Feral Nights

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  “See that you do.” With that, the detective exits the car.

  Yoshi starts the ignition. “Cops go on cruise retreats?”

  I smile at the idea of Wertheimer sipping a mai tai in an aloha shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops. “What kind of shifter do you think he is?”

  Clyde and I have spent quality time pondering the question, but it’s always felt rude to ask Wertheimer directly, especially since he isn’t officially “out” in that way to us.

  “Can’t tell,” Yoshi says, continuing south. “Which, given the long list of werepeople who’ve crashed a night or two in Grams’s barn over the years . . . He’s either a rare species, one I’ve never come across before or, possibly, a Wild Card.”

  “A Wild Card?” I prompt.

  “For a Cat and a Lion or, say, a Wolf and a Coyote to have cubs . . . They’re so closely related, it’s no big deal.” Yoshi lowers his visor. “But if you’re talking about two very different animal forms — like a Moose and a Boar, for example, either their offspring default to human-form only or they can alternate at will between human and the two animal forms. That’s what we call a Wild Card. They’re much harder to ID by scent.”

  I’ve never thought about it before, what happens when radically different shifters have kids. Then again, it was such a huge deal when Travis invited me into his world. I was reluctant to seem too curious. I let him share what he wanted when he wanted, and I have a general idea of how they all evolved, from the Ice Age on, living in seclusion or at least in secret. But so much is still a mystery to me.

  “About Tornquist . . .” I yank the band flyer out of my pocket and read: “‘Jazz Man Bookings presents Fayard and the French Horns.’ That’s Tornquist’s promotion company, and the group plays tonight at a club on Lavaca Street. If Junior is babysitting his daddy’s businesses, it’s possible he’ll show.”

  I’M HUNGRY AGAIN. Weremammals have higher metabolisms than humans. Teenage males have higher metabolisms than anyone else on earth. I’m always hungry.

  Aimee joins me at a bright-yellow picnic table set in an otherwise empty lot alongside a silver food trailer where dolled-up cupcakes are sold. She’s bought a six-pack mix of chocolate, vanilla, and mango passion. The icing is swirled and dotted with multicolored sprinkles.

  “I’ve been thinking about the Dillos’ potential price on your head,” she says. “It’s very Han Solo. I mean, not yet, because they’re still hoping to —”

  “Kill my sister?” I hand Aimee a napkin. “Sorry, I think there was a compliment in there somewhere.” I cock my head, studying her. “I’ve been trying to figure you out. Are you a geek girl, a Goth girl, or a New-Age hippie girl?”

  “Can’t I be all three?” she replies, self-consciously touching her neck tattoo.

  “Not in Kansas,” I joke.

  “Well, this is Austin.” She goes for the mango passion. “I’m an Aimee, an individual. Do you usually categorize girls based on first impressions?”

  “Everybody, not just girls,” I admit. “That’s all I’ve got time for.”

  “Aren’t you a small-town guy?” she asks. “I mean, you’re not from Kansas City, right? Or Wichita? I thought small-town people knew everything about each other.”

  It’s interesting that Aimee thinks she knows something about Kansas. Pretty much everything I thought about Texas is bogus, based on my visit so far. “I’m more of a country boy. Ruby and I were homeschooled until high school. By then, everyone had their friends, and we’d been raised to keep to ourselves.”

  “How lonely,” Aimee says. She doesn’t dwell on it. Instead, she does a double take at the sight of a young couple, arm in arm, approaching a nearby table.

  “You know them?” I ask. The guy looks like he plays hoops. The girl is obviously wearing his letterman’s jacket.

  “They go to my school,” Aimee says, which doesn’t explain why she’s hiding behind her cupcake. Or why she accidentally frosted the tip of her nose with it.

  “Old boyfriend?” I ask. “Frenemy?”

  Gone is the elfin warrior from last night in Nora’s kitchen. Gone, too, is my street-savvy, spiritual guide. “Enrique?” she whispers. “Ancient history.”

  The guy glances over, and Aimee gives him a shy wave.

  Enrique smirks and smacks his girlfriend on the rump.

  It bothers me more than it should, especially after Aimee’s declaration that we can’t be friends. “Hey, Aimee . . .” I begin.

  She absently licks her lips. “Hmm?”

  I take it as an invitation, lean across the table, and kiss her full on the mouth. It’s a sugary kiss — one that lingers. She tastes like mango passion and surprise.

  “Thanks,” I say. I give her a quick peck on the nose, and that’s it for the smeared icing. When I settle back down, Enrique’s girl is staring at us. At me, actually.

  Pre-kiss me might’ve met her inviting gaze. Post-kiss me doesn’t bother. Meanwhile, Enrique looks like he wants to beat me into the ground.

  Tough luck, loser.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Aimee whispers, though it’s clear she didn’t mind. “Enrique doesn’t matter anymore.” Before I can follow up on that, she begins trying to sell me on the idea of including Clyde in our search for my sister.

  “He’s already decided Ruby’s guilty,” I remind her, practically inhaling my chocolate cupcake.

  “For now, you two can agree to disagree,” Aimee tells me. “If you’re right that your sister is innocent, then there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Unless Clyde shoots first and asks questions later,” I reply.

  Aimee wipes icing from her mouth. “Clyde? He’s more likely to sprout a tail or vamoose to Mexico. He talks big, but at the first sign of danger, he usually bails or plays dead, except . . .”

  “Except what?” I ask.

  A couple of sweaty, burly guys wearing orange construction vests take the table next to us. They grin, toast us with their cupcakes, and then tune their boom box to NPR.

  Aimee lowers her voice. If I wasn’t a shifter, I couldn’t have heard her.

  “A few months ago, Clyde and I went with some friends on this monsterpalooza of a road trip. We ended up in this little German town in Michigan and —”

  “Monsterpalooza?” Fine, I can play. “Like Frankenstein’s monster? The Loch Ness monster? Bigfoot?”

  She bites one of her fingernails, chipping the green polish. “Like Count Dracula, for example. Dracula Prime, the original.”

  “You sure you don’t mean Count Chocula?” I ask. I’m willing to accept that Aimee and other rational people believe in vampires. Grams believed in vampires — not that she was rational. But Dracula is pushing it. Life is not a Bela Lugosi movie.

  “Just listen,” Aimee replies. “In the middle of this torrential storm, the Count grabs me by the throat on Main Street, and Clyde — Clyde — comes roaring after us.”

  I’m not hungry anymore. “You’re saying the Possum saved your life?”

  “He tried, and almost died in the process. It took a healing spell that blew the roof off a house to wake him from the coma he was in.” Aimee points to the tattooed crosses around her neck. “But technically, this saved my life.”

  I gauge her body language, heart rate, and scent. She’s sincere. Something seriously scary went down in Michigan, and even if Clyde is a pissy, gray-haired marsupial, he knows something about being a man.

  WHEN YOSHI DROPS AIMEE OFF, I’ve been waiting for a while, seated on the concrete steps leading to her apartment. My new 007-worthy crutches are leaning against the stair rail. Aimee’s mom already told me who she was with. “Did you forget promising to babysit the quads with me this morning?”

  “I did!” Her hands fly to her face. “How’d it go?”

  “When the kits wouldn’t eat their organic sweet potatoes or strained grubs or anything else in the fridge, I had to break out the strawberry pudding. It came spewing back up out of their mouths and leaking all ov
er their diapers. I had to burn my clothes.” That’s an exaggeration. “And shower.” That’s not. “I could’ve sent you out for that apple gunk they like instead, but you didn’t show or answer my texts.”

  “Sorry,” she says, lowering her hands.

  I could make it easier by asking what she did today. I don’t.

  “Uh,” Aimee finally begins again, rocking in place. “Yoshi invited me to go with him to look for Ruby, and we have a lead.” She goes on to tell me about Ruby’s connection to a local music-promotion business and the conversation with Wertheimer.

  “Is Ruby expected to show at the club tonight?” I ask. “Or this Paxton guy?”

  Aimee sinks onto the stair beside me. “We think it’s worth a shot.”

  I rest my elbows on my knees. “And Paxton knows where Ruby is?”

  “Possibly.” Aimee takes a breath. “Can you make us some fake IDs?”

  Us? “I already have a fake ID.”

  “I don’t mean you and me,” she says. “I mean —”

  “You and Yoshi.” I watch the Cat park his enormous boat of a car. He apparently drove around the block, giving her a chance to soften me up first. I’m being handled.

  I reach for the railing to stand. “You trust him? Yoshi?”

  “More than I did yesterday,” she replies.

  I scratch my chin. “The Cat might be able to pass for twenty-one, but we can’t. I’ve tried to buy beer at every store in the city, including the drive-thrus. A half dozen of my IDs have been confiscated.”

  “I have a plan,” Yoshi says, jogging up to join the conversation.

  Stupid Cat ears.

  The fact that I sell fake IDs for thirty-five dollars a card is common knowledge at Waterloo High. So is the fact that they aren’t very good and mostly rely on lazy bouncers and the use of license templates from states that send few of their own to the University of Texas (Alaska, Delaware, and Rhode Island). The key is using a real photograph of the user, which is why Yoshi suggests we do a photo shoot. After we all get makeovers.

  “That’s your big idea?” I ask, annoyed that Aimee invited him into my bedroom. “Sounds kind of girly.”

  “What’s wrong with being a girl?” Aimee puts in, bouncing Clara — who is no longer pooing or spewing — on my bed. “Yoshi’s right. With the right makeup and clothes, I can pass for twenty-two.”

  “Oh, please.” I laugh. “Twenty-two?”

  Gesturing at the poster of supermodel Saffron Flynn tacked to my door, Aimee informs me, “That photo was probably taken when she was fourteen years old.”

  From my desk chair, I glance over at the bountiful curves barely contained in a neon-blue micro bikini. “No way!”

  “Way.” Aimee hands me the kit so she can call one of Sanguini’s hostesses. After a little small talk, she asks, “Mind if I raid your closet?”

  Yoshi glances up from the glass tank that’s home to my leopard gecko. He studies my face and says, “Your afternoon beard is coming in.”

  Shifter males — the mammals anyway — typically have to shave at least twice a day. For girls and women, it’s less of an issue, though they always have thick eyebrows and my mom picks up a new bottle of Nair at the grocery store every week. “You think I should shave for tonight?” I ask.

  “I think you shouldn’t,” Yoshi replies. “I won’t either.”

  Right, because most teenage boys can’t grow full beards, and our jaunt to the jazz club isn’t about passing for human; it’s about passing as adults of legal drinking age.

  Even if Yoshi is making sense, I still don’t like having him in my home, around my friend and family.

  Cradling Clara, I get that Yoshi loves his sister. Things might get ugly — really ugly — when we catch up with Ruby, but for now, our goals are compatible. We may not have a common enemy, but we do have a common mystery.

  Aimee ends the call. “Boys, I’m out of here. I’ll meet you at Nora’s after dinner.” Holding out her palm, she adds, “Somebody give me your keys.”

  “Because?” I ask. I feel possessive of the Bone Chiller, but more than that, I have zero interest in riding shotgun to Yoshi.

  Aimee puts her hands on her hips. “I’m not about to chase all over town by bus. Between the three of us, we have two cars. Let’s split up.” She’s doing this on purpose so we have to get to know each other better. Handling me again.

  Yoshi tosses her his keys. Now he looks like the mature one. Jerk.

  Aimee catches the keys one-handed. “Skew a tad Goth, so we look like we belong together. If we’re pressed, Clyde and I can fake that we’re regulars at Sanguini’s. Nobody needs to know that we’re the kitchen help.” She takes Clara from me to drop off in the nursery on the way out. “See y’all later.”

  After Aimee’s gone, the Cat starts rummaging through my closet.

  “Stop that,” I say. “What do you think —?”

  “I’m trying to help you,” he replies. “Do you have anything that a grown man might wear? Besides jeans?”

  “A lot of grown men wear T-shirts,” I point out.

  Yoshi yanks one from the closet and holds it up. “Not T-shirts with designs of cartoon ducks that say Honk Your Hooters. And I traveled light. Basically, my entire wardrobe is still in Kansas. We’ll have to go shopping.”

  “I don’t need your help,” I inform him. “I’m completely capable of —”

  “If you’re going to pass as a legally drinking man on the town,” Yoshi begins again, “you’re going to have to sell it. You need to market yourself as something more than a bug-eating, pimply, prey-faced teenybopper.”

  “My skin isn’t bad,” I say, which, granted, isn’t my best comeback.

  “It’s not so much about how you look. That’s fixable. It’s about how you see yourself, about confidence.”

  I laugh. “You’re not seriously trying to go all fairy godmother on me?”

  “Honestly? I’d just as soon leave you out of it,” Yoshi admits, reaching to tear my poster off the door. “But Aimee has been a big help so far, and she insists that you come with us. She claims you’re her hero.”

  “Hero?” I say, reaching for my crutches. “Me?”

  Holding open the door to All the World’s a Stage, Yoshi asks, “You got a steady girl?”

  Maneuvering in, I’m tempted to invent a girlfriend from school. Being that he’s from Kansas (and hopefully will return there soon), it’s not like he’d know the difference. But why bother? I don’t care what he thinks. Much. “Nah, I’m playing the field. Why?”

  “Just curious.” Yoshi scans the racks stuffed with costumes and vintage clothing. He pulls out a white long-sleeved button-up shirt. “Try this with pants. The collar will cover your tattoos.”

  “Plenty of adults have tats,” I say. “Do you have any idea what a hassle it was for me and Aimee, being underage, to find a decent artist who could be bribed —”

  “Sure, but the ink might draw a second glance. The idea is to slip in without anyone looking too closely. Besides, we’re shooting for twenty-one plus, not eighteen plus.” Yoshi glances at my high-tops. “Dress shoes — brown or black leather with laces or tassels.” He gestures vaguely at my crutches. “I can carry stuff for you.”

  I hate that I need help. “Anything else, Mom?”

  “Yeah,” Yoshi says. “Is there a reason we’re here instead of the mall?”

  “Are you made of money?” I ask. “Buying new is pricey. Here, we can rent clothes for the night.”

  Yoshi passes the shirt to a clerk to hang in the dressing room for me. Heading toward the shoes, he says, “Smart Possum.”

  I try to tell myself he’s not being condescending.

  THAT EVENING, Nora answers my knock on the kitchen door. “Love the hair!”

  “Don’t you always?” This afternoon a salon colorist muted the green highlights into brown lowlights and pinned it up to show off my neck.

  Someone has hung a blue sheet in the kitchen, and I pick up a fake Alaska ID
with Yoshi’s photo on it. I’ve always found mustaches cheesy, but his newly grown one makes me wonder whether it would tickle if I kissed him.

  Of course that reminds me of the way his lips felt over cupcakes. It was a getting-to-know-you kiss, a left-me-wanting-more kiss, but what did it mean?

  Was Yoshi just trying to make Enrique jealous? Or does he randomly kiss girls whenever he wants?

  “All right.” Nora picks up her digital camera. “Try not to look too perky. Remember, you’re supposed to be at the DMV.”

  Setting down my bag of clothes, I pose in front of the sheet.

  I can hear a football game on TV in the family room. “How’re the boys?” I ask. “Have they killed each other yet?”

  “They’re primping.” The camera flashes. “I’ll get this uploaded.” Nora takes a seat and gestures to the half bath off the kitchen. “You’re welcome to get ready in there.”

  I duck in as she moves to transfer the image to Clyde’s laptop, muttering about how Detective Zaleski will have a conniption fit if he finds out what she’s doing. “Underage kids at a bar . . .”

  Shutting the door, I wiggle into the classic black dress. The skirt is swishy, and the neckline shows off my padded curves. I accent the outfit with faux-pearl earrings, a long faux-pearl necklace (wrapped around my neck three times), and my vintage black rocker boots. They’re totally broken in, and the heels are low and squared. If necessary, I can run in them. From there, I add smoky eyeliner that, coupled with my already-black nails and newly tinted hair, creates a sort of mod-vintage-me look that hopefully will fit with what the scarce online reviews hinted about the club’s atmosphere.

  Finally, I step into the living room, where Nora and the boys are studying my new fake ID. Clyde hands it to me. “Hot off the presses,” he says.

  On some level, I register that the laminate is still warm.

  On another, I’m flabbergasted by the guys.

  Yoshi sports a black jacket over a blue shirt and black jeans. His mustache evokes swashbuckler, sword fighter — a romantic, dashing figure from the past.

  Clyde is equally well coiffed, and I’m momentarily spellbound. It must’ve taken a professional stylist to smooth his wiry hair, accenting its wave and making the gray gleam silver. He’s grown a beard but shaved it close, creating a shadow that frames his long face, makes his cheekbones more prominent, and brings out the gold in his dark eyes.