Another session with Amber came and went. Now that school was in full swing, I had a little more to talk to her about. When I brought up my call earlier with my mom, Amber asked me how it ‘made me feel.’ My response was a shrug. How was it supposed to make me feel?
In English, we finally got to our presentations on our assigned reading. Cheryl had done her best to include me in the essay writing portion, and though I had my best intention to carry my weight, I couldn’t beat the feeling I was dragging her down with all the grammar and spelling mistakes she had to fix.
“Hey,” she reassured me. “You’ll get better. Writing takes practice. The book wasn’t an easy read.”
“Seemed pretty easy to you,” I sullenly responded.
“Wait until you see the rest of the class present. Bet you five bucks the goof troop in the back didn’t even finish.” She winked and pointed with her thumb towards the back of the room, where three of Pierson’s pack was situated. After lunch in what felt like the lion’s den, I now knew them by name—Chang, Knudson, and Bull Plume. Pierson himself was distracted, texting away at a phone close to his lap, but his friends returned our glances with silent, judgmental looks.
Cheryl was unfazed, probably from habituation after years of forced coexistance. I guess she hadn’t found out yet I’d spent lunch with them recently, otherwise she’d understand their watchful interest in me was less about asserting general dominance, and more about sizing up a potential meal.
I turned around and pretended their eyes weren’t digging into my back. Presentation order, Mrs. Lovette decided, would be volunteer based. So, once she had opened the floor, David’s hand shot up to claim the first performance.
Once his presentation was functioning on the projector, he cockily started things off with too much bravado. He picked the concepts of innocence and guilt in Great Expectations, delving into the meanings of the gallows, courthouses, and stuff, and how they were allegories for something other than gallows, courthouses, and stuff. I wasn’t sure if David’s partner got a word in edgewise, or if David had run of the whole show. She certainly didn’t appear to have a desire to.
The next group that went wasn’t as smooth. What they lacked in knowledge, they made up in PowerPoint techniques.
When it was time for the next set of volunteers, I kept my hands down—I was more than happy to bide my time and go fifth or sixth after everyone’s eyes glazed over and their attention spans were shot. Unfortunately, Cheryl had a different idea, and quickly volunteered us for third.
As Cheryl figured out the computer end of things, plugging her school laptop into the projector port, I was left to awkwardly stand around trying to look like I was helping. I flipped through my notebook, pretending there were actual notes in it, occasionally glancing up at the sea of eyes staring back.
Each time I did was a mistake—the pressure of all those people looking, from Pierson’s pack in the back corner up to the front row where Mrs. Lovette had seated herself in the crowd, was starting to crush my chest. Amongst the ocean of dark gazes, inexpressive brows, and blank faces, there was a single pair of eyes that stood out and anchored my focus.
Simon's.
His startling shade contrasted with everyone else's in a clash that revitalized my interest in them. When I first saw them, I’d been stuck on how unusual it was for someone to have eyes the same color as his, but that wasn’t the complete truth--I'd seen people with similar shades. Just not while they were human.
I never got the science of why our eyes were dull in the day, but lit up into bright shades when we started to shift. Or, in rare cases, when we got really mad, or super excited. Dim browns turn into bright yellows, pale shades to piercing greens. Enviable violets, burnt umbers; all shining in the night like smooth, glass marbles in the dark. Simon's piercing blues would have fit right in under the full moon.
Except it wasn’t the full moon. It was the middle of the day. And Simon was acting normal. Well, relatively. Depending on opinion. His personality was still kinda weird.
“All right,” Cheryl began. My back straightened as I came to attention. Someone coughed, and I shuffled out of the way of the projection screen. “Our reading was Pride and Prejudice, and our project topic is about the expectations placed on women in Victorian society, especially in regards to the expectations of men, and how Jane Austin’s skepticism challenges this status quo…”
From the start, the passion of Cheryl’s words carried us; she was bold without being obnoxious, though her long sentences were tripping hazards. We’d practiced our presentation twice before, which (surprise) made things easier. I hoped Mrs. Lovette was impressed with how neatly decorated our slides were. I came up with the slide colors.
Course, you could tell which slides were Cheryl’s, inundated with blocks of text and bullet points, and which were mine, containing only a few sentences in an oversized font. I tried to make up for it by talking every once in a while, hoping I didn't sound desperate.
When we finished and opened up for questions, nobody said anything at first—thank the Moon. Just before we could escape the front of the class, though, someone’s hand shot up.
"Yes, Simon?" Cheryl asked.
“Do you still see similar expectations of women in relationships now portrayed in media?” Simon said. The clarity of his voice was addicting.
“Well,” Cheryl hesitantly began, “As Americans, our expectations of marriage are less strict than in the 1800s in an England dominated by the Anglican church. Women have more social mobility, divorce is more accessible—“
“But women still often find themselves as objects of status in modern media,” I interrupted. “Music, movies, books. Men can be bad boys on the outside, and as long as there’s that plot twist that they had good intentions the whole time, it’s OK. Women are different because they’re status tokens waiting to be acted on. Even if Mr. Darcys still exist in romance books—dark, brooding, misunderstood but rich—proactive Bennets are lacking. When a girl does start with some scrap of agency, Hollywood makes sure we know they're conquests for male characters, not equals.”
Even Cheryl looked at me startled. My cheeks warmed. Honestly, I was just repeating what I heard, both from complaints Cheryl’s pack members had voiced about recent movie releases and Amy’s snide critiques whenever something sexist happened on TV.
“Excellent presentation, you two,” Mrs. Lovette clapped. The rest of the class followed with their mandatory applause, too. “Top notch. I’d like to get three more groups in before the end of class, so we’ll cut the Q&A short. Who’s next?”
I didn’t pay as much attention to the next group as I should have, or the group after. Did my speech impress, or was it an embarrassing outburst? What was Pierson’s pack in the back thinking? Simon?
On our way out, Mrs. Lovette passed us copies of our presentation grades. My jaw almost drop—not only did Cheryl and I get an A, we got an A+. I didn’t know grades went that high.
“Hey, good job at the end,” Cheryl beamed once we were clear of the room. “We did it. High five!”
“Yeah, we did.” My hands trembled as our palms made contact. “Holy shit. I do and don’t want to do that ever again.”
“Right?”
As we made our way into the aisle, someone bumped into my side on the way out of class. Knudson. He didn’t respond with his usual ‘chipmunk’ insult to Cheryl, but he did snicker. Pierson was behind him, too busy texting on his phone to check his packmate for bad behavior.
“The thick skulls are just jealous,” she complained. “Lucky the Goof Troop didn’t go today, or I bet we’d have shown them up real bad.”
David slid passed us, too. Unlike usual, he didn’t have much to say, not even congratulations or see ya at lunch.
🌕 | 🌗 | 🌑
I ran into Simon again on our way to trig. For maybe the second time in my life, as we stood by the classroom doorway, he spoke first.
“Hey,” he simply said.
“Hey,” I responded. We stood around for a few seconds until it hit me. “Oh, your book! Here.”
Right on the spot, I dropped my backpack and ruffled through it, pulling out the copy by its spine. Now that my presentation was over, I didn’t need it. But, as I held it out, part of me didn’t want to give it back, to keep hanging onto this one piece of him.
Simon took it and slid it into his messenger bag.
“Oh, hey, and uh… sorry,” I followed up.
“About what?” he coolly asked.
“The after-school study thing last week. It’s, well…” I did my best to push through my stammering. “I know I said I’d go with you, and then I didn’t. It’s just that I got kind of nervous… I should have let you know sooner. I get uncomfortable around other people, sometimes. Sometimes I think that things are one way, when they’re actually the other way. But I didn’t have your number to let you know.”
“It would have been nice to know beforehand,” he responded. “Thank you for the apology.”
“Well, would you like to do something, sometime, to make up for it?”
One of his eyebrows raised. “Is this about more schoolwork you need help with?”
“No, like, go out for shakes, or...” I remembered the smell of coffee on his book and the ring-shaped stain on the back cover. “How about a cafe? I’ll cover. My sister says there’s a used book shop if you’re, like, interested in that sort of thing?”
“You’re talking about Marlowe’s, right?” he asked. “It’s been a while since I’ve been there.”
“You’ve already been?” I scratched my head. “We can go somewhere else.”
“No, I like it there.” Simon smiled. “It’s one of my favorite places in town. When were you thinking?”
“After class Friday? Unless that doesn’t work. I can do Saturday or Sunday. Or next week. If you’re too busy this week.”
“Friday works for me.”
“Sweet, well… I’ll see you then?” My voice accidentally cracked at the end, raising in pitch.
He asked, “Don’t you need my number first?”
“Oh, right, right, let me find my phone…” I padded down my pockets, trying to find the damn thing.
“Here,” Simon said. He took one of my hands in his thin fingers and drew the skin on the back taut with a thumb. With a sharpie from his pocket, Simon began to scribble something down below my knuckles.
His fingers were cold, too; he might as well have had his hand in the freezer or been holding onto an ice cube all period. There was a ring on his right hand that looked like a hand-me-down from someone special, like his book, because it looked way too old for a high schooler.
“You’re a southpaw,” I observed.
“Southpaw?” he looked up and asked.
“Y’know, left-handed. Me, too.”
A smile marked his lips again. “That makes two of us, then, huh?”
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“And Jimi Hendrix,” I pointed out. “The musician.”
“And Paul McCartney,” he countered. “Who coincidentally happens to be a musician, too.”
“Right,” I laughed. “I mean, that he’s left. Handed.”
Simon laughed, too. When we entered class and sat down at our separate tables, I had less interest in the math on the board and more in the little, black markings Simon left on my hand that clearly composed a phone number. The edges of the writing that were once crisp now began to bleed ink a little.
Fifteen minutes later, I could still feel his touch on my hand.
Maybe I was gripping my pencil too tightly, maybe I'd scribbled down too many "notes" on my sheet, but I could feel a hot spot coming that made it hard to write. I checked the underside of my fingers and found a small band of sore skin that stung when I pressed down on it.
Shoot, must’ve been a burn from Home Ec finally starting to blister. Hopefully, it wasn’t getting infected.
🌕 | 🌗 | 🌑
“What are you doing this weekend?” Ash asked me during fifth. I had my trig textbook open, trying to at least look like I was working on homework. Meanwhile, Ash kept to his usual, lean-back posture with nothing but a clean desk in front of him, minus a couple of geometric, graffiti-style “S” scribblings etched on the surface with a pencil.
“Going out with someone Friday. As in just seeing a friend, I mean,” I specified. The phrase ‘Going out’ carried a certain implication potentially leading to some catastrophic discovery that Simon and I weren’t on the same page. “Probably the bookstore.”
“Wanna hang the day after?”
“Where?”
“Devil’s Ridge,” he answered. “Few of us are going out shifting, Saturday evening into Sunday. You up?”
“Sweet, I’d love to. Hit me up when you guys meet, yeah?”
“Yeah, for sure. Text ya.”
Thursday came by quicker than expected, and I realized I hadn’t updated Cheryl yet on the Simon news, which, yes, my personal life was my personal life, but not filling her in was a literal, mortal sin. I planned to tell her at lunch. When we got to the lunch table, though, an unexpected tension muted the table.
Hoff swallowed hard as Cheryl and I approached together. If we were wolves, I’m sure his ear would’ve been twitching—it didn’t take much body language to understand he was anticipating of something.
Cheryl didn’t react. Instead, she sat down next to Selene, closer than she usually did, across from David who was already chatting their alpha up. He stopped his conversation abruptly.
From there, the table’s tip-toe behavior was rampant. When everyone did talk, it was with more restraint than their usual, animated banter. The new, awkward undercurrent in Cheryl’s pack behavior rose the hairs on my neck; the wolf inside didn’t need help reading the vibes that something not-so-great going on at a deeper level.
“I think,” David began saying, “We, as a pack, should go out to the North Slopes, by Macomb River, to shift. It’s been a while since we’ve all been together at once. Someone’s always been sitting out because of some commitment.”
“That’s far out,” Cheryl replied. “You can’t even take a bus into walking distance, even if we took walking distance liberally. If you want everyone to be together, then you need to pick somewhere more accessible, like Laure’s Island, or Walker Butte.”
“We were at Laure’s last time. And we can carpool. Selene, Lindsey, and I all have our licenses. Right, Selene?”
Selene nodded but said no more. She chewed her lunch so softly her jaw barely moved.
“I still think we should go somewhere closer,” Cheryl stated. “We can think on it and have a vote. This Friday over lunch, so we can decide for sure.”
David scoffed. “Or, we can decide now so we aren’t making last-minute changes.”
“Hey, how about, like, a normal hanging out on Friday at least?” Hoffman cautiously interjected. “I mean, I’m still up to shift, but we can do something beforehand, then make a final decision after. Have you guys seen the lineup at the Moxie theatre? They got that new movie, the vampire one. Leslie, you said you were into that supernatural stuff, right?”
“Depends on if it’s anything like that Underworld stuff,” Leslie responded. “Hyped-up action movies aren’t really my thing.”
“It’s more suspense. Kind of a slice of life, romance-y thing, if you’re into that? I mean, if we’re all into that?”
I looked to Cheryl and David, no doubt annoyed to have their standoff interrupted. Selene was the very much opposite.
“I agree with Hoff’s suggestion of the middle road,” Selene asked, spurring the change in conversation. “I am… not sure of the movie choice, though.”
Lindsey sighed. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Aren’t vampires just werebats or something, though?” I asked. “They just turn into bats at night.”
Hoffman rolled his eyes so emphatically, I could have mistaken it for stage acting. “Bats are way too tiny for weres to turn into. Vampires are different.”
“How so?”
“They just are. Like, supernatural and freaky shit,” he continued to argue. “They drink blood instead of eating normal food and predate on people while they’re asleep. When they’re out in the sun, they burn up, but they can hypnotize mortals and turn them into ghouls to do their bidding during daylight. Plus live forever in eternal youth.”
“Those are just some common themes,” Lindsey calmly disputed. “There’s hundreds of myths and thousands of stories. Readers and writers carry a shotgun range of expectations. Dracula and Edward Cullen are iconic vampires and you might as well compare apples and oranges with those two.”
“More like apples to rigatoni,” Hoff nonsensically made up. “One’s literature, the other’s some heartthrob ploy for teenagers and their middle-aged moms. As for vampires, maybe there’s some truth. Multiple cultures talk about blood sucks that transform into bats. They could be out there.”
Lindsey rolled her eyes. “And that dragons fly around hoarding gold, and leprechauns grant wishes, and ghosts exist, and zombies walk around eating brains…”
“Ghosts totally exist,” Hoff interrupted. “Right, Collin?”
“Why are you asking me?” I subverted. I shouldn’t have entered the conversation. “I’ve never seen a ghost before.”
“Don’t they have tons of ghost towns out east where you’re from? Montana’s got a ton of old pioneer spots.”
“Yeah, but they’re more of a creepy, touristy thing.”
“But don’t you think it’s possible?” Hoff pressed.
“Well,” I thought, “Honestly, I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“So you’d stay in a ghost town overnight, no sweat.”
“There could be some crazed psychopathic serial killer hiding out with some rusty farm tools,” I rebuked. “Or a bear.”
“What about serial killer ghosts?” Hoff ventured.
“We’re not going there,” Leslie sternly decided.
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I tried to bring up Simon to Cheryl again during Home Ec. But once we broke into our private work groups, she burst like a keg. An angry keg.
“I can’t believe that arrogant jerk,” she spat. “He’s always trying to show me up, find something to rub in.” Instead of peeling carrots as per the class assignment, Cheryl was violently skinning the tubers.
“Who, David?” I guessed. “What happened?”
“It’s not what happened. It’s what’s happening.”
“Think I’m missing half the conversation. Did you want to talk about it?”
“It’s just…” Cheryl sighed. “Complicated pack stuff. Selene brought up last week she’s only got spring semester left. Then, she’s out and heading to college, along with Kraig. Someone’s gotta take the helm at East Garden until we all finish. But our pack’s so small, we don’t even have a beta. We never needed one.”
I didn’t remember a Kraig in Cheryl’s pack—he must have been one of the members with a different lunch period that I hadn’t met yet.
“Did she tell you she was looking for a beta?” I asked.
“No, but it’s on her mind, I’m sure. Everyone’s mind.” She put her knife down, propping herself on the counter with her arms. “Ideally, where ever she goes to college, we’ll all go. I’ve heard universities are more likely to accept a candidate if they’ve already admitted people from the same pack.”
I nodded—good information, though it didn’t apply to a guy like me who had no future plans beyond a week in advance. “You think David’s making a bid for beta?”
“No way he isn’t.”
The sound of knives clacking on cutting boards filled the room, masking our conversation to between us. Probably for the best; I’d never really been in a school with multiple packs before, but I assumed pack drama wasn’t something you wanted spreading. Especially in terms of pecking orders.
“What about you?” I asked.
“Me? Pff.” Cheryl’s chopping suddenly picked up the pace. “I’m not ambitious about ranking and stuff. But I care about the pack. A lot. David’s putting on the ‘deputy’ attitude now, but I bet, once Selene’s gone, he’s gonna get bossy.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’ve always told Selene, if the pack needed anything, I’m more than willing to step up.” I couldn’t help but notice a crack in Cheryl’s voice. “Whether it’s with a bad grade, a breakup, or a bully, I’ve been there for my friends. Always have been.”
I believed Cheryl wholeheartedly. She was empathetic, hard working, and loyal beyond measure. All things that should have given her confidence in her qualifications. But I could hear her confidence fluster in her growingly raw voice.
“I think… no, I know that you’re worthy,” I encouraged. “I don’t think I’d have lasted this long without you. And, I bet, others in your pack feel the same way. Whether or not you become Selene’s beta, you’re irreplaceable. You don’t need a title to prove that.”
And anyways, fuck Selene if she doesn’t see that.
She sniffed and nodded. “Thanks, Collin. You’re one of the few, honestly good people I know in this school, and you’ve only just moved here.”
I found her comment an overstatement. “Least I can do.”
When I glanced back, she was smiling, her head tilted so her auburn hair fell over her shoulder. All of a sudden, her smile dropped, and she pointed at my hand. “You’re bleeding.”
I shrugged. “Sometimes, you bleed just to know you’re alive—ouch!”
Cheryl’s slug hit me with nearly enough force to knock my shoulder out of its socket.
“Don’t even start,” Cheryl said. “And don’t give me that look. I didn’t hit you that hard.”
🌕 | 🌗 | 🌑
After dinner, during dishes, I told Sam and Amy about my plans to go out with Simon Friday, then shift with Ash at Devil’s Ridge on Saturday.
“I can give you some cash for your date,” Sam chipperly offered, her hands in a pile of dishes.
“It’s not a date,” I defensively corrected. Not a date date, anyways.
“How does $20 sound?” she seamlessly continued. “Enough for some hot chocolate or a chai?”
“I don’t know what a chai is.”
“It’s a hot drink with milk that’s kind of like gingerbread or pumpkin spice.” Sam passed a clean, wet plate to Amy, who then dried it and handed it off to me. We had a dishwasher, but after it flooded the kitchen three times in a row, we converted our after-dinner duties to forming a dish brigade. “This weekend, though, I’d like to meet your friends before you go out alone with them. Make sure you guys will be safe.”
“They’re safe,” I pointedly stated, reaching high to stack the plate on a top shelf. Yeah, I hadn’t met Ash’s friends yet, but they were probably as cool-minded as him. “And it’s weird going around and introducing your friends to your family at my age. I’m trying to make friends, not drive them away.”
“It’s not weird, Collin, it’s diligent,” Sam corrected me. “Devil’s Ridge can get dangerous. It’s steep, and people from some shady walks of life sometimes hang around there. Why not go out to the North Slopes, closer to town? Or Walker Butte? Amy and I will be shifting near Walker this weekend. If anything happens, all you’ll have to do is howl.”
I rolled my eyes. “My friends said they’ve shifted plenty of times at Devil’s Ridge before. It’s behind one of their houses. I’m used to rough terrain anyways.”
“Collin, I’m only trying to look out for you.”
“I’m not a kid anymore—“
Before our cycle of rebuttals got heated, Amy interrupted the tension.
“I think,” she began, “Sam’s right about Devil’s Ridge. It’s not well-lit or patrolled. But I think Collin’s responsible enough to pick his friends. Maybe, Collin, you should talk to them about a safer place.”
“Alright, I’ll talk to them, then,” I settled. It was dumb enough Sam had begun to decide I needed permission from her to go out. Fighting Amy was even more useless. “I’ll have my cellphone the whole time. I won’t leave it in a pile of clothes somewhere.”
“You better not be stripping down the whole way when you’re shifting. Someone could confuse you for a dog or a wild wolf.” Sam sighed. “But, if you can convince your friends to pick somewhere more public, and promise to be good, I’ll sleep easy a lot easier.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I sighed, too. “I get it.”
“Thanks. Promise me, if you need anything, call. No matter what, okay?”
After dish brigade, I went upstairs mumbling an excuse about homework. There wasn’t much else to do; Sam was using the TV for Jeopardy, and I wasn’t in the mood for video games after our post-dinner chat.
I could read a book instead—Simon was into reading. If I started on some big novel, maybe we’d have something to talk about. There weren’t any books in my room, though, now that I’d given Simon’s copy of Pride and Prejudice back. Well, other than my trig textbook. Ugh.
I stared out the window, then stared at my side table. Next to my bed, the white flower my therapist had given me was loosening its once tightly wound petals. What was its name? Creeping Pus Horse-something? I think Amber said its normal name was just Violet Hour.
She wasn’t kidding though about the plant’s flowering habits; its tight petals had begun to unwind in anticipation of the coming full moon. This weekend would be the first time I’d see it bloom since Amber gave it to me. Well, if it kept its bloom until I got home after shifting with Ash.
I began to worry—would the flower lose all its petals after its bloom? If it did, would it grow a new bud, or die out?