This Is Not a Werewolf Story

by Sandra Evans

  We don’t speak, of course not, don’t be silly. We have calls that mean only true things. Not like words.

  I have one that means Where are you?

  She has one that means I’m waiting right here.

  We have ones that mean Watch out and There’s a rabbit nearby, don’t look but he’s there in the blackberry leaves and I’m hungry and I’m tired and The sun feels good and This water is cold and fresh and the one I hate that means It’s time for us to say good-bye.

  On Sunday mornings I become a boy again. I forget a lot of what happens when I’m in my wolf skin. But I remember enough.

  When I’m tired I sleep, curled into her flank, and she watches over me, making soft music in her throat.

  She’s my wolf mother. She’s my mother.

  She followed me here all those years ago. She’s been waiting for me to find a way to be with her. The lights in the woods told her. White Deer helped her. Those things I know because those are the things she doesn’t need words to tell me. The important things, right? The things that matter.

  I don’t know why the change happened to her in the first place, or why she can’t change back and be a human during the week like me. Maybe she forgot the recipe. It’s why I’m always so careful to do everything the same way every single time. It’s like with bread. If you forget the yeast, then the dough won’t rise. Only with magic, when the recipe is wrong, what you get is a lot worse than crackers instead of bread.

  And now that Dean Swift has helped me get rid of Tuffman, I’m going to go meet her tonight.

  Chapter 9

  WHERE RAUL LEARNS THAT SOMETHING HAPPENED IN THE WOODS

  On Sunday my wolf mother and I return to the lighthouse. I’m always sad on Sundays. But this Sunday I’m worried, too. Something bad happened to her last week. When she met me Friday she had a deep scrape about eight inches long slicing down her left side. It was red and puffy. I could tell it had bled a lot.

  There’s nothing big enough in White Deer Woods to hurt her like that.

  It has to be the new housing development. Because of it, she won’t go as far north as she used to. White Wolf must be moving into another predator’s territory. Maybe she’s going south toward the fort to find food. But it can’t be the coyote. A coyote would take one look at White Wolf and run off with flat ears and its tail squished up against its belly.

  Something else is out there. I hope she stays out of its way this week.

  A rabbit sits in the tall grass. We smell it before we see it. Twice its nose flutters open and shut.

  White Wolf swings her head to look at me. Go on. Get it.

  There’s a reason people say “quick like a bunny.” I charge into the underbrush. The smell of the rabbit is to my wolf nose what a paved road is to a boy’s eyes. A path.

  Rabbit scrambles under a fallen log and I leap over it. The air lifts me and for a minute I fly. I can’t see anything but the chase. Boulder, ditch, log, thorn bush—my wolf body leaps and scampers and stretches and tumbles.

  Rabbit turns. He’s heading toward his burrow.

  Bad idea, bunny.

  The scent path opens up in front of us now. It’s like he turned on headlights. He’s been back and forth, in and out of that burrow so many times I can smell where he is going.

  I corner him against a rock. Snap. I’m quick. Rabbit felt nothing. I promise.

  I carry it back to her by the nape of its neck.

  She makes a low growl. Eat, Raul, eat. She used to say that to me in a funny accent. It must be a line from an old movie she liked. I bet by now we would have watched it together.

  I push the rabbit toward her. I’m returning to the world of refrigerators. She’s recovering from an injury.

  She growls, but I nose the meat toward her again. I look at her, my neck straight, and my eyes speak to her. You eat. You get strong.

  She puts her nose against mine.

  Wolf kiss.

  The bunny chase has brought us to the meadow where the wind has shoved back the trees. Every Sunday White Wolf leads me back to the lighthouse. There’s a small growl that comes with a little nip that she only makes at the edge of the woods, and it means Go now and be the boy you are.

  Her tail drops. She’s sad to see me leave.

  But there’s more to it. White Wolf has regrets. I think she’s sorry that we have to meet the way we do.

  I lope toward the lighthouse.

  White Wolf settles down under a big cedar and rests her head on her paws. The bunny is next to her. She better eat it.

  My clothes are in the stove where I left them. As I put them on, I lose my wolf face and my wolf ways. When I walk out of the lighthouse, I’m no longer my second self, I’m no longer wolf me. I’m Raul, and the White Wolf who loves me is gone.

  I head back toward the school. The sky is gray. A mist creeps up over the cliff, spreading a wet and glaring light into the woods.

  The dean will be back by now, turning on the heat and the lights, making coffee and setting out cookies for the parents who take the time to come in. Some of the kids, like Mary Anne, just jump out of the car. Her parents don’t even turn the engine off. They hit a button that makes the trunk pop open so that she can pull out her bags.

  Dean Swift always runs down to help kids whose parents do this. He puts his arm around the boy or girl and takes the bag.

  Sometimes I see Dean Swift look after the parents’ car as it drives away, and his face looks like my insides feel—angry and sort of like he can’t believe it. What kind of grown-up is too busy to carry his kid’s suitcase up the stairs?

  Thinking of the dean makes me feel better about going back. It’ll be good to see Sparrow and hear about this weekend’s disgusting casserole. His grandma throws everything she didn’t eat that week into a pot for Sunday lunch—cottage cheese, refried beans, creamed spinach, spaghetti, fish sticks—if it’s in her fridge Sunday morning, it’s on Sparrow’s plate at noon. She calls it Dutch soup, but me and Sparrow and some of the other kids like to make up different names for it. I draw pictures until someone guesses the name. So far we have barf bowl (Sparrow’s), rat bath soup (mine), fungus ’n’ feces (mine), poo punch (Sparrow’s), dog drool dumplings (Dean Swift’s), calamity casserole (Mary Anne’s), and the newest one, stomach acid stew (Vincent’s).

  Maybe Mean Jack got to know Gollum. Do they pump your stomach for a mildly venomous snake bite? I’ll ask the dean.

  Maybe Vincent pranked his stepfather so good that he moved back out.

  And maybe at dinner tonight Mary Anne will sit next to me at the counter.

  I have a great idea. If I get there in time for drop-off, I can be the one to help her with her bag when her parents drive up. Dean Swift should be pretty easy to outrun.

  Then I do what I do every Sunday when I’m halfway to the lake. I sniff until I find the stinkiest stick on the forest floor. It’ll keep Bobo busy all week long.

  I can tell by where the sun is in the sky that I’m earlier than usual, so I head toward the lake. I’m laughing over two new ones I thought up—scab surprise and maggot meatloaf.

  But when the path opens out to the lake, I stop laughing pretty quick.

  Tuffman is standing in front of the straw man.

  “Was this your idea?”

  I look at him. I remember the crazy idea I had about him on Friday afternoon—that he was one of my kind. I must be losing my marbles, as my dad would say. I think White Deer calls to people who need a second self because their first self has lost something so big it’s not whole anymore.

  Tuffman isn’t the type who loses anything.

  “You better talk to me, weirdo. I’m not playing games.” He yanks the straw man off the tree. The heavy-duty ropes I used to tie it to the trunk snap like old rubber bands.

  I can’t believe it. The kids call me freaky strong, but the only word for Tuffman-strong is superhuman.

  “You think it’s funny to steal a man’s clothes?” He strips the straw man.

&nbs
p; The blood pumps in my neck. I want to run.

  “This shirt means something,” he says. “It means I’m a champion.” He’s ripping the straw man up as he talks. “Kids think they’re the only ones with dreams. Grown-ups have dreams too. Dreams that die just like yours will unless you listen up and listen good.”

  He unzips his running jacket. He’s not wearing a shirt underneath. The skin of his chest is smooth and tan and muscles bump and bulge. He turns around and points to a scar on his back. It’s white and raised. It looks like he has two spines, almost.

  “That’s what happened to my dream. I was running in the woods one day, just like you.” He steps toward me. “One wrong move, that’s all it took.” He tilts his head and I see his eyes glow. “They told me I’d never walk again. One wrong move in the woods, Raul, and everything changed. And now I’m a joke to you, huh?”

  I shake my head. Nothing about Tuffman makes me want to laugh. The scar is awful, like a thick seam of doubled-over skin.

  “Bet you think that story has nothing to do with you. It has everything to do with you. You think you get to choose what happens next.” He steps toward me again. “Well, you don’t. Life happens to you.”

  He’s about three feet away. I can sense he’s about to grab me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight out.

  “Listen, Raul,” he says. His eyes fix on me. I can’t move.

  “Here’s the moral to the story. Not just my story. Your story too. I was like you. I wasn’t alone in the woods that day either. I was with a friend, Raul. More than a friend. She was family. I loved her like a little sister. She did that to me.” He twists around again to show me the scar.

  My mouth pops open. The scar has changed color. The muscles in his back twitch, and for a second I think it’s a bloodred snake slithering along his spine.

  “She broke my back. Maybe I had it coming. I’m the one that taught her to fight, that woke up the predator in her. I never thought she’d turn on me. I hate her sometimes, but I shouldn’t. It’s natural law. The strongest one wins. That day, she won.”

  He zips up his jacket.

  “What are you doing out here, anyway? Is this your territory?” He smiles a little, like he’s teasing. But his eyes glow like he’s not. He shifts.

  I imagine the snake of a scar, twisting red with his every move. I remember the wounds in his neck that Mean Jack pointed out. My skin crawls. Everything about him is awful.

  “Raul?” He says my name again.

  I know better than to look in his eyes.

  I run.

  My second self is still awake. After the first step I go down on all fours and race wolf-style off the path and through the underbrush.

  I hear Tuffman shout and curse, crashing down the path behind me. I barely have a head start, but I know these woods better than he does, and he only has two legs. I have four. I just have to make it to the road. It’s drop-off day. Parents will be coming soon, right? Tuffman wouldn’t want them to see him force-feeding me that bird’s-nest toupee.

  When I get to the road, I stand upright like a boy. The woods behind me are quiet, but I know he’s in there, breathing hard and watching.

  I brush my hands off on my jeans. I’m shaking. It’s not just fear and adrenaline. It’s shame. Tuffman saw me run on all fours like a wolf wearing the skin of a boy. It’s like he saw me naked.

  But that was a choice. I chose to run like a wolf.

  I book it up the hill.

  Please let Dean Swift be there. Please let the doors be unlocked.

  I try the handle of the front door. I sigh with relief as it turns.

  Bobo comes up and puts her nose in my pocket. Give me the stinky stick. Here’s a conversation I understand. I give her the stick. She shoves her smooth head into my leg for a second. Thank you.

  Welcome back to the world of doggy doors, kibble, and leashes. Where dogs are dogs and humans are humans.

  I lie down on the blue sofa in the parlor. I feel like the straw man—like everything that holds me up snapped, and the stuffing got ripped out of me.

  “What are you, sick?” a voice asks.

  I scream a roller-coaster scream. “Eeeeek!”

  Mary Anne is standing over me. She jumps when I scream and drops her notebook. I sit up and put my head in my hands. She sits down next to me.

  “Sorry, Raul, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she says in a very kind voice. Then she starts to giggle. “That was funny, though.”

  It makes me laugh too. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. Maybe when Little John filled Mean Jack’s shoes with crabs that had washed up dead on the beach. Or when Tuffman was showing us the proper form for sit-ups (NO LIFTING YOUR BUTTS OFF THE FLOOR, YOU WEENIES), and he farted.

  This is better, because there’s no ghastly odor. Mary Anne smells like honey and daffodils. Trust me. If you had a wolf nose you’d know what a daffodil smells like, and it smells like it looks—yellow and frilly. Did you notice daffodils are always, always nodding yes at you? Remember that. Whenever you have a day where everyone is saying no to you, just find a daffodil. It will say yes.

  Man. This is what Mary Anne does to me. Flowers and giggles. I make myself sick.

  I stop laughing and look at her. Why is she here so early?

  She reads my face. “My mom has to fly to Chicago tonight, so she dropped me off early. I got here before Dean Swift did.” She frowns and then smiles quick to hide it.

  I know how that feels. I wonder how long she sat on the front steps with her suitcase, waiting in the fog. No wolf coat to keep her warm. I pat her on the shoulder.

  “No big deal. I’m working on a novel,” she says. “I have the setting—Norway. And the villain—a sorcerer named Rodrigo who has a secret formula that will turn the world into a huge ocean. I have a heroine, a mermaid whose parents work for Rodrigo. But I need a hero.”

  She looks at me for a long time. Her eyes get very small like she’s thinking hard.

  “You could be a hero,” she says slowly.

  I look down at my hands. I got a few cuts during that tussle with the rabbit. Do not, I repeat, do not get the wrong end of a rabbit that doesn’t want to be eaten.

  Mary Anne’s words make me feel so good it’s embarrassing. I want to float away and bury my head under a pile of blankets at the same time.

  Then I hear Mary Anne sigh. “No,” she says in her serious voice, “no, the hero needs to be more . . . hmm.” She pauses, scratching her chin. “More what, exactly? What is the word I am looking for?”

  I feel a little irritated. I watch her from the corner of my eye. Just because I don’t talk much doesn’t mean I can’t hear.

  “More heroic,” she says finally. “You’ll make a fine helper for the mermaid. But the hero needs to be more . . . There’s only the one word for it, isn’t there?”

  I get up from the couch and head up to the bathroom to take a shower.

  What a day. Five minutes of conversation with Tuffman and I felt like I’d been doing sudoku for three hours straight. Five minutes of conversation with Mary Anne and I went from king of the world to feeling like a worm a bird pecked in half and then left because it didn’t taste good enough.

  There’s been too much talking already today, and I haven’t even said a word.

  Chapter 10

  A JOKE WITH NO PUNCH LINE: ONE DAY THIS PREDATOR WALKED INTO A FOREST . . .

  Bad news at dinner Sunday night.

  “Children.” Dean Swift comes into the dining hall to make an announcement. “Listen! There is no call for panic, but it appears that a cougar has taken up residence near Fort Casey. Two guards and three tourists have described hearing the cry of a cougar while walking in the park at dusk.” The dean clears his throat. He throws his head back and opens his mouth and makes a screech like a cat screaming and a dog snarling and a ghost sobbing.

  The sound makes cold sharp fingernails walk up my spine.

  But Mean Jack has to make a joke. “Was that a wi
ldebeest burp, sir?”

  Dean Swift doesn’t even notice the Cubs laughing. “No, it’s a cougar, Mean Jack, uh, I mean Jack,” he answers, and then his face gets red and his eyes bulge because he said “mean Jack” twice now instead of once. “Scratch marks have been found about nine feet up on the trunks of several trees near the road to our school. This tells us it is a large cougar, and that it is actively roaming our grounds. Chances are good that it will move on shortly. But until it does, we must take precautions when we leave the building.”

  A cougar? The word gives me a strange feeling. It’s like an itch in my brain I can’t scratch. After a minute I realize it has to do with what happened in the woods this weekend. Sometimes what happens when I wear my wolf skin is hard to remember when I’m a boy.

  My mind scratches around, and then Vincent sits down next to me.

  “Don’t look at me,” he warns. “I’ll die laughing if you look at me.”

  I stare straight out the window at the water.

  “So I hid behind the bathroom door,” Vincent says. “I put on the zombie mask I told you about. My stepfather was watching the game, and he drinks a lot of beer when he watches a game, right? So I knew he’d have to go to the bathroom, right?”

  I look at him with a face that says, Yeah, yeah, you told me all this on Friday. There’s a little piece of wolf worry left dangling in my head, and I’m not gonna feel like joking around until I rip it off.

  “Okay, right. I told you that.” He starts to giggle. “So look out the window, okay? I can’t tell it without laughing if you look at me.”

  By now all the weirdos are leaning across to listen, and a couple of the kids from nearby tables have come over.

  “So he comes into the bathroom, and he’s unzipping his pants, and boom! I jump out at him and he screams.” Vincent can hardly talk, he’s laughing so much. “He screamed like a wee little girl, and then he peed his pants.”