by Peter Moore
“What’s wrong with you guys?” I lean down to put their leashes on, and both of them start whining, making high-pitched squeaking sounds. Their chins and chests are on the floor, back ends in the air, tails down.
I go to the family room, where Paige is watching What Never to Wear. “Paige, you need to take the dogs for their walk.”
“Why don’t you?”
“They don’t want to go with me.”
“Well, I’m watching this. Get Jess to do it.”
I think my fever is back, and a headache is coming on fast. I’m not in the mood to argue with dogs or little girls.
“Paige, just do it!”
She looks up at me, startled. “Why are you yelling at me?”
“Because the dogs need to go out and they’re afraid of me, and I don’t want to stand here and debate it with you. Stop arguing, and please just take the damned dogs out for a walk.”
She looks at me as she slowly gets up. I hold the leashes out and close my eyes.
“I’m not picking up poop, though.”
“Paige!”
“I’m just saying. I’m not.”
She takes the leashes and leaves me with my headache.
“Come on, dogs,” she calls, walking out of the room. “Let’s go for a walk.”
They run to her, claws clicking on the wood floor in the next room.
“Good doggies. Don’t worry about him. He’s just being a meanie. You come on and walk with Paige. That’s good.”
She shuts the door, the sound making me cringe for a second as it echoes in my head along with the whimpering sounds of the dogs’ fear.
I know I don’t look any different or sound any different. But the dogs sensed something. To them, I’m a predator.
It’s become a daily thing, Juliet and me going to this new make-out room at the end of the day. We found this place, a book storage room in the basement. It’s a little humid, and it smells kind of like mildew, but we’re less likely to run into Gunther Hoering here. And this place is less crowded, too.
A few minutes before we got here today I asked Juliet why she didn’t give me a heads-up about Victoria for Claire.
“I would have, but I didn’t know Victoria was going to do that,” she said. “We’re not that close.”
“She texted her the news,” I said. “That’s pretty low.”
“Very. Don’t ever break up with me by text. In fact, don’t ever break up with me.”
“I don’t plan to,” I said as we slipped into the room and the door closed behind us.
Lying to her hurts. At least it’s dark in here and she doesn’t see my eyes when I say it. She drapes her arms around my neck and our mouths meet.
I have no right to do this with her, not when I know that I’m going to hurt her. I make myself sick.
Juliet puts her hands under my shirt and presses her palms against my (shaved) chest.
But we’re so good together. How can I let this go? She’s breathing fast and moves her hands, her fingers in my hair, holding the sides of my head. Now I’m breathing faster.
But maybe we don’t have to break up. I get that I can’t tell her the truth. But if I’m going to a different school, I can probably find ways to dodge the issue. Technically, it would be lying, but maybe a little dishonesty is better than breaking both of our hearts.
She breaks the kiss and whispers, “Hey. You’re really hot.”
“So are you.”
“No, seriously. You’re burning up,” she says.
“You light a fire in my heart,” I whisper loudly in a movie-romantic voice.
“Oh, man,” some guy shouts. “The talkers are here again. Would you get lost?”
Juliet grabs my sleeve and pulls me out of the storage room.
I blink in the light. She wipes my forehead and shows me her hand. It’s slick with sweat.
“So what?” I say. “It’s hot in there and you got me hotter.” I smile to reassure her.
“You have a fever or something. Do you feel okay?”
“I feel great,” I say, which is a total lie. I feel like a selfish scumbag, but since she brought it up, I do feel warm.
“Let’s go to the nurse,” she says. She takes my hand, which hurts. My knuckles are swollen and sore. All reflex, I yank my hand away.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
I flex my fingers. “Nothing. My finger got jammed yesterday in Gym. It’s fine.” I take her hand and give a little squeeze, which sends a jolt of pain into my fingers.
She touches my face, my cheeks, runs her hands back over my ears and through my hair. I’m kind of getting a little turned on, even though I don’t feel so great.
She looks deeply into my eyes.
“What?” I ask.
She shakes her head and smiles. “Nothing,” she says. “I’m happy.”
No, I’m not going to break up with Juliet. I’ll make it work. Somehow.
She wipes my forehead again. “I hope you’re not getting sick.”
“Hey. Don’t worry about it. Vampyres can’t get sick.” I try to laugh, but to my ears, it sounds forced and false.
I need to get to my locker and get my stuff, fast. Right before second period, I promised I’d go to the city with Claire after school, and there’s a good chance she’ll murder me if I keep her waiting again.
I quickly spin the dial, make a mistake, and have to start again. I throw my books in and reach for my jacket, and then I see the black spray paint on the back, stretching from one shoulder to the other. A werewulf’s head on a big red circle. The wulftag logo.
Claire heard about a guy who supposedly has tickets to the Rubber Crutches concert. She heard this from Hugh, who didn’t manage to get the tickets through his father’s great connection. The fact that Hugh gave her this tip means it’s almost certain to be wrong. But she’s determined to go to the concert.
All five shows sold out within minutes of going on sale, no doubt due to the group’s number one song, “Thicker than Water,” which seemed to be on every radio station every minute of every day last summer. Terrible lyrics, typical of the worst vamp headbanger crap. But just like everyone else, I was a victim of the melody, which got in your head and dug its claws into your brain.
And so we’re wandering around the business district. All the humans and wulves around here are wearing coats, because it’s chilly in the early morning dark. I’m cold in just my shirt, and still pissed about my jacket, which is now stuffed inside my backpack.
“How much are you going to pay for those tickets, assuming they even exist?” I ask her.
“I don’t know. Maybe one-fifty? Two hundred?”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Like you know anything about music.”
“I know enough to know that two hundred bucks is one hundred and ninety-nine dollars more than those tickets are worth. You realize that the amazing Rubber Crutches aren’t even really vamps? It’s all bleached hair and a lot of posing.”
“That’s just a rumor. And even if it were true, I don’t care. Stop being a killjoy.”
“I’m just making sure you’re an informed consumer,” I say. We walk another half block, and I’m starting to think that Claire has no idea where we’re going. “Where is this guy, anyway? At this rate, we’re going to be wandering around until sunup.”
“He said to meet him at the Chill Grill. I know it’s around here somewhere.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you’re looking for the Chill Grill? We’re on the wrong side of the square. Come on.”
We walk to Brookline Street. There’s a candlelight vigil in front of the courthouse. I see a lot of blue clothing, and as we get closer I realize they’re all cops. The square is packed with them. And they’re each wearing the gray armband that means they’re in wulf divisions.
“Hang on,” I say, stopping. “I want to see this.”
Claire seems surprised but stops next to me.
There’s a guy in uniform at the top
of the steps, calling down through a megaphone to the assembly in front of him.
“How is it possible that, in this day and age, we still have a segregated police force? What does that mean, other than that the brass and the mayor don’t think we’re good enough to serve next to every other cop who wears blue?”
There’s a roar of cheers from the crowd.
“Why are we on a different pay scale? We do the same work, we take the same risks, we get shot just like anyone else. And why should we have to use our sick days for time spent on the compound? Is that fair?”
Big shouts of “No!” from the crowd.
“Are we going to stand for this?”
“No!”
“Are we going to demand a new contract in January?”
“Yes!”
“I can’t hear you! A new contract for wulf police officers? Integrated squads? Equal pay? Fair treatment?”
“Yes!”
I tug on the sleeve of Claire’s navy peacoat. “Hey—look.” I point toward the podium. “The bald guy. That’s Huey Seele.”
“Really? How can you see that far?” Squinting, she evidently sees that I’m right. It’s the famous wulf-rights guy, in person.
The cop who got the wulf-police crowd cheering hands the megaphone to Seele. “Hello, gentlemen…and ladies. Some of you may have heard of me. I’m—” But the crowd of cops goes nuts before he can say his name. “It’s good to see a turnout like this. Wulves give so much to society but get so little in return.” He waits for the cheering to settle. “You men and women in blue are another example of how wulves are treated as second-class citizens in our country. From birth, our government marks us as different, actually tattoos us, so everyone who sees us knows: ‘That’s a wulf. I’ll keep my distance.’ Or ‘I can offer this one a lower salary.’ Or ‘I don’t want to get involved with him.’ We’re branded. Like criminals. Like animals.”
His bald head is shiny with sweat. Even from here I can see he’s gripping the microphone so tightly his knuckles are white. “Land of the Free, huh? Sure, except for us during the full moon, when it’s the Land of Imprisonment! Is that what America is about?” More crowd reaction. “Is that the American way? Lock up innocent citizens? Why should we let the human and vampyre fat cats in Washington make ‘full’ and ‘moon’ into four-letter words for us? Along with other four-letter words, like ‘hate’ and ‘poor’ and ‘bias.’ Well, let me tell you something. ‘Wulf’ may have four letters, but it is not a dirty word!”
Loud cheers echo between the marble buildings around the park.
“You may be wondering why we’re holding this rally now, at this early hour, under this waxing gibbous moon. It’s because we are gathering before the light of a new day. A new day when wulves have rights like everyone else. And we will meet that new day together, as one people, victorious.”
Lots of shouting. Seele bellows into the megaphone. “Who are you? Come on, I want to know. Are you animals?”
“No!”
“Are you people?”
“Yes!”
“I can’t hear you. Let’s go, now. You know what I want to hear!” He shouts the chant we’ve all heard him lead on TV news reports. “We are wulves and we’ve got pride. We won’t let our rights be denied!” By the third repetition, the gathered cops join in. He alternates it with his other catchphrase: “You. Can’t. Kill our hopes. Power to the lycanthropes!”
The chanting echoes in the square, the sound reverberating off the buildings. This is when he usually gets arrested.
But these cops are wulves. Who’s going to arrest him?
Claire and I leave the square and take a left onto Brookline Street.
“Since when are you into politics?” she asks.
“I just wanted to hear what he had to say. It’s important.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t. It’s just the first time I’ve seen you pay any attention to wulf-rights stuff.”
“Are you saying that I only care because it affects me now?” Wow, that came out a lot sharper than I meant it to. Claire stops walking and gives me a dirty look. Which is totally justified. I say, “Well, you know what? Even if you didn’t mean that, it’s true. I should have cared more about this a long time ago.”
She starts walking again. “Hey. Better late than never.”
“I guess.”
We walk a block without talking. The rally is still going on with Huey Seele shouting through the megaphone, followed by rousing shouts from the cops. The sound barrels down the streets, echoing off the expensive Sol-Blok-glass-covered buildings. Not one vamp, male or female, who’s walking by takes a look down the street to see what the noise is all about. Being so used to wulf public protests—on TV, on the news, in the paper, in public—most vamps don’t even hear them anymore.
Claire looks back toward the rally for a second, then shakes her head. “It’s so sad,” she says.
“That wulves don’t have the same rights as anyone else?”
“Well, yeah, that. But also that they really believe they’ll ever get those rights.”
“You don’t think they should?”
“Easy, pal. Of course I think they should. But it’s never going to happen. And I think it’s sad.”
I don’t say anything. She’s right.
Of course, the rumored ticket scalper is nowhere to be found at the Chill Grill. Since we’re already here, we decide to get something to eat. We go inside and sit in a booth.
“I’m so pissed,” Claire says. “I really wanted to see that concert.”
“Believe me, not getting those tickets is the best way for this to go. Now I can still be your friend.”
“What a relief. I’d rather go to the concert.”
“Hey, there. What can I get you?” asks the waitress. She’s human, with red hair, maybe in her early twenties. She’s very good-looking.
“Hi,” I say. I nod to Claire to order for herself.
“Um, you go first,” she says.
“I’ll just have a grilled cheese.”
“Sounds good. To drink? SynHeme?”
“Sure. Thanks,” I say automatically. It still makes me sick to my stomach, but the waitress might take notice of a vamp who didn’t want SynHeme.
“And you, hon?” she says. When Claire glances up to give her order, she sits up straighter. Taking in the waitress, Claire says, “Uh…” at least three times. She starts blinking, like she’s communicating in Morse code and can’t stop. I’m afraid she’s going to have a fit.
The waitress smiles and dips her head a little, keeping her eyes locked on Claire’s.
“What can I get for you?” the waitress asks again.
“Oh, just whatever he’s having.”
“Grilled cheese and SynHeme?”
“Fine. Oh, diet SynHeme. Please.”
“Sure thing. Not that you need diet.”
Claire watches the waitress take the menus and walk away. Her cheeks are red.
“Looks like someone got swept off her feet,” I say.
Claire shakes her head and shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Now she’s all embarrassed, and I wasn’t even trying to tease her. “Well, anyway, for the record, I think she’s hot, too.”
“Whatever,” Claire says. “I miss Victoria. I mean, she was my first real…you know, serious thing. And I thought it was going so great.” She looks out the window into the late-night darkness.
“I know it sounds like a cliché, but it really is her loss.” I peel the paper sleeve off the straw and tear it into tiny strips, seeing how long I can get them before they rip. I know how she feels. Boy, do I. And I’m thinking a little about that rally and Huey Seele. We are wulves and we’ve got pride, he said.
“Claire, are you, like, cool with the way you are?”
“The way I am what?”
“You know what I’m asking.” I lay each little paper strip on the table, trying to make them perfectly parallel. “I mean, not this min
ute—I know you feel rotten right now—but usually. Do you…do you like being the way you are?”
“I don’t know. Kind of. I’m still getting used to the idea, I guess.”
“When did you know?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Was it the locker room thing?”
She doesn’t react. I know it’s a sensitive subject, and we’ve never actually talked about it.
“The locker room thing wasn’t what everybody thought,” she says. “It was before Gym, and I was thinking about that song ‘Drone’? I forgot the lyrics, and I was just sitting on the bench, you know, in my underwear, kind of spacing out and trying to remember. And, yes, Patti Chapman was standing there in front of me. And, yes, she was wearing just a thong, and, yes, she’s totally hot. But I wasn’t staring at her.”
I don’t say anything.
“Then the rumor started, and nobody would talk to me, and they called me lesbo and all that. The thing is, even though the story wasn’t true, I guess that’s when I started thinking about it in a serious way. And the more I thought about it, the more I started to realize. I mean, I can see when a guy is good-looking, but I was never attracted to them. All the people I had real crushes on were girls. So I guess that means what it means.”
“So, when you first figured that out, were you like, Okay, I guess that’s what I am? Were you totally fine about it?”
“No. I’m still not sure how I felt, or how I feel now. It’s just who I am. I mean, what’s the use of fighting it?”
The waitress comes with our food. “Hey, guys,” she says. “I put a rush on it. Sunrise is in forty minutes, in case you need to travel to get home.”
We thank her, and Claire starts eating. I open my SynHeme but don’t drink.
“Why did you suddenly want to know about that?” Claire asks. “You never asked before.”
I run my fingers through my hair. It’s getting longer, starting to cover the tops of my ears, the way Dad said it would. “I don’t know. I’m thinking about a lot of things these days.”
She peels open her grilled cheese, then lets the top drop back. She looks at it for half a minute, takes a bite, and swallows. “How much time left?”
