Starfall

by Michael Griffo

  Hesitation is never a good sign. Caleb looks over to watch some kids roughhousing in the river, squinting at them as they try to dunk each other, their splashing adding waves to the slow, lazy current. He’s not interested in their antics; he’s merely contemplating how to tell his girlfriend what she should already know: that she’s got a target on her back whether or not her back is covered in a mane of red fur.

  Looks like Archie and Arla know exactly what Caleb wants to tell me, and they must agree with him, because they avoid conversation as well. Their bodies are carbon copies of each other, both languidly lying on the sheet, legs stretched out in front of them, ankles crossed. Their upper bodies resting on their elbows, heads leaning back so their faces are pointed toward the sun that looks like a ball of bright yellow flame in a cloudless blue sky. Their eyes and voices are closed to give Caleb as much time as he needs to find the right words to make me understand. Well, I can’t wait.

  “Should I repeat my question in sign language?” I snap. “I only know the individual letters of the alphabet and not complete words, so it could take a while.”

  Slowly, Caleb turns to face me. His blond curls have gotten so light this summer; some strands of his hair are almost as white as Archie’s, and there are golden flecks in his brown eyes. The sunlight that I feel is avoiding me is drenching Caleb in its glory. A few beads of sweat are starting to form on his tanned forehead, somehow making him look even more incredibly handsome. And he still sounds incredibly honest.

  “Chances are that even if Gallegos knew it was you trapped within the body of the wolf,” Caleb starts, “he still would’ve killed you, because he would consider you the source of this town’s nightmare.”

  “There’s also the possibility that he was only acting cop crazy ’cuz Nadine was lurking over us pulling his strings,” I add.

  The twins suddenly get a sibling. Archie, Arla, and now Caleb all look alike thanks to their sharing the same shocked expression: jaws dropped, mouths open, staring at me like traumatized triplets.

  “I guess, um, that I forgot to tell you Nadine was also there during the night in question?” I rhetoric-ask.

  Archie speaks first: “Nadine was there?!”

  Then Caleb: “When you transformed?!”

  And finally Arla: “When Gallegos tried to kill you so he could mount your taxidermy-ized body on the wall of my father’s office?!”

  So many questions, only one answer.

  “Yes,” I reply. And before they can start ricoshouting again, I continue. “I’m sorry! I wasn’t deliberately trying to conceal information from you guys. I mean it! I’ve just been a little preoccupied knowing that some innocent man’s life is in limbo because of my actions.”

  “So once again it’s all Nadine’s fault.” Archie states what his non-biological siblings are both also starting to believe. “She probably lured Gallegos to the woods and worked her mumbo jumbo to get him to try and kill you.”

  Half-right. “I’m sure she gave him a push,” I say. “But cops are like lemmings and criminals to them are like cliffs; they have to take that leap no matter what unseen danger lies on the other side.”

  “Nicely said, Dom,” Arla replies. “The not-so-nice translation is that Nadine’s just a bitch.”

  “No, she’s a bitchjaffe!”

  I don’t know what’s more surprising, my boyfriend’s self-satisfied smile at coming up with a new word or the fact that the atmosphere can change so abruptly. From effed-up to effervescent in less than sixty seconds. And it appears that our new bubbly take on life is contagious.

  “Holy transformation, Batman!”

  Archie isn’t making a sly comment about my monthly conversion; he’s voicing an opinion we all share. About the brand-spanking-new Gwenevere Schültzenhoggen.

  Even if I hadn’t already buried “The Hog” last year when I realized it was a hateful nickname, Gwen herself could do the honors without a shovel or an ounce of dirt just by emerging from the river like she’s doing right now. It’s the boys’ turn to act like pigs.

  “When did that happen?” Caleb asks.

  “While I was in mourning, I guess,” Archie replies, shrugging his shoulders. “This is the first I’m noticing, but I’m gay, so heterific changes sometimes fly over my head. What’s your excuse?”

  “I only have eyes for Domgirl,” Caleb replies instantly, if not sincerely.

  My boyfriend knows what I want to hear. “Good answer.”

  “But when-the-vere did that miracle happen?” he adds.

  On both sides of Caleb, Arla and I playfully slap him in the arm, but we can’t blame him for thinking he’s witnessing yet another miraculous transformation. At some point between the last day of school and today, Gwen has become U.S.-certified babelicious.

  The basic architecture is the same. Gwen is still tall, 5’11”, with long limbs and, as expected, less-than-petite hands and feet. But her shape has changed drastically. Broad shoulders have rounded, thick neck has become slender, her once-soft stomach is hard and flat, and her legs no longer resemble tree trunks, but elongated branches. Her German-Korean ancestry no longer plays out like a multicultural mishmash on her face, but like an exotic smorgasbord. High cheekbones, slightly slanted eyes, square chin all add up to serious beauty. And serious attention.

  Male, female, gay, straight, all eyes are on Gwen, soaking in her new body like the river water is soaking into the material of her emerald green bikini. Arla and I catch each other’s eye, and I know we’re thinking the same exact thing: If Gwen weren’t so oblivious to the commotion she’s causing, we’d be jealous. We both fall into the category of pretty, and when we pull out all of the stops cosmetically we can barge our way into borderline stunning, but we made our ascent gradually, so no one’s ever really made much of a fuss. Somehow Gwen went from harsh to heart-stopping in roughly two months. Such a feat shouldn’t inspire jealousy, only admiration. As well as the occasional proposal.

  “Gwen!” Archie shouts. “You look subarashi!”

  “Thanks,” Gwen replies. “I think.”

  The girl obviously doesn’t speak Jess.

  “It’s Japanese for above and beyond amazing!” Archie explains.

  Blushing and awkwardly trying to cover her body with her beach towel to dry herself, Gwen obviously isn’t used to hearing such accolades.

  “Thanks, Archie,” she starts. Then she proves that the old Gwen is still alive and living in nuGwen’s body, by rambling. “My whole family went on a crash diet, and we started doing step aerobics together because my mother was going through the attic to find things to sell at the annual town-wide yard sale and she found an old videotape of Jane Fonda, do you know her? She was this actress, then became like this physical fitness guru, kind of started the craze. Anyway, my dad had to go back up to the attic to find his old VHS player, have you ever seen one of those things? It’s like a DVD player, but humongous and really clunky. Anyway, we all started doing step aerobics and eating super healthy and in no time at all we all started losing weight. Except my sister, she was skinny to begin with, so she would just watch us, but last week I think she noticed an improvement in all of us, and she’s joined in, so now it’s all four of us. The family that aer-obicizes together, stays together!”

  I stifle a gigglaugh because I’m so happy to hear that while Gwen’s physical appearance has improved, her personality has remained the same. She’s as quirky and sweet and good-natured as ever. But since I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her when I’m really proud of her achievement, I keep quiet. Truth is, Gwen knows exactly who she is, and she has no desire to change. Just like Archie.

  Then again, maybe not.

  “If I were straight, Gwen, I would totally ask you out.”

  “Archibald Angevene, that is so super sweet!” Gwen yelps. “But I’d have to turn you down.”

  I can stifle no longer. And neither can Arla and Caleb. Our raucous laughter almost drowns out Archie’s reply.

  “You would turn
me down?” Archie cries, his question rife with disbelief. “Is it my new hair? I know it’s radical, but it grows in really fast.”

  Now Gwen joins in and laughs so fully at Archie’s comment that she bends over and clutches her stomach, letting her towel fall to the ground to expose her bouncing boobs. If I didn’t know her better, I’d think she was aiming for slutty and not just giving in to the hilarity of the sentiment. If her body doesn’t silence everyone, her explanation does.

  “I can’t go out with you or anyone, Archie,” Gwen says. “I already have a boyfriend.”

  “What?!”

  The sound of our collective cry is so loud I swear it startles a family of birds nestled in the crook of a branch of a nearby tree. Before Gwen can take offense to the fact that we’re all stunned to find out she’s someone’s girlfriend, she’s pummeled with more questions.

  “Who?!”

  “Do we know him?!”

  “How long have you two been together?!”

  Regaining her composure, Gwen wraps her towel around her like a little girl donning a superhero cape. She’s all grown up and childish at the same time.

  “None of your business, yes, and five and a half weeks,” she replies, answering all three of our questions.

  Archie is about to protest and demand a more detailed response, but I throw a bottle of suntan lotion that lands right in the little dip in the middle of his chest and shuts him up. “A girl’s entitled to her secrets, Arch,” I declare.

  His mouth opens up, and he gasps a little, but he hears the words I haven’t spoken. Leave the girl alone because we wouldn’t want someone pestering us to share our secrets with the world. Let Gwen have her privacy.

  “Thanks, Dom,” she says. Then she adds with a wink, “I knew you would understand.”

  When she whips around, her towel-cape skipping in the air behind her, I wonder if Gwen is smarter than she appears. Does she know the truth about me? Does she know my secrets? No, that’s impossible; she can’t know that I’m cursed and once a month play werewolf underneath the full moon. Watching her plop onto the ground in between my brother and his friend, Jody, the three of them cackling about some unheard, inside joke, I realize I’m wrong. Not everyone’s secrets are deadly or supernatural or unexplainable; some are just personal and silly and girlie. And if I know one thing, I know girlie. At least I think I do.

  “She has got to be dating a band geek,” I state firmly and according to Caleb, pompously.

  “Domgirl! Don’t be so superficial,” he chastises. “Gwen could be going out with someone as hot as me.”

  My boyfriend’s ego is huge, yet correct.

  “ ’Cause remember, Caleb is a geek without even being in the band,” Arla snaps.

  And now bruised. Which of course makes us laugh even harder than before. Soon, however, our laughter turns to crying, at least for one of us.

  “Winter?” Caleb asks. “What the hell? Are you all right?”

  Archie buries his face in his hands, and for a few seconds his shoulders shake, indicating that his outburst may quickly get out of control. But just as suddenly as it took control of him, it’s released. Roughly wiping away his tears, Archie composes himself, but he’s obviously upset by something. Or someone.

  “Sorry,” he says. “It’s just that . . . well, this is the first time I’ve laughed since Nap died.”

  Softly, Arla rubs his back, just so he knows he isn’t alone. Unfortunately, it only reminds him that he is.

  “I guess I didn’t know how lonely I was,” Archie says quietly. “Until I was no longer alone.”

  Now it’s my time to turn away and remain silent. I know exactly how Archie feels. I have my friends, my brother, Louis, Jess, this wolf-spirit, all living inside of me or next to me, and sometimes I catch myself feeling desperately lonely, unreasonably so, but still it’s powerful and consistent and hypnotic. Despite the fact that I have my Wolf Pack and so many other people in my life standing by me, not judging me, it’s hard to shake off the feeling that I’m completely and utterly alone. Without Napoleon, that’s how Archie feels.

  The way Caleb and Arla are bowing their heads, I can tell they feel as stupid and selfish as I do. Sure, time ticks on, and life resumes no matter what happens—I know that better than anyone—but pain clings onto a heart and a memory and refuses to let go. Even when the source of pain is unwanted.

  “Oh my God!”

  Okay, now Archie is about to turn left onto Embarrassed Boulevard and make a fool out of himself in front of everyone and not just the three of us. I don’t care how superficial that makes me sound, but the rest of the kids are not going to be as sympathetic toward Archie or understand that his emotional outburst is because he misses his boyfriend, because not everybody knows that he and Napoleon were a couple. It’s time to pack up and move this party to a location without an audience. Turns out we don’t need to flee our audience, just our nemesis.

  “I cannot believe she has the guts to show up looking like that!” Archie exclaims.

  Turning around, we all see that Archie isn’t getting excited because a Jaffe twin has died; it’s because the other Jaffe twin is still alive and walking this way.

  I don’t know if there was a sale on some magical Kool-Aid at the Price Chopper, but Nadine, like Gwen, has undergone a makeover. In Nadine’s case, however, it isn’t that she’s lost weight, but that she’s gained. And pregnancy becomes this witch.

  She looks completely different from Gwen, but just as surreal. As she walks toward us, a breeze stirs around her as if the air is parting so it doesn’t have to touch her flesh. The result is that she looks like she’s floating instead of walking.

  Her brown hair is longer than I last remember, falling to her shoulders, and it’s curling at the edges—not sure if that’s natural or from spending the morning with a curling iron, but it frames her face nicely and softens her appearance. She’s not wearing any makeup, but her complexion isn’t as pale and gray as it used to be; there’s color in her cheeks, and her forehead and nose are a bit sunburnt. Thankfully, she’s had the decency not to wear a bikini, but her sundress is just as flattering. It’s sleeveless with elastic just underneath the bustline, so the cotton fabric that falls to about two inches above her knee has enough room to billow and bounce as she walks. It’s plain white with just a few yellow daisies decorating the neckline and the hem. Seriously, I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that she looks good in it, or the fact that I would totally wear it myself.

  Regardless of how cute her dress looks, it can’t conceal the fact that she’s a few months pregnant and her belly’s already showing. The wind picks up, and she instinctively clutches the sides of her dress, doing that girl-thing that I’ve done thousands of times before so you don’t give a free show to the rest of the world. I feel my heart beat a little bit faster. I’m not nervous that the enemy is approaching; I’m angry because the enemy is more like me than I care to admit.

  “If she keeps expanding at that rate,” Arla observes, “she’s going to look like the Hindenburg before her second trimester’s over.”

  At least she gets the chance to look bloated and fat and about to explode. It’s something that, thanks to Luba and her psychotic clan, I’m never going to get to experience. I’ve decided I’m not going to have any children. As much as I would love to know what it feels like emotionally and physically to give birth, I just can’t risk the possibility that I may pass this curse along to my child. My fear may be groundless—Luba did place the curse on my father’s firstborn only—but we don’t know the extent of Luba’s abilities, and now that the curse is in my blood, my DNA may have acquired power of its own. Getting pregnant isn’t worth the risk of ruining another innocent child’s life. There are other ways to experience motherhood.

  I’ve already thought about adopting someday. Way too soon to make such a lifelong commitment, I know, but when I’m older, maybe married to Caleb or someone who’s just as good and kind and strong as he is, we’ll adopt a
child and raise it as our own. I’ll do everything for my son or daughter that my father did for me, and everything my mother would’ve wanted to do for me if she had had the chance.

  I’m so lost in thought I don’t realize that my breathing has sped up and is dangerously close to sounding like a wild animal’s panting. Not much I can do about it, not when I’m in the presence of a hunter who I know wants me dead.

  “Hi, guys,” Nadine says cheerfully.

  No one responds, not from our little group anyway. In the distance, however, Gwen waves to Nadine, as do a few others, and Nadine’s eyes brighten and she waves enthusiastically to them as if she truly cared about their acknowledgment and friendship. But she doesn’t care about anyone except herself. Well, maybe that baby she’s carrying. The baby who has an unnamed father out there somewhere.

  I take several deep breaths to try and remain calm as I look from Caleb to Archie, wondering if one of them could possibly be Nadine’s baby daddy. Please no; please don’t make that the case; please spare them that fate! Looking around I scour the area for other potential suspects. Could be Jody Buell; he was quite a vocal participant of the vigilante squad. Or The Dandruff King. No, Nadine’s gross, but not even she could be that gross. Then my eyes fall onto Barnaby. I know that Nadine said he wasn’t the father, but she could’ve been trying to steer me off course, away from the bull’s-eye. With so much uncertainty in my life and surrounding Luba’s great-grandchild, I’m going to opt to believe Nadine. I don’t know if it’s the wisest decision, but I do know that it will destressify my life and help me focus on more important things than the horror that I could be about to become an aunt to the Antichrist.

  And even if I’m terribly wrong and Barnaby is the father, it doesn’t look like he wants anything to do with Nadine either. He’s staring at her with pure disgust. For a time I thought that Barnaby was under Nadine’s spell, but that time has obviously passed. Either he’s grown strong enough to break free of her charms or Nadine has moved on, tired of trying to overpower an unwilling recruit. Whatever the reason, I’m thankful Barnaby can see her for what she really is. I wish Archie could do the same.