Never Cry Werewolf

by Heather Davis

  “I need to be able to trust you again. Some time apart might be good.” Dad looked down at the table, like he was embarrassed to regurgitate Priscilla’s fake reason. “A camp like this might help teach you some life skills, give you some perspective.”

  “Thanks. It really feels good to have your own dad throw you to the wolves,” I said, in total disbelief that he was selling me out.

  Dad held my gaze for a moment, looking like he wanted to say something. I hoped he was going to tell me this was all a bad idea and just to forget it. But he didn’t. He gazed at me in a sad, tired way—a way that seemed to say he didn’t know what to do with me. It hurt to see that in his eyes.

  I picked up one of the brochures, just so I didn’t have to face him.

  “Maybe it could be fun,” he said.

  Eww. The kids on the Camp Sweetwater brochure made me cringe. They looked like they were being held at gunpoint and forced to smile.

  But Dad didn’t seem bothered. “‘Nestled in the majestic mountains of western Montana, Camp Sweetwater is the most effective remote teen therapy facility in the nation.’ You love the mountains. It’d be beautiful up there,” he said, with what I hoped was fake enthusiasm.

  I paged through a few more brochures, and then finally I held up the Red Canyon brochure. “Priscilla’s favorite says ‘boot camp’ workouts. Five-mile runs in the desert? That sounds like hell on earth.”

  “Shelby, language,” whispered Priscilla. “And desert air can be really good for your skin. People pay thousands for workouts at desert spas.”

  “It’s not a spa, that’s the problem.” I glared at her and then turned to Dad. “You want me to run in the desert? Am I that bad of a kid?”

  He didn’t answer, just continued paging through another brochure. “Swimming, arts and crafts, archery,” he said with a hopeful smile. “They sound like normal camps.”

  “Normal camps do not serve therapy with their s’mores,” I said.

  Dad regained his serious face. “Here, listen to this one: ‘Campers learn self-respect and discipline along with the joy of helping others. After experiencing community service projects, our graduates go on to lead productive lives filled with solid American values.’”

  “Discipline? Community service projects?” I shuddered, imagining myself in a baggy orange jumpsuit picking up trash along the side of the road. “Summer is supposed to be fun.”

  Dad patted my hand. “Keep looking. There’s bound to be one you’d like.”

  “I’ve already made a call to Red Canyon,” Priscilla said in a breezy tone. “They have a place for you if you’d like to give it a try. A little discipline and physical conditioning would be good for you.”

  “I want you to have a say in this, Shelby. Pick the one that you think you’d enjoy,” Dad said, giving Priscilla a back-off look.

  Reluctantly, I started reading the brochures seriously. Camp after camp promising to return well-adjusted teens at the end of summer. Lists of disorders and problems they could treat. Glossy photographs of immaculate campuses and barracklike rooms. My stomach felt sicker as the minutes went by.

  Finally, after discarding a few more with pictures of kids smiling like zombies, I picked up a brochure with mountains on the front.

  Deep in the Oregon forests, Camp Crescent is an exclusive facility tailored to the individual. We strive not to change young people into someone their parents think they should be, but to deepen their understanding of who they are. Transformations happen every summer at Camp Crescent through traditional camp activities and a variety of artistic expression exercises.

  I let out a deep breath. “At least this one doesn’t sound like torture or brainwashing.”

  “Camp Crescent is a good start,” Priscilla said with a shrug. “But it may not have the discipline you need. I’m going to have Red Canyon save you a place.”

  “How about neither one?” I said, beginning a last desperate attempt. “I know I haven’t exactly been the perfect daughter lately, but—”

  Priscilla faked a cough and slanted her eyes toward Dad.

  I tried to ignore her, realizing I was fighting for more than my summer. “Listen, I’ll try to follow all your rules. I’ll try to be nice to Honey Bun. Please, don’t make me go.” But even as I said the words, I knew it was too late.

  Priscilla’s smile told me I was already gone.

  TWO

  The last weeks of school went by, the senior prom came and went—Josh Tilton took Sophie Brewer, Honor Society vice president—and my carefree life spiraled downward. The moon magic had totally worn off.

  So, the second week of June, I found myself in a mess of kids gathering around the Camp Crescent bus in a parking lot at the Portland airport. As I dug in my backpack for a stick of gum, a girl in sunglasses tugged on my sleeve. She reminded me of an elf. Not the tall Lord of the Rings kind, the toy-building North Pole kind.

  Her tiny face paled against her blue-black hair as she asked, “Weren’t you on my flight from LAX?”

  I nodded. I’d noticed her reading a copy of Paris Match a few rows away from me on the plane. “Yeah, that was me,” I said.

  She nodded back, then stared at the sprinkle of afternoon rain sizzling on the warm pavement, apparently ignoring me now that she knew where I was from. So much for elfin conversation.

  To pass the time, I put on lip gloss and fluffed my hair, using my mirror to check out the guys behind us in line. Some of them had potential, especially a tall blond guy who resembled Brad Pitt when I squinted really hard. But, I reminded myself, the last thing I needed to be focused on was boys. I had to make it through the summer and stay far away from anything resembling desert sand and military uniforms.

  The line inched forward, placing me in front of the luggage compartment, which overflowed with matching Louis Vuitton travel sets and expensive hiking gear. I handed my plain red American Tourister to the pimply guy loading the bags.

  “Sheep,” said Elf Girl, dragging an airport cart of luggage toward the guy.

  “Excuse me?”

  “They buy the designer labels like sheep.” She shrugged. “Like it really matters what your camping stuff is packed in.”

  “Easy for you to say,” said a redheaded girl, cutting in line in front of us. “When you’re a billionaire, I guess first impressions don’t matter.” She shoved a huge monogrammed suitcase toward the bag dude, then studied my blank face. “She’s Ariel DeVoisier? The perfume heiress?”

  “Oh.” I blinked at her. “Great.” DeVoisier? I’d seen the name at the makeup counter, but Elf Girl sure didn’t seem all glamorous or anything. Her black cardigan was buttoned all the way to the top, and her tan capris were pretty normal. Her sunglasses did have little rhinestones in the corners, though.

  Meanwhile, the redhead smiled. “I’m Jenna Grant. My dad’s in real estate in South Beach.” She did a sort of twirl, showing off her hot-pink jacket and her matching mini. “Prada.”

  “Nice,” I said with a shrug. It was a cute outfit and all, but not the best for camping, obviously. Besides, I wasn’t too impressed by the whole Prada thing. I mean, seriously, a year ago when I lived in Milwaukee, my friends all shopped at Old Navy. Nobody cared about what you wore, just if you looked good in it.

  Jenna looked me up and down, as if trying to use X-ray vision to check out my labels. “I’m sorry—and you are?”

  From her snotty tone, I guessed she wasn’t satisfied with my lackluster reaction or with my outfit of American Eagle shorts, Roxy zip sweatshirt, and tank. Labels aside, I’m no fashionista or anything. Some makeup essentials, a few highlights to brighten up my boring brown hair, and I’m good to go. I gave her a confident smile and said, “I’m Shelby Locke.”

  “Wait—of Locke Cosmeceuticals?” replied Jenna in a breathless voice.

  “Yeah. So?”

  “No waaaay!” Jenna’s eyes widened. “My mother swears by Re-Gen. Those Botox people are losing a fortune on her. Re-Gen, unbelievable.”

  Al
l of a sudden, the entire line of kids clustered around me, talking about Re-Gen. Ariel hung back, seeming to be the only one not interested in Dad’s plastic surgery drug. Meanwhile, everyone was chattering about their parents’ plastic surgeons or someone they knew who wanted Re-Gen. It was creepy. At least at my school, everyone was over everyone else’s fame or money or whatever.

  My cheeks flaming hot, I backed away from the crowd. “It’s no big deal,” I said.

  “Boys and girls, we need to maintain an orderly check-in.” An old guy with a mustache and a beer belly barely hidden by a Camp Crescent polo shirt clapped his hands near the bus doors. “In line, now!”

  Grumbling, everyone fell back into place.

  “So, you’re, like, a celebrity,” mumbled Ariel. “Yay for you.”

  “Yeah,” I said, arching an eyebrow at her. “Yay for me, Miss Billionaire.”

  Ariel hid behind her fringe of straight black bangs, but I did see her smile.

  After hearing about Re-Gen, Jenna apparently decided I was somebody she should get to know. She blabbed away about her family’s second home in the Hamptons, and her mother’s private raw food chef, who made the most divine organic fennel carpaccio, whatever that was. By the time we’d reached the front of the line, my brain hurt.

  “Howdy, I’m Mr. Winters,” the old guy said, checking my name off on his clipboard. “Deposit your cell phones, PDAs, MP3 players, and any other electronics into the bin on the front seat.”

  “My PDA?” I clutched my backpack to my chest. I’d wanted to text my friends a daily camp report.

  “You’ll barely miss it,” said Mr. Winters with a thin smile.

  Ariel rolled her eyes but dug out her cell phone.

  Mr. Winters tapped his pen against his clipboard. “Let’s go, girls, we’re on a schedule.”

  And with that, I climbed into the darkened bus and chucked my last link to the outside world into a plastic bin.

  Reading steadily as the bus rolled away the miles, I was halfway through a romance paperback when we jerked to a stop. I looked out the window and saw that a black limo had pulled up next to us on the shoulder of the road.

  “Sit tight, campers. This will only take a second,” said Mr. Winters, bounding to the front of the bus.

  Jenna, who’d taken the seat across from me and Ariel, said, “Why couldn’t I ride in a limo from the airport?”

  The boys behind us hooted and laughed. One of the guys leaned forward. It was the blond guy from the line—my squinty-eyed Brad Pitt. “There’s always one at every camp.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “One what?”

  “A prima donna,” he said with a twist of his lips that was almost a sneer.

  “Oh-kaay.” I gave him a nod and settled back into my seat.

  “Watch out for that guy,” Ariel whispered to me. “Charles Morton. Totally nuts. His dad owns seven tabloid newspapers worldwide. A few years ago, he tried to buy his way out of Pinnacle Crest Camp in Idaho by promising to get the counselor Reese Witherspoon’s cell number. When that didn’t work he tried to run away. They found him hitchhiking along the interstate. He’s totally whacked.”

  “Sounds like it.” I gave Ariel a little smile, impressed by how dialed in she was. “The brat camp world must be very small.”

  She nodded. “I see some of the same kids at camp every year. Everyone’s parents keep shelling out money when these stupid places don’t work. They’ll probably keep sending us here until we go off to college.”

  I wondered why Ariel kept getting sent to camp, but I didn’t ask her. It was probably something like my situation—evil stepmother trying to ruin her life, or her parents too distracted to care.

  “So, have you been to Camp Crescent before?” I asked.

  “No, but it’s cushy compared to the place I was last year.” Ariel’s elfin smile dimmed.

  “What camp are you talking about? Was it really that bad?”

  “Red Canyon Ranch. Every time I say its name the scar from my scorpion sting flares up.”

  I blinked at her. “Hot desert boot camp? Third level of hell, right?” I said, thinking she was joking, but Ariel didn’t laugh.

  “It almost killed me last summer,” she said with a shudder.

  I peered into her eyes to see if she was serious, and what I saw there gave me a chill. “Uh…my stepmother said if things don’t work out here, I’d end up there,” I said.

  Ariel’s mouth tightened. “Trust me. It’s horrible. People are always yelling at you, barking orders, making you run miles in the sand dunes.”

  “So the brochure doesn’t lie,” I said.

  “Actually, it leaves a lot of things out,” Ariel said. “They have this solitary confinement place called the Thinking Shack. I got sent there once for twenty-four hours because I made my bed the wrong way by accident.”

  “No way.”

  “That wasn’t the worst, though, Shelby. They try to tear you down and make you into some kind of robot.”

  Just then the bus shook with the clamping noise of the luggage compartment shutting. As the limo sped away, Mr. Winters lumbered back up the steps, along with a boy—not the type of guy you’d think was cute right away but definitely the type that made you want to keep looking.

  Dark hair spilled down his forehead, and his olive-toned skin gleamed in the dim light. He was tall, with long arms. A leather jacket, a black concert T-shirt, worn Levi’s, and motorcycle boots showed he was anything but a preppy jock like some of the boys on the bus. And he hadn’t gone the all-black route like some of the Goth guys. He stood in the aisle motionless, like he was daring anyone to say something.

  Ah, yes. The rebel troublemaker common to every school I’d ever heard of, let alone attended. The cute bad boy you date and he wrecks your life. I wasn’t impressed. But when he took off his sunglasses, I found myself staring into deep, amber brown eyes.

  “Austin Bridges the Third,” whispered Ariel, giving him a little wave. “What is he doing here?”

  “What? He’s not a brat camp regular?” I said.

  Ariel shook her head. “Never.”

  Jenna leaned across the aisle. “Do you know him?” she gushed.

  Ariel nodded. “His dad and his entourage stay at our beach house when they tour So Cal. We know them, all right.”

  “Oh, wait. Bridges? That’s the son of that crazy lead singer from Burning Bridges?” I said, wrinkling up my nose.

  Ariel and Jenna looked at me like I was crazy.

  “Sorry. I have heard of them, but I don’t keep up with dried-up old rock stars,” I said with a little shrug.

  “Austin was on the cover of People three months ago with his dad,” said Jenna.

  “I must have missed it,” I murmured.

  The guys behind us let out a little whoop as Austin searched for a seat. “‘Dancing on your grave! I’ll be dancing on your grave, dearie!’” they sang, butchering lyrics from Burning Bridges’s last hit.

  Austin glared over at them, shutting them right up. “Have we a problem, lads?”

  Ooh. British accent alert. I loved accents. I sat up straighter to make sure I didn’t miss a word.

  As the bus lurched forward, Austin slid his backpack off his shoulder and took an empty seat a few rows in front of us, his eyes still on the doofs behind us. The glare was so hot now, I swear I almost saw smoke rising up.

  “Well? Have we?” Austin said.

  Charles turned red. “Chill, man. We were just singing.”

  “As you Yanks are fond of saying, don’t quit your day job,” Austin said tartly.

  Hmm…I stopped watching, and went back to reading my paperback romance. Well, pretending to read, anyway. My eyes were on the glossy hair of Austin Bridges III.

  Camp just got a whole lot more interesting.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the paved road ended, and the bus shot into a tunnel of dense evergreen trees. From the bus window, it was trunk after trunk as far back as you could see. Tangles of berry brambles,
prehistoric-looking giant ferns, and scrubby underbrush filled out what few holes there were in the forest landscape. Saturated green and brown everywhere, it was the biggest dose of nature I’d seen since we’d moved to California.

  “A forbidden forest,” said Ariel.

  I studied her serious expression and then said, “Okay, I just have to know—do you speak Elvish?”

  Ariel narrowed her eyes at me. “What?”

  “Nothing. It’s just, I mean, ‘a forbidden forest’?”

  “You know,” Ariel said. “Like in a fairy tale. It’s dark and dangerous. The kind of place you go into and never return from. Or you go in there and the trees talk and there are magic creatures.”

  “Uh-huh…”

  “Now you think I’m weird,” Ariel said.

  “No, no. I think you have a great imagination,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure it’s just regular old woods.”

  Ariel looked indignant. “Actually, I heard a kid ran off and died out there in the forest a few years ago.”

  “They probably tell campers that to keep them from running away.”

  Ariel shrugged. “There are cougars all over the Pacific Northwest. Not to mention coyotes, black bears, even a grizzly once in a while. I wouldn’t want to take my chances.”

  I glanced again at Ariel’s prim yet funky outfit—very Manhattan. I didn’t guess she got to go on nature hikes very often. In fact, most of these kids didn’t seem the camping type. But when you’re going somewhere for therapy, maybe the camping is secondary.

  “See how the trees stretch into the horizon,” Ariel said in a quiet voice. “It’s like another world.”

  “Yeah, maybe—”

  Suddenly, the bus swerved violently. Several girls, and a few boys, screamed. Mr. Winters, who I could barely hear above the kids heckling the screaming boys, came on over the loudspeaker. “Folks, the bus has a flat tire. There’s no reason for alarm. Return to your seats. Stay calm.”

  “Stay calm,” muttered Ariel as the bus limped off the road. “They always say that at brat camp, but no one ever does.”