by Tamar Sloan
I shrug; I’ve never understood my mother. I grab my bag and head out to the car. To school. To Noah.
As I pull into the school parking lot, the hastily eaten cereal does a flip flop in my stomach. Will I see Noah before first period? Or will I have to wait until lunch? The bright excitement dims a little now that I’m here, uncertainty casting its gloom. What do you say to a guy you just found out is a Werewolf? Anxiety starts to gnaw at the edges of my stomach.
It takes a great big bite when I see the Phelan truck pull in two spaces down from me. Noah is driving, with Mitch beside him. I hover by my car as I watch them climb out. Mitch yawns and scratches his head, saying something to Noah. Noah grins, and jumps out, a spring in his step. Figuring I can’t stand here like an awkward giraffe, I start to walk over.
Noah seems to know exactly where I am, because he turns and starts striding toward me. When his gaze settle on mine they light up. I feel a corresponding fireworks display ignite. It stops me dead in my tracks. Noah keeps coming.
In a few short steps, he’s in front of me, eyes alive with something I can’t decipher. Searching mine, questioning. The nervousness melts away.
I smile. “Good morning.”
And he grins back. “Yes, it is.”
I consider staying here indefinitely. Smiling. Staring. Not a fear in the world. Noah seems content to spend forever with me, here in the school parking lot.
“Ahem.” It’s with great effort that I haul my gaze away from those summer-sky pools.
Mitch has come up to stand beside Noah. “Morning, Mitch.”
He yawns again. “Hi, Eden.”
“You look tired.”
“Yeah, a bit more sleep would have been nice.” He slaps Noah on the back. “Someone came home last night with news.” His blue eyes return to me.
“Yeah.” I shift my weight to the side, Mitch’s cool welcome at his house flashing through my mind. Who knows what he thinks of me now.
“The talks went way into the night.”
“Oh.”
“And then someone got me up at the crack of dawn. Like there was some big rush to get to school. I only got one bowl of cereal for breakfast.”
A splash of pleasure flows over me, and my eyes return to Noah. He’s smiling, but a tinge of pink has colored his cheeks. “It wasn’t that early, drama queen.” He shoves Mitch. “And you forgot the four pieces of toast.”
Mitch turns, a big happy smile on his face. I shift a little awkwardly. The next thing I know I’m engulfed in a hug, my chin over his shoulder. I pat his back a little awkwardly. I’m not really sure what to do with a hug.
As quickly as it started, he pulls back, still smiling. “It was good news. Really good news.”
I try to smile, but an uncomfortable lump has lodged in my chest, throat, and stomach.
Tara skips up behind Mitch and reaching up on tippy-toes, puts her hands over his eyes. “Guess who?”
“Hmmm.” His hands reach back to glide up and down her arms. “Obviously someone gorgeous.”
“Smart boy.”
His hands flutter across her fingers. “And a talented artist.”
Tara giggles. “Correct.”
Mitch’s hands dart behind him. “And ticklish!” Tara hunches over with a squeal. Mitch spins and continues his merciless torture. Tara dissolves in peals of laughter. I step up beside Noah, and we both smile at their antics.
“He seems to have woken up now,” Noah comments.
With a playful shove, Tara pushes Mitch away. She turns to me. “Hi, Eden.”
“Hey.” I feel a little awkward, not knowing if Tara knows that I know.
Tara claps her hands. “This is going to be awesome. It will be nice to have a friend on the inside.” She tilts her head toward Noah and Mitch. “That isn’t a Phelan or a Channon.”
“A mere human.”
“There’s nothing mere about you.”
“Agreed.” This comes from Noah, and I blush.
“Come on, Tara, let’s head up.” Mitch takes Tara’s hand and they start walking toward the school.
Noah holds out his hand. “Ready?”
I glance down at the palm waiting for me. Am I? I try to take a deep breath, without expanding my ribcage so it’s not too obvious. It doesn’t work. All it does is hit my tight chest and shoot back out in a rush. But I know I want to take that hand. The one that is patiently waiting.
I move my hand forward, and glide my fingers over his palm before wrapping them around. As our palms connect, fitting together like two halves of a whole, that delectable warmth starts spreading. It sprints up my arm, into my chest, squeezing my heart. Noah catches his breath, and my gaze shoots up. He’s looking at me, a little wide-eyed.
As we walk toward the front doors of the school, I wonder if this feeling will ever get old. I hope not. I hope Noah stays around long enough for me to find out.
Mitch and Tara walk on ahead, hands also clasped, heads close together as they talk. No one pays them any attention. Noah and I are not afforded the same anonymity. We’re surrounded by surreptitious glances, followed by the odd raised eyebrow when they register the clasped hand surrounding mine. Noah appears oblivious, smiling broadly, saying “hi” to those he walks past. I don’t know if I should hunch my shoulders or puff my chest out in pride. I opt for pretending I don’t notice.
“So, psych first?”
“Yep, you?”
“Gothic lit.”
At the other end of the school. “Okay.” I figure he’ll drop me off at our lockers, but he waits for me to get my stuff, before grabbing my hand again and heading to my classroom.
Noah cocks his head. “Why so quiet?”
I consider giving him some lame lie, but I’ve already figured out nothing much gets past Noah. And although it makes me feel vulnerable, I would prefer to be honest.
“Everyone is staring. Because of this.” I glance down at our held hands and Noah’s fingers tighten. It’s unnecessary, because although the staring makes me uncomfortable, I don’t intend on letting go.
“That’s because of me.”
“You?” I say incredulously. Can’t he see people are wondering what in the world he’s doing with someone like me?
“Yeah. They haven’t seen me with a girlfriend before.”
Pleasure at the word ‘girlfriend’ washes over me. I have to make a conscious effort to analyze why his statement confuses me. “They haven’t?”
Noah rubs the back of his head with his free hand. “Yeah. We don’t usually date, you know…” His voice drops to a whisper. “…you guys.”
Humans? “But you weren’t…until a little while ago.” Like, yesterday.
He shrugs. “Wasn’t interested back then.”
I frown. “But now you’re a…”
“This is different.” He scowls, and his hand tightens mine in a squeeze. Sparks of warmth shoot up my arm, and I instinctively grip back.
Noah’s grin is back. “Maybe they all thought I was gay.”
I snort. Unlikely. Or if they did, the girls would have all worn black in mourning.
We arrive at my classroom, and we both stop. We stand there, as if neither of us wants to let go.
“Hi, Eden.” Brandon comes up behind me. His eyes inevitably slide down, as everyone else’s have, to register my hand in Noah’s. His smile dips a little. “Hey, Noah.” Noah nods, giving Brandon a small smile.
I pretend everything is normal. “Hi Brandon. See you in there.”
Noah watches Brandon go in. “He’s in your group?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Just curious. I’ll see you at lunch?”
“Sure.”
I release Noah’s hand, my fingers tingling as they fall through the air to rest at my side. I lean against the doorjamb, my body a little limp. I admire those broad shoulders and long lean legs as he walks away. After a few steps, Noah turns to give me a wave. I smile, shaking my head as I enter the classroom.
For all intents
and purposes, just another day.
But everything is different.
I sit at my desk with my allocated group, and Mrs. Dougal begins outlining how humans respond to emotional stimulus. I reflect back to yesterday, when a giant, white wolf changed before my eyes. My mind a whirl of denial, disbelief, shock. Before coming back to denial. I suspect I stood there, eyes wide, mouth slack, hands gripped with uncertainty. I remember the desire to run coming up against concern for an unconscious Noah. It all fits neatly onto the flow chart she’s projected on the screen.
The minute Mrs. Dougal instructs us to work on the assigned task, Brandon leans forward on his elbows. “So, I didn’t know you and Noah were an item.” Across from me I can almost see Bianca’s ears twitching, her head down as she pretends to write notes.
I fiddle with my pen, blushing. “It’s a fairly recent thing.”
Bianca ditches feigning disinterest, and turns toward us. “Kind of quick, isn’t it?”
I blink. “Yes, I guess it is.” In my surprise, the truth is all that I have to respond with.
Brandon frowns at Bianca. He turns back to me, and his dimples appear again. “Phelan is a smart guy.”
I blush again, with a little more blaze, and muster up a small smile. It’s sweet that he would say something like that just to get Bianca off my back. “Thanks.”
Bianca flicks her hair over her shoulder, returning to her notes. She doesn’t say anything for the remainder of the lesson.
At the end of the lesson, I meet Tara in the hallway, picking up the rhythm we’ve established over the weeks as we head to math. I notice Phoebe as we’re about to head in and wave. She smiles back as she jogs to whatever class she doesn’t want to be late for.
In math we take our back table and wait for Mr. Rosenberg to hand out today’s sheets. I only had to be in his class three times to discover the routine. It’s as predictable and unchanging as times tables. Hand out worksheets, circle the room as students work, whole class discussion in the last seven minutes—not five, not ten, but seven. And as long as you look like you know what you’re doing, he leaves you alone.
More algebra greets me from the white piece of paper. The letters and numbers looking like they cohabit happily, despite their differences. Like every other math lesson, we spend a significant part of the lesson scrawling through our books, rubbing out mistakes. We ask each other questions, point out where we went wrong, and start all over again. It’s at the end of the lesson that the ordinary bubble bursts.
Tara leans over, whispering. “Sorry I couldn’t make the study sesh.” She puts so much innuendo into the word ‘study sesh’, I wonder why she didn’t use her fingers as bunny ears to emphasize it.
Don’t blush. Don’t blush. “That’s cool. We finished the presentation.”
“Great. And?”
“We present it next week.”
Tara sighs. “And?”
I duck my head. “I stayed for dinner.”
“I heard.” So Mitch has already filled her in.
“It was really sweet of Beth to cook me eggplant.”
Tara frowns, erasing the last line she wrote. “Although I’ve read that charcoal is carcinogenic.”
I smile. “Yes, it was…well done.”
Tara looks up from the paper before her, her hazel eyes studying mine. “Do you like him?”
I stare at Tara. Can I say it out loud?
But I don’t have to say a word; Tara reads between the lines of my mute response. “I knew it! You could power Texas with the electricity that crackles between you two.”
Mr. Rosenberg claps his hands, saving me from responding. He pushes his glasses up when the jolt makes them slip down. “Okay, class, let’s review the sheet.” I glance at the clock. Yep, seven minutes.
Afterwards we head for the art room. I take my usual seat by the window as Tara heads over to her easel. The painting looked perfect to me two weeks ago, but she always finds some small touch-up that needs tweaking.
She picks up her paintbrush. “So, how many questions do you have?”
“I lost count at a gazillion.”
“What do you want to know?”
My hands go out wide. “Everything, I don’t even know where to start.” And I realize I don’t know anything about Werewolves. I might have to spend some time on Google…
“I wouldn’t bother with Google. You’ll just end up deciding whether you’re on Team Edward or Team Jacob.”
Scratch that then.
“There are two packs in this area, covering most of the state. Adam is the Phelan Alpha, my dad is the Channon Alpha. Both are old, and fairly big.” I wonder if that corresponds to nature—the bigger the pack, the more powerful.
“And there are a heap of myths. The whole dramatic clothes tearing Hollywood images? Doesn’t happen. It’s not really helpful to be left naked in the middle of a forest.”
I blush as I recollect the flash of skin that’s branded in my mind.
“Clothes have always been part of shifting, as long as they’re touching our body, they come along for the ride. And the full moon thing? Certainly part of our traditions, but not necessary for shifting.”
“Anything else?”
Tara taps the end of her paintbrush against her lips. “The silver bullet—hogwash. Any old bullet would do.”
Right. Before I can change my mind, I ask the most pressing question, the one that is clamoring the loudest. “Why didn’t Noah change?”
Tara pauses in her dabbing, and her hand drops to rest on the easel. “No one knows. He spent his whole life preparing to be Alpha. And then…nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“We shift for the first time at sixteen. They all went to the Glade. Mitch turned. Noah didn’t.”
I try to imagine what that must have been like. Mitch going through the pain of the first change. I remember Noah’s confusion, his pale face, his slow, achy movements. It didn’t look pleasant, or easy. But then Noah, standing there. Waiting as the minutes dragged out. Waiting.
“He must have been devastated.”
Tara’s shoulders drop a little; her eyes unfocus out the window. “So was Mitch. And Adam and Beth.” I picture the beautiful family I met, confused, grieving. It’s a sad image.
I shake off the melancholy. “So, you guys grew up together?”
“Yeah, we’ve been hanging out since diapers.” I feel a pang of envy that she has been in one place long enough to grow those roots. “I spent more time with Mitch though. Some days Noah had alpha training with his dad.”
“And you and Mitch…?” I’m not sure what it would be called—dating?
Tara goes all dreamy on me. “Yeah, we were friends through childhood, and it grew from there.”
“You two have something really special.”
Tara shrugs. “I love him.” Envy twinges again—Tara’s ability to be so honest and open about her feelings. Her faith that the universe will work out the way she plans. That I would like.
“We’re bonding at the end of the year.”
“Bonding?”
“Weres mate relatively early, and for life.”
“Like wolves.” I say the words quietly, under my breath.
But Tara hears me anyway. “That’s it.”
I stare down at my muesli bar. So much to digest, and I’m not talking about the oats.
“Sorry I couldn’t make it, to the study sesh.”
“That’s okay.”
“My dad phoned. And when an Alpha asks, you obey.” Her shoulders droop a little. “Especially when that Alpha is my dad.”
I nod, wondering what it is she’s trying to tell me.
She shakes her head, and the Tara smile is back. “Anyway, I owe you some popcorn.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“What about Wednesday?”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Sure.”
She gives me a mischievous grin. “At yours?”
“Mine?” My eyebrows are sitting somewhere
in the stratosphere.
“Yeah. Oh, is that a problem? I keep meaning to install a filter between my brain and my mouth.”
“No, no. It sounds like a great idea. I’ll have the microwave ready.”
Tara beams. “Excellent.” Something in the painting grabs her eye, and she dabs her paintbrush, eyes squinting. “We’ll tell the guys at lunch.”
Oh. Mitch too. And Noah.
Anticipation thrums through my veins. More time with Noah.
I look up at Tara. “Yes, I like him.” More than is safe.
Tara grins. “I know.”
The ringing of the bell pierces through the room.
“Fudge berries! And I’m late again.” She picks up her painting supplies and rushes over to the sink.
As I always do, I offer Tara a hand, but she shoos me off to next period.
Biology.
I walk quickly down the hallway. It could probably be considered more of a skip, really. Another glaring difference from previous weeks. I haven’t allowed myself to feel the tingling excitement of seeing Noah, to revel in the close proximity, to look into those beautiful blue eyes for more than a safe second. To allow myself to feel.
I’m there before him, and take my usual seat. I pull out my books, and place them on the bench. Now what? I open my textbook; the familiar pages I’ve studied in minute detail over the past weeks look up at me. I start to get nervous. I fiddle with my pen and turn pages when I already know what the next one will say.
I sense something, and look up. He’s walking toward me, a wide grin splitting his face. My breath congeals in my lungs. It’s as if Father Time has realized I can now look uninterrupted, and the seconds slow down. I take in the tousled hair—darker strands highlighted with blonde. The sparkling blue eyes framed by sculpted features. The soft grey shirt hanging on broad shoulders, the worn material contouring over ridged muscles. The lean width spearing down to narrow hips encased in denim. I feel my face heat; I think a vegetarian just made a meal of a hot red-blooded guy.
“Hey.” Noah’s eyes are scanning, roaming my face. My cheeks heat up a few more degrees.
