Liar

by Justine Larbalestier

  Can I stay in the city, finish school, get into college without them?

  I don’t think so.

  I could get a job, but it wouldn’t be enough to pay for a place, for food, for the pill I must take every single day. Is there some refuge that would take me in? Could I ask Yayeko Shoji to help me?

  I hate the white boy. I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone. If I find him now I will kill him. Even though it would make everything worse.

  I think about when and where I’ve seen him before. What did all my sightings of the boy have in common?

  I’ve seen him in Central Park most often. But also down here, not far from my apartment building. That’s the where.

  When is all times of day, but never at night. It’s dark right now. 2:00 a.m.

  What else?

  I was running. Every time I’ve seen him I’ve been running. Except that once at Inwood. But I didn’t see him that time, just smelled him.

  I take off. Shoot up First Avenue, fast as I can.

  At Forty-first and Broadway—weaving my way through the drunken, wobbly crowd, touching no one, not even getting close—the white boy joins me. Comes out of nowhere to run by my side.

  I smell him before I see him. Gasp from the reek of it. I doubt he’s ever bathed. He’s ripe.

  My first impulse is wolfish: tear open his belly, watch his innards drop out. But my human nails and teeth aren’t strong enough. Also, we are running up Broadway, approaching the park, surrounded by people.

  He doesn’t smell like prey. He smells like enemy.

  My brain almost breaks in the tumble of thoughts. Ideas of what I should say. Why did you? Who are you? It’s too much. I don’t know where to start. Easier to keep running.

  In the park, after hours, breaking the rules again, I run even faster. He keeps pace easily. Wolf. Wolf. Wolf. Wolf. Wolf. Stays with me even when I accelerate on Heartbreak Hill.

  The boy doesn’t say a word. I start to wonder whether he speaks English.

  Yet I don’t speak to him.

  The boy who killed Zach. How can I run with him?

  He’s so dirty he probably still has Zach’s blood on him. How can his parents let him run around like that? Don’t they care?

  I look at him out of the corner of my eye; I don’t want him to know I am looking. There are scabs on the side of his neck. Though maybe that’s just dirt. Food he hasn’t washed away.

  Bits of Zach?

  The anger is building in me again. It never went away. Every stride it builds and builds and builds. If I open my mouth I will yell at him.

  I have to speak to him.

  “You did something to me,” he says as we scream down Heartbreak Hill.

  HISTORY OF ME

  I remember when I was very little, before the hair started covering me, before I knew about the wolf within, I remember wanting to be a cop when I grew up, or a basketball player, or, possibly, a fireman.

  I remember having a future.

  I remember having friends in preschool and then in grade school. I remember jump-rope contests. I remember hide ’n’ seek. Learning how to juggle. Spelling bees and red rover and dodgeball. I remember not hiding how fast I could run. I remember having tiny secrets that didn’t matter—like knowing that Janey liked Cal, that Keisha still had a blankie, and how babies are made.

  Before the family illness started showing itself, before Dad and the Greats told me what it was, before I became a wolf.

  I remember not being a freak.

  Mom and me and Jordan—no, not Jordan, I made him up—being a family without scary family secrets. Without the wolf being at the center of everything we thought and did.

  I liked those days. I wish they could come back. I wish—often I wish—that I was not what I am, not who I am. That my father’s family were just a bunch of weirdo rednecks. Anything but what they really are.

  I liked having a future.

  I want it back.

  BEFORE

  The last time I saw Zach? Like I said, it wasn’t up the cypress tree.

  It was the Tuesday before he died. I’d felt pissed all day. Pissed with him, with school, with my parents, with the world.

  Turns out that’s another symptom. One the Greats never mentioned: the feeling that nerves are grinding on nerves, that everything is at right angles and can never work again. I spent the whole day wanting to scream. Definitely a symptom that the change was on its way, but also the way I feel on most days of my existence. It didn’t warn me.

  “Wanna hang with me late Saturday night?” Zach asked.

  I wanted to snarl a reply at him. Instead I said, “Dunno.”

  He was already telling me the details, where and when. I was full of venom and bile thinking, He’s not listening. I said, “Dunno,” not “Yes.” He thinks I am so easy that I will do whatever he wants. Before I could open my mouth to tell him, he’d moved away, making sure no one’d seen us talking.

  That’s the last time I saw Zach alive.

  Not very romantic, was it? I didn’t linger for a last look or snatch a final kiss.

  I stomped my way into the library. I had a study period. I opened up my bio textbook—straight onto a picture of a wolf—and slammed it shut.

  “Micah!” Jennifer the librarian said.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, shoving my book back into my backpack and hauling out of there. Out of school, too. Couldn’t stand it another second. My skin didn’t fit. My head hurt. My eyes. Everyone was driving me crazy.

  I was deep into my run in Central Park when my spine began to elongate. I staggered, bent double, saw my hairy wrists sticking out of my sleeves, and realized I’d forgotten my pill. It was too late to make it home. I was way up north in the park, practically in Harlem. I sprinted farther north, ran every step of the way to Inwood. By the time I burst into the park I was on all fours and had a tail.

  Fuck.

  I came out of it—naked and bloody—with no clue where my backpack was, I washed myself as best I could with river water, then went on the prowl for clothes. I was lucky it was the early hours and dark and the streets were empty. I was lucky, too, I was in Inwood, one of the few parts of the island that still has a few houses and backyards and clotheslines.

  I stole clothes from one, dressed, and then went to Zach’s apartment building and up his fire escape, through his kitchen window—left open specially for me—and into his room.

  Only Zach wasn’t there.

  I lay on his bed, waiting. I fell asleep. Woke up. 3:00 a.m. and he still wasn’t there. Slept again.

  4:00 a.m. Shit. Weren’t his parents coming home that morning? I called his cell from his landline. No answer. Thought about leaving a message. Thought about Sarah finding it.

  Then I was out on the streets again. Running all the way to Central Park barefoot.

  Yes, when it was closed. I’d done it before. 1:00 a.m. to 6:00 a.m. Those are the best hours to run. I’d even done it with Zach. You have to stick to the less trafficked paths, away from the night patrols. I thought he might be running, and even if he wasn’t I needed to stretch out, get rid of all the pent-up waiting energy. Also, I wasn’t ready to go home and face my parents. I’d never gone missing before. They’d know what happened. They’d be . . . well, I didn’t want to think about how they’d be.

  Which is where I found him. It.

  Now I know it was him, but I didn’t think so then. I didn’t even realize it was a body.

  Not a human one.

  Certainly not Zach’s.

  I smelled it first. Blood smells salty, thick and metallic, but I didn’t only smell blood—it was like a toilet had exploded. Awful, filling my nostrils, making my stomach churn.

  I slowed my pace, then I slipped—didn’t fall, just skidded a little—stopped running.

  There was a lot of blood. It was dark, but light enough to see that and the mangled bits of . . . flesh? Nothing recognizably human. Nothing recognizably anything. There was no face. How can you recognize some
one when their face is gone?

  I thought I was going to be sick. I slipped again as I turned and ran away. Blood on my bare feet. I wiped them in the grass as I ran.

  You want to know why I didn’t tell anyone, don’t you?

  What did I have to tell? I didn’t know it was a person. I didn’t know what it was. Dumped meat from a restaurant? No, the blood was too fresh. The remains of some freaks’ sacrifice of a pig or goat?

  Someone else would find it and report it during the hours the park was actually open.

  That’s what I told myself. Besides, I’m a liar, remember?

  I am often in trouble. Mostly for things I have not done.

  I can’t expect to be believed. I am the girl who cried wolf.

  My parents wouldn’t believe me. Or if they did, they would think I’d done it.

  The cops would believe me.

  They’d want to know what was I doing there. I found the body around 4:30 a.m. The blood smelled fresh. They’d want to know that. It meant he hadn’t been dead long. I could have helped their investigation.

  They’d want to know what I was doing in the park after hours. How I came to find the body. Me, who knew him. Me, who was his after-hours girlfriend. Such a coincidence! They would think I had something to do with it.

  Nothing I could say would convince them otherwise.

  But you mean after, don’t you? Why didn’t I report it when I found out Zach was dead and realized what I’d seen?

  But I didn’t realize. I didn’t know it was him until Tayshawn told me about the dogs. When it was too late. When the police already had the autopsy report.

  It never once occurred to me to think that mess had once been a person.

  That it had once been Zach.

  HISTORY OF ME

  You want to know why I didn’t smell him? Why I didn’t realize it was Zach? I told you I smelled the blood well enough to know it was fresh. So why didn’t I know it was Zach’s body?

  You’re right. I’m a wolf. My sense of smell is excellent. Even when I’m human.

  But not when I’ve just changed back. The wiring’s all wrong. This way and that. Sometimes I hear with my fingers. Smell with my ears. That kind of weirdness. Takes hours, sometimes a day, to be normal again.

  I’d only just changed back. I got the basics: blood, innards. But not a lot more.

  And the memory of the smell didn’t stay with me. (Thank God.)

  That’s why I didn’t know.

  AFTER

  “I did something to you? What do you mean?” I scream at the white boy as we near the bottom of the hill. We keep running. I don’t know why I’m not confronting him, wrestling him to the ground, pinning his arms, dragging him to my parents. See? Here’s your killer, not me.

  “You’re the same as me,” the boy says. He has a strange accent. Not New York. Or maybe it’s a speech impediment. He doesn’t talk right, whatever it is. “You’re just me.”

  I have an urge to tell him, no, I don’t reek. But it’s true. We’re both wolves. He’s not breathing heavy the way Zach would be by now. His stride is too short and his arms are flopping all over the place, but he keeps pace easily.

  “It happened after I saw you. Running like me. You did magic on me. Made me into an animal.”

  He doesn’t know what he is?

  “It hurt. Your magic hurt so bad. Why’d you do that? You could’ve warned me.”

  What do I say? I concentrate on the swing of my arms, on keeping my shoulders down and my knees high.

  My head hurts. What about his family? Why haven’t they told him what he is?

  “Why’d you do it?” he asks.

  “I didn’t,” I say. “The wolf’s already in you. Your parents should’ve told you.”

  “Got no parents,” he says. “Wolf? Is that the animal you magicked me into? Huh. Thought I was a bear.”

  “I didn’t do it to you. There’s no magic.” No parents? How could he have no parents? “What about your other family?” I ask. “Brothers? Sisters? Grandparents? Aunts?”

  “No family. You made me a wolf? I like wolfs.”

  “Wolves,” I say.

  In the distance there’s a patrol car. I jump the fence and head deeper into the park where cars can’t go, enjoying grass under my shoes. Springy, more give. The boy follows, not missing a beat. He’s not sweating any more than I am. Just as well. I can’t imagine how much worse he’d smell.

  “I didn’t make you into anything,” I repeat, though it’s not entirely true. “You were born that way. Comes from your family. Mine are all wolves. That’s why I’m one, too.”

  “That mean you’re my family then?”

  “Maybe,” I say, hoping not.

  “You’re black. Can’t be family.”

  I groan. I’m starting to think he’s simple. How can I explain anything to him? “How old are you?”

  “Dunno. Thirteen? Maybe fourteen.”

  “How can you not know how old you are?” This is impossible. “When you turned into a wolf you killed someone. Did you know that?”

  The boy grunts. I’m not sure if it’s a yes or a no.

  “You killed someone.”

  “Yeah. Your boy.”

  I turn my head to watch him. He looks as bad as he smells. Not just dirty. His skin is uneven, blotchy, pocked, sprinkled with zits and blackheads, large-pored. There are scars on his forehead and under his right eye. Maybe his left, too, but I can only see his profile. His teeth are so crowded and crooked they threaten to overwhelm his mouth. They’re green.

  “My belly hurt,” he continues. “It was all angry and hungry. Smelled him first. Knew him ’cause he was with you all the time. I’ve been following you. I ate him,” he says. Some snot dribbles out of his left nostril. “Didn’t know I could till I did it.”

  I lurch to halt and punch the boy in the face with all my might. My hand explodes. “Ow. Fuck.”

  The boy goes down onto the grass. I kick him hard in the ribs and then again and again. He makes no sound. Like he’s been beaten before and knows to keep quiet. I stop. “Fuck.”

  The look he gives me is wounded but unsurprised. His left eye reddens. It will be black before long. I don’t know what he was expecting from me but this wasn’t it. I pace in front of him, my hands curled into fists. “You killed my boyfriend. What did you think I was going to do? Kiss you?”

  The boy doesn’t say anything. He sinks lower, preparing himself for more violence. It makes me wince.

  “You live on the streets, don’t you?”

  He’s homeless. A street kid. He’s poor. Poorer than poor. He doesn’t have anything. He’s as much poorer than me as I am poorer than Sarah. He has no family. I don’t think he’s been to school. Or if he has, it was a long time ago. He had no idea he was a wolf until I forgot to take my pill.

  This is my fault.

  “I hate you,” I tell him. “You killed Zach and I will never forgive you for it. Why couldn’t you eat a fucking squirrel? A cat or a dog? Hell, even a tourist would have been better. Why’d you have to kill Zach?”

  “He smelled good.”

  No more violence, I tell myself. The Greats will take care of him. I just have to get him upstate. But the white boy didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. He still doesn’t know anything. How can I take him to his death?

  Fuck.

  He killed Zach. He knew Zach was human and he killed him. This boy has no moral sense. He’ll kill again. Taking him to the Greats is a mercy killing.

  What’s his life worth now? No home, no family, no friends, no nothing.

  “Didn’t mean it,” the boy says. “If I knew how mad you’d get I wouldn’t’ve done it.”

  I think I’m going to scream. I pace faster.

  “Can you turn me back?” he asks. “I’d like to be a wolf again.”

  I squeeze my fists tighter. I won’t hit him again. “What part did you like best?” I can’t help asking him. “Killing my boyfriend? Or eating him?”


  He ducks his head. Doesn’t answer.

  If I take him to Mom and Dad they’ll know what to do. They’ll see that I didn’t kill Zach. They’ll let me stay. They’ll stop looking at me like I’m more beast than human.

  The white boy’s so beaten, so desperate, he’ll do whatever I tell him.

  “I’m going to take you somewhere,” I tell him.

  “No,” the boy says firmly. “You’re mad at me.”

  “It’s somewhere safe,” I tell him.

  “Where?” He looks at me warily.

  “Upstate. Where you’ll turn into a wolf once a month.”

  “Promise?”

  I nod. “There are other wolves there. My relatives. You’ll like it.”

  “Wolfs like you?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Alright,” he says, standing up. “I liked being a wolf. It’s better.”

  Death is better than what he’s got.

  AFTER

  It’s dawn when I push the white boy into our apartment and slam the door behind us. I shove him past the shoes and coats and into the kitchen. He falls bonelessly to the floor, glaring up at me.

  “This isn’t—,” the boy begins.

  “Micah?” Dad calls out from the bedroom, before joining us in the kitchen. Mom behind him. “Where have you been? Who’s he?”

  “This is him,” I say. “Zach’s killer.”

  “Didn’t mean to,” the boy says.

  “Mon dieu,” Mom says, covering her nose.

  There’s no getting past the boy in such a tiny kitchen. He’s sprawled and sullen, reeking even worse inside than he does outside, with no breeze to mitigate the smell. The three us are crowded into the hallway not wanting to get too close. I wonder if I reek from being so near him the last few hours. My hand hurts and I need a shower.

  “Why’d you bring him here?” Dad puts his hand over his nose.

  “Because you didn’t believe me. Well, here he is: the boy who killed Zach.”

  All three of us stare at the boy, who pulls his knees to himself. “Was me,” he agrees.

  “He is a wolf?” Mom asks.

  “Only once,” the boy says. “I liked it. She says I can be a wolf again. Once a month.”

  Mom and Dad exchange looks. There’s no doubt they believe me now. Maybe they’ll let me stay.