by Kody Boye
Don’t say anything.
I nod, slowly but hesitantly, and watch as my mother’s car comes barreling around the corner.
“Oh my god,” she says as she jumps from the car. “Oaklynn! Oaklynn!”
“I’m okay!” I cry, shrugging free from Jackson’s grasp to run to my mother.
She takes hold of me just in time for my father’s car to come barreling up the drive as well. “Claire!” he cries. “Oaklynn!”
“We’re here!” my mother calls back.
“I heard there was a fire. What the hell is going—“ He stops as he steps forward. “On…”
He and my mother can only stare.
And I, smelling of smoke and flame, cough in an attempt to clear my lungs.
“What happened?” my mother asks.
“The front windows exploded,” I say, “like someone threw something at them. Then… they threw in something else and—the place caught fire.”
“The sprinklers didn’t go off?” my mother asks.
“No,” I reply. “They… they just… did nothing, and…. and…” I let out a strangled sob. “I’m sorry, Mom. I tried to save the store.”
“Don’t apologize for anything,” my mother says. “Don’t you dare.”
Jackson Meadows draws forward.
My father approaches him in kind. “Why are you here?” he asks.
“I couldn’t get a hold of Oaklynn,” he says. “I was checking on her to see if she was okay after what happened today, but when I couldn’t get an answer, I called J’vonte to see if she knew what was on. She said that she had Oaklynn’s phone, so I was coming here to see her when I saw the store was on fire.”
“You went through the back door?” my mother asks.
Jackson nods.
“I thought I locked it,” she replies, turning her head toward the parking lot at the rear of the store.
“Thank God you didn’t, Mrs. Smith, because otherwise…” Jackson turns his head toward the store. “I don’t know what would’ve happened.”
“Thank you,” my father says, clasping a hand around Jackson’s arm. “Just… thank you.”
Jackson’s only response is to nod.
And mine? Beyond the pure shock I am feeling—beyond the dying adrenaline that is exiting my veins—I feel a sense of both relief and dread.
Relief—for having had Jackson arrive when he did.
And dread—for him appearing as he had.
He said his father had been called home to take care of family business.
Between that, and the fact that the wolves of Red Wolf have returned, I can safely deduce that there is more going on than meets the eye.
Or reality, I am loathe to think.
“Come on,” my mother says, tugging me toward the ambulance that is slowly rolling up the road. “We should get you to the hospital.”
“I’m—“ I cough “—fine.”
“No, Oaklynn. You’re not. You’ve breathed in God knows how much smoke. And besides—you can barely stand.”
“I’m just a little dizzy, Mom.”
“Go,” Jackson says.
“But—“
He nods at me.
I, with a sigh, nod, and make my way toward the ambulance with my mother.
“Ma’am,” a man—whom I quickly recognize as Police Chief Ronson—says as he steps toward my mother. “Could we have a moment with your daughter?”
“She needs medical treatment,” my mother responds, though tugs me to a halt. “Surely this can wait?”
“We just need a brief statement. If we have any further questions, we’ll ask them at at later time.”
“It’s okay,” I manage, and cough again. “I can give a statement.”
The police chief nods and pulls out a notepad before asking, “How did the fire occur?”
I tell him in as brief a detail as possible—not only because my lungs flare every time I speak, but because my thoughts keep going back on what had happened with Jackson. I couldn’t just say that one of my friends had simply appeared out of nowhere after a wolf had shown up to drag me out of a burning building, so I exaggerate the story: stating that, after the assailants had thrown what I believed to be Molotovs into the building, and after I’d rushed to try and put out the fire, that I’d gotten dizzy, and had almost fainted as a result.
“That’s when Jackson burst through the back door,” I say, “and pulled me out of Flora Fantastica.”
“Jackson is… the man who is standing beside your father?” the police chief asks, turning his head to acknowledge the young man.
“Yes sir. He is.”
“All right. You can go,” he says. “Thank you for your time, Miss Smith. And we’re terribly sorry about your shop, Missus Smith.”
“As long as my daughter is alive,” my mother says, though I can see a hint of sadness in her eyes, hear the somber tone in her voice.
In the back of the ambulance, I am attached to an oxygen tank and allowed to breathe deeply for the first time in what feels like ages.
While lying here, trying my hardest to fight the urge not to fall asleep, I find myself wondering what will happen now that I know the truth about the wolves’ sudden return to the town of Red Wolf.
Jackson Meadows isn’t just a small-town guy returning to the place he was born.
No.
He is something more.
As the doors to the ambulance close, and as we begin to roll down the road, I realize that one stage of my life has just closed, and another has opened in its place.
I can only imagine what might come next.
I am admitted to the hospital in the early hours of the evening and asked to stay overnight for examination. Hooked up to yet another oxygen mask, and administered painkillers through an intravenous drip, I rest peacefully in spite of the fact that I could’ve easily died, and find myself dwelling on all that has occurred tonight.
Between the realms of consciousness and not, I try my hardest not to imagine who could’ve held a grudge so great that they’d firebomb my mother’s store, but find myself thinking of only one person.
Easton Wells.
Considering what all had happened today, it made sense that he might do such a thing, in theory. But, the question is: would he really been brazen enough to do it?
He tackled Jackson. Threw a basketball at J’vonte. Called you a slut. Why wouldn’t he do such a thing?
The only problem with that logic is that there’d been multiple bricks thrown into the store, multiple fire bombs lobbed in after them. The fact is: Easton would have either had to have been incredibly fast—and, as a result, very dexterous—or he would’ve had to have had help.
Something, and I’m not sure what, makes me think it was the later.
He has enough football buddies, I think, to make something like this happen.
But would someone else have gone along with Easton’s plan to destroy my mother’s store, all in the name of him hating me?
Fact of the matter is: I don’t know.
Sighing, I inhale a deep breath from the oxygen tank and crane my head around to look out the nearby window.
Though the night is still young, I can’t help but feel that the nightmare of my life is only just beginning.
The following morning is met with less news, more questions, and further interviews with the police—and though I want so badly to simply cave in to the notion that it could have been Easton that had done such a thing, I know that speaking my mind before evidence can be found may only get me into trouble.
So, with that in mind, I keep my thoughts on who might have done this to myself.
“You haven’t been having problems with anyone at school?” a young officer asks.
“No,” I reply, then correct myself by saying, “I mean, no more than usual.”
The Latina officer stares at me.
Frowning, I reach up to adjust my oxygen mask over my face and say, “I had someone write Oaklynn Smith’s a slut on my locker in lipst
ick. Then post it on Social.”
“Oaklynn,” my mother says, her voice low, hurt, and questioning.
I shake my head as my mother reaches up to press a hand to her face and return my gaze to the police officer in front of me. “Besides that… no. Not… not really.”
“We talked to the young man who rescued you last night. Jackson…” She considers her notes. “Meadows.”
“And?” I ask.
“He mentioned that there was another boy in your school. Easton Wells? What happened with him?”
“He… probably already told you all of this,” I offer, no longer able to escape the truth of the matter, “but… he called me a slut during P.E. yesterday… then tackled Jackson against the bleachers… and threw a basketball at my best friend, J’vonte Fawn.”
“I see,” the officer replies, maintaining her gaze on me. “He did mention something about that. I merely ask if you have anything further to elaborate on.”
“No,” I say. “I don’t.”
“We’re going to get to the bottom of this, Miss and Missus Smith, to see if this was merely an act of property destruction and arson, or if it was an attempted murder.”
“Murder?” my mother asks, standing. “You can’t be serious.”
“We don’t know if the perpetrator—or perpetrators—knew if Oaklynn was in the building at the time of the attack. That is what we are trying to figure out by conducting these interviews.”
“I see,” my mother replies, and sighs. “Thank you for your time, Officer.”
“If you think of anything else that might be useful to this investigation,” the officer says, “please, do not hesitate to reach out to Police Chief Ronson. We want to find out why this happened just as much as you do.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, and sigh.
The police officer offers both me and my mother a nod before making her way out of the room.
The moment the officer’s footsteps stop sounding down the hall, my mother is at my bedside and seating herself upon it. “Oaklynn,” she says, taking hold of her my hand. “Why didn’t you tell us about this sooner?”
“I didn’t want to upset you,” I reply. “And besides—it’s not like there’s anything you could’ve done.”
“We could’ve gone to the school,” she says.
“The school wouldn’t have done anything,” I reply. “They claim to be all zero tolerance when it comes to bullying, but… they really aren’t.”
Sighing, my mother leans back to look out the nearby window. She stares for several long moments—as if determining what it is she will say next—then opens her mouth, as if to speak.
I cut her off before I can continue. “Dad’s going to lose his job, isn’t he?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“That’s why I didn’t want to say anything. I know how worked up Dad can get about the Wells, and… well… I just didn’t want to cause further conflict.”
“You are not causing any conflict,” my mother offers. “It’s these… stupid kids… that are making life miserable for you.”
“You’re telling me,” I reply, then laugh. I cough a few times and then lower the oxygen mask to breathe in the stale hospital air before saying, “Do you know how much longer I’m going to be in here for?”
“The doctor’s supposed to check on you soon.” She pauses. “Why? Eager to get home?”
“I just… don’t want to be here anymore. Especially once word of what’s going on starts getting around.”
“Don’t worry, honey. It’s a closed investigation. No one’s going to say what’s going on.”
“Someone’s going to talk,” I say. “Someone always talks.”
My mother moves to reply, but shakes her head.
The truth is: no one knows what will happen next—and that, above anything else, is the most terrifying thing of all.
If Easton Wells is mad enough to set fire to my mother’s store…
Then what might he do to me?
Chapter Twelve
Jackson is waiting for me on my front porch by the time my mother and I return home that afternoon. He rises as we pull up in my mother’s car and approaches the driver’s side window, only to say, “Hello, Missus Smith.”
“Hello, Jackson,” my mother replies, opening the door and acknowledging him with a tired nod and a sad smile. “Thank you again for what you did last night.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he replies, then adds: “I’m sorry about the flower shop.”
“A shop is a shop. Things can be rebuilt. People…” She turns to look at me. “Can’t.”
I offer a sad nod in response as she starts to make her way around the car.
“I’ll help,” Jackson offers. “Besides—J’vonte came over earlier with Oaklynn’s phone.”
“She did?” I ask.
Jackson nods as he rounds the car. “Yeah. Sorry I forgot to give it to you last night. It’s just, given everything that happened and all—“
“I know. You don’t have to explain.”
After opening the door, Jackson offers a hand, and helps me out of the vehicle by tugging me up and then bracing a hand at my upper back. I’m still a bit woozy from everything they gave me at the hospital, but more than coherent enough to know that his attention is likely more for his own benefit than his own.
My mother looks up at the two of us, frowns, then says, “I’ll… leave the two of you be” before turning and making her way into the house.
“She’s really bummed,” Jackson offers.
“Yeah,” I reply, and watch her silhouette as she makes her way through the kitchen. “That shop was her life and blood. It’s been around since I was a kid.”
“I can only imagine how she must be feeling.”
“Yeah,” I say.
Several moments pass between us. Jackson stands there, looking somber and morose. I lean against my mother’s car, waiting for him to respond. He blinks, as if realizing something, then reaches into his left pocket before withdrawing my phone. “Oh. Sorry. Forgot about this.”
“It’s okay,” I say, and accept the phone with little more than a nod. “Jackson… can we… talk. About last night?”
He lifts his eyes to face me; and for the first time since he’s arrived, I see the fear there—the childish paranoia that runs rampant within all people, young or old, adult or not. His eyes are wide, his mouth slightly agape, his nostrils flared and a muscle in his jaw twitching. He says, “Uhh,” then follows it up with an, “I” before lowering his gaze to the ground at our feet.
I’m unsure—and, really, almost unable—to articulate a response. However, I know that I have to say something. So, with that in mind, I simply clear my throat and ask, “What happened?”
“I smelled smoke,” he says, “while I was coming up the road.”
“I’m not talking about—“
“So I ran as fast as I could… and saw that the shop was on fire.”
“Jackson—“
“I knew I had to do something, so… I…” He pauses. “I did what I knew was right.”
“Which was?”
“Changed.”
I stare.
He blinks.
My breath catches in my throat, and I cough.
He leans forward to look me in the eyes, then says, in as calm a voice as possible: “You can’t tell anyone.”
I laugh. “Seriously?” I then ask. “You think anyone would even believe me?”
“There are some people in this town who remember the legends.”
“Of what?”
“The wolf men.”
I shake my head. “This is ridiculous,” I say. “I’m gonna wake up and I’ll have dreamed this entire week.”
“I know you don’t want to believe in what’s happened, Oaklynn, but… it did. I’m… just sorry that it had to come out the way it did.”
“You were going to tell me?”
“No. I mean, yes. I mean—not…” He pauses, t
hen exhales. “Not unless I had to.”
“Or was forced to,” I offer, and cross my arms over my chest.
“Yeah. That too.”
“So what happens now?”
“What… what do you mean?”
“I mean… is someone going to come whisk me away because of what I saw? What I know?”
“If you’re asking if there’s any kind of… uh… organization that helps keep these things under wraps, then… no. There isn’t.”
“So… what happens now?”
“You, hopefully, won’t say anything to anyone. Especially…”
“Especially… who?” I ask, and frown shortly thereafter. “Jackson?” I then say. “What’re you talking about?”
“It’s nothing,” he replies, then begins to take several steps back, away from the car and toward his home. “Just… keep this on the down-low. Okay? I don’t want anyone to know why my family is back in town.”
“What’re you—“ I start to say.
But he’s already turned and started off.
With a frown, and no way to question anything further, I turn and make my way up the porch, then into my house.
The moment I close the door, I realize that things have changed.
Whether they’re for better, or worse, I cannot be sure.
I lie awake that night with the knowledge that my worldview has grown ever larger. Knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Jackson Meadows can now be called a wolf, I turn my head to look out the window and wonder just what—or, more aptly, who—I saw on the road last week.
It couldn’t have been Jackson, I think, because he was unloading the truck.
And it couldn’t have been his father, I add, because I’m not even sure if he is a wolf.
But if not Jackson, or even his father, then who?
His grandmother?
I frown as I consider this possibility wholeheartedly.
Jackson did say that they came back because his grandmother had called them home, I think.
But for what? What this family business happens to be has not been made clear; and for that reason, I can’t discount the possibility that it was not Grandma Meadows watching me on the road, not Grandma Meadows looking through my window when she’d taken note of me looking at her.
