened it out on my desk to read it. It had a phone number and a message scrawled beneath: Ditch the losers. I crumpled it and tossed it in the trash.

“Ugh. I bet he’s trying to skim you off our pack,” Cheryl said later during Home Ec after I told her about the note. “He and Selene dated two and a half years ago. Jerk dumped her right before Spring Dance. Now he’s jealous that she’s doing just fine without him—she’s top of the Senior class, started her own reputable pack, and wouldn’t take him back even if he crawled on his stomach. Pierson’s pride probably limps every time he sees her.”

“Good to know I’m leverage,” I replied. "Two cups of flour, right?"

We were baking brownies for class, and while Cheryl was already pouring her mixture into the pan, I was still mashing together the ingredients. For all the cupcakes and cookies I’d eaten, I’d never baked in my life.

“Yes. And don’t talk yourself down like that, Collin. You’re a human being. Wait, stop, stop! That’s powdered sugar, not flour, my dude.”

“Shit, thanks.” I crammed a measuring cup into the correct bag of flour, shaking off the excess and making a white powder cloud in the process. Cheryl cringed. “What’s the deal with Simon, by the way?”

“Simon Lovett?”

“Lovett?” The cogs in my mind skipped a pitch. “Like, related to Mrs. Lovett? Our English teacher, Lovett?”

“Yeah. She’s his mom.” She shrugged. “Personally, if one of my parents was my teacher, I’d drop out. As far as I know, Simon was homeschooled on and off through middle school, then came back full-time for high school. Definitely shows. Doesn’t belong to a pack that I know of—at least, any of the packs I know of here. With that ‘tude of his, I’d put my money on him being a lone wolf. Definitely ticks the personality traits of one.”

“Why homeschool your kid for so long when you teach public?”

She sighed. “Apparently, she used to teach at some prestigious private school for girls somewhere on the edge of town. Religious probably. Swapped over to public two years ago and has been teaching English since.”

“Simon seems…” I scratched my head, trying to figure out a way to put what I wanted to say politely. “Have you ever talked to him?”

“Sort of. He was nice the first year of high school. All of a sudden, he told me to fuck off. In more polite speech.”

“Huh.” I cleaned the flour dust off my hands on my pants, earning another cringe from my friend. “I mean, he was nice enough to loan me his book.”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t nice. He just… usually isn’t.” A strange expression passed over her face that I couldn’t read. “It’s just a book, anyways.”

I wanted to correct her. Judging from the inside cover, his copy of Pride and Prejudice was more than just a book. It was a heartfelt gift. A rather… old, heartfelt gift.

Ever since I got it, I’d been handling it like a geriatric patient. The spine wasn’t fragile but still pretty worn, and the yellowed pages had an alluring vanilla-lignin smell. On the back of the hardcover was a coffee stain ring, denoting that someone, at some time, used it as a coaster. Some pages had creases. None of them were ripped or missing, though. Despite these signs of being well-loved, I feared adding as much as a stray dog ear to the pages.

The teacher reminded us that we had less than half an hour of Home Ec, and to stop lollygagging and get our brownies baking soon. When the oven door burned me, I hissed from pain, clenching my fists.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“Oo, ouchies,” Cheryl sympathized. She fetched a handful of burn cream packets from the first aid and ripped one open for me. “Here. Keep the extras in your bag. Moon knows you’ll use it all up by the end of the week.”

“Yeah. Silly me, right?” I laughed. Just to be safe, I ran my new burn spot under cold water for a few minutes. The patch of skin hadn’t blistered yet, so it was probably fine.

Baking may not have been a skill I’d thought to hone, but it was sort of fun. Like a science project that you could eat. Maybe not in my case, though—at the end of class my brownies looked like hell had crawled out of the oven and, from the exertion, collapsed in on itself.

🌕 | 🌗 | 🌑

The nice thing about fifth period was that it was basically a study hall with minimalistic babysitting. The teacher, a younger guy who looked like he normally substituted, had outlined the rules on the whiteboard: No cellphones, no sitting adjacent to other students, no playing games. Classic display of the no, no, and no school policy.

However, the teacher didn’t display any motivation to enforce them. I guess even he knew the rules were bullshit, probably the brainchild of someone else. Today, a trio of girls played Uno in the back. Someone else was on a tablet, doing what was probably not school work.

I sat down in the most antisocial corner of the room, pulling out my English book. The last time I read a book front to back was my freshman year—once my parents finally let me use a computer more than an hour a day, I became an acolyte of Sparknotes. If Simon was going to go out of his way to loan me his personal things, the least I could do is use them. I cracked open to the last place I left off. The main character Elizabeth and her sister had just met with their matching pair of ultra-rich love interests, the older already head over heels, while the other was ready to pull out a knife.

By Jane, the page started, this attention was received with greatest pleasure, but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of everybody, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them…

Right. This was only the third time I was rereading the same passage, and I still hadn’t figured out what the book was trying to say.

A straggling student walked through the door a few seconds after the bell had rung. Nobody said anything or seemed to care; the instructor had more important matters on his phone.

The straggler usually sat across the room from me, propping his feet up and napping or whatever. Today he decided to change things up; with a casual stride, the latecomer slid next to me, and upon speaking, a strong waft of cigarette smoke floated on his breath.

“Nice book,” he whispered, tapping on the cover. “Looks old school.”

“It’s for English. You… read it before?”

“Nope.” Then, he leaned on his elbow, giving me a deep look. It wasn’t expectant but observational, as if he were trying to read me in a non-judgmental fashion. “More of a poetry person. Rimbaud, Allen Ginsberg, Langston Hughes. You new to East Garden?”

“You’re not the first to ask.”

The latecomer’s laugh was a musical sort, the kind that invited you to laugh along. I restrained myself to a grin. “Pardon, man. Everyone loves an opportunity to be curious. The grind gets mundane, y’know?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Ash, by the way. Hey, you listen to the Strokes?” He pointed at my band shirt. Already, I’d forgotten I was wearing in.

“I do.”

“My uncle met the lead singer in a bar after a concert, before they got real big. You play any instruments or do any art?”

“Super cool. And no, not really. Always wanted to play the drums, though. I’m Collin Thomas.”

“Nice. Like a reverse Tom Collins.”

I scratched my head. “Sorry, I don’t think I’ve heard of him before.”

“It's... not a musician.” Ash laughed again. “How about the Arctic Monkeys?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Rise Against?”

“Uh, sorry, I don’t like them too much. Their music feels too… generic and radio-catering to me. Not that I don’t believe in their message.”

“Hell yeah, I agree.” He winked. “Never be sorry, Collin. Just because people say it’s good music, doesn’t mean it’s good for you. Opinions are free, complacency costs.” Though he didn't dress like it, his attitude made me think of the beat generation.

“You listen to Velvet Underground?” I guessed.

“Pegged me,” he confessed. “You’re a pretty cultured guy.”

“Not really. Your voice just reminds me of the main singer, Lou Reed.”

“Really?” He looked at me, amazed. “Thanks. Wish I could be as smooth as Lou.”

“Same. Except without the drugs.”

We grinned at each other.

Our conversation had apparently become too loud. The teacher cleared his throat to pull our attention, and tapped on the board with a ruler. No talking. Ash rolled his eyes, jerking his thumb to the girls playing Uno unhampered.

“Unfair,” I muttered.

Ash corrected me with a stronger word. “Unjust.”

I returned to my book. Ash returned to slacking off. When enough of the heat had passed, he tapped my shoulder and leaned in to whisper. “We’re throwing a party this weekend. You interested?”

I didn’t know who we were, but if it was more people like him, I was. But...

“Sorry, I've got a prior engagement," I apologized. "Promised my sister we’d shift together.”

“That’s all cool,” he reassured. “Hey, why don't you take my number? In case you get bored.” He clicked his tongue and winked again.

The teacher cleared his throat and tapped the board again. Passing knowing glances with each other, Ash and I went back to pretending to look busy.

🌕 | 🌗 | 🌑

That evening, my sister drove us out to the old dog park. It was on the edge of town, east of the river fork. Across the water, you could see the bright stadium lights of the local university’s football field shining down on empty stands.

We wore loose, ugly gym clothes and packed the cooler in the back of the car with enough food to supply a picnic of four. Little much in my opinion, but I wasn’t the one who paid for it.

“I know it’s excessive, but the city’s been cracking down on people chasing wildlife and hunting house cats,” Amy explained during the car ride. “I mean, most people don’t eat each other’s pets. But I like having a meal nearby. It’s nice.”

“Yeah.” I shrugged.

I believed her, but couldn’t help my strong suspicion that an ulterior motive was at play. My last transformation hadn’t gone well, and the family therapist had come up with a list of suggestions to alleviate things in the future—food being one. I was willing to go along with the suggestion if it made everyone else feel better.

Then again, maybe I was being paranoid. The voracity of a post-shift appetite wasn’t to be underestimated.

“It’s all raw, by the way. Sorry. I didn’t have time to cook after work.”

“No problem. How was work?”

“Went smoothly,” she replied. “Aside from a few dinguses. Healthcare’s like customer service sometimes. Most times, actually.” Like Sam, she worked in a clinic, except as a medical assistant instead of a nurse. “You see that sunset?”

The world outside the car windows was falling to summer dusk’s umber and warm shadows. The grass had dried to a straw color, while smatterings of larches were yellowing amidst ponderosas intent on keeping evergreen. If I had a camera, I could sell the picture on a gas station postcard rack.

In the sky, the moon was already rising. For shifting, Amy picked a night just after a quarter moon to avoid the crowd.

“Yeah. It’s nice,” I admitted.

“Garden City’s like mini-Seattle on the Idaho-Washington border,” she went on. “Big enough to be busy, but lacking the sprawl that overruns the hills and blocks the view of the mountains. I don’t think I could live anywhere else.”

Compared to Garden City, Sulphur Springs was a flat, brown, stretch of nowhere, until winter. Then it was a flat, white, stretch of nowhere. I could understand Amy's draw.

When we got to the dog park around 8 PM, only a few cars were in the lot. Unlike most dog parks in town, the one Amy picked was large, an island in the river that connected to the banks running up and down. She popped open the hatch of her Honda CRV, moving the cooler closer to the edge for easy access. Then, we sat on the trunk together, dangling our feet and waiting. It was easier to let the shift happen slowly, instead of forcing it. And, well, it was nice to just sit around with Amy and talk.

“What time is sunset?” I asked.

“Soon.”

“Moonset?”

“Hour past midnight.”

"Cool." That meant there was a good chance we’d be home before 3 am.

We continued to sit side-by-side talking about the little things, mostly Amy prompting me about my social life, and me trying to turn the conversation back on her. Fifteen minutes later, my skin began to terribly itch. Then, I felt the pull.

The rest happened quickly. Teeth began coming loose as larger, sharper fangs pushed them out. Once the top, human row detached, I spat them out quickly—Sam once told me that most transformation-related fatalities weren’t violence related but medical, like choking on your own teeth. Maybe she was screwing with me. I wasn’t taking the chance.

My skin sloughed off as my pelt emerged underneath, thick fur the shades of black and timber brown. When I looked at my sister, her eyes had changed from amber to bright, golden yellow, her maw already fully formed and snapping to loosen up her jaws. Just from eye contact, a flood of her emotions entered my head, a gust of her inner wild that hit me as strong as a stormy gust.

She belonged to the moon now, and I wasn’t far behind.

Once Amy finished shifting, she gunned for the path, bouncing on her feet, and impatiently barking at me to hurry up. Not that I could change any faster. Once my bones became stable from all the lengthening and shortening, I bolted after her to race, loping forward on all fours.

The thing about transformations is that they aren’t just physical; it rewires your brain. The night called to me, exciting every fiber of my being. When the breeze graced us, it carried the faint whispering from the darkness waiting beneath the trees. Complicated thoughts became simple, while simple things exploded into complex arrays of colors, sounds, and smells. Even if her face hadn’t fully waxed, I could feel the moon's gaze above, hear her even. Her voice was poised and serene, with demands short of savage.

Breath my air, she commanded. Bare your teeth. Run.

I caught up to Amy, nipping at her heels. Everything became a soggy dream—some mine, some belonging to everyone else. Grass, leaves. Dirt, loam. Sweat, sweet dogwood…

… Squirrel.