“Are you for real?” Angel asked.
“Yeah. I am. I assure you though, you are all perfectly safe.”
“You’re a werewolf ?” Angel asked. “As in, howling at the moon, fur covered body, running around on all fours, werewolf ?”
“Yeah, well, only during a full moon.”
“You win,” Norman mumbled, chin still down, but eyes on her.
“Win what?”
“Win diversity. The lady said ‘think about officers.’ You win president. I mean you’ve got to be the most diverse here.”
“Norman, she doesn’t win president by being the most diverse,” Angel scolded. “And anyways, what makes a once a month were-girl more diverse than and everyday Latino trans beauty?”
“Are you serious?” The last member of the group who had said nothing until now piped up in an unmistakable British accent.
“Okay,” Angel interrupted, standing, hands out, and motioning both palms down toward the floor. She turned and pointed at Randi. “Let’s put a pin in werewolf for a minute, because we are definitely coming back to that shit, Chica, but we haven’t even meet the whole group yet.” She sat back down and motioned across. “Lipstick, you’re up.”
Everyone turned to the girl who liked black. Her lips, thick eyeliner, hair, and fingernails all shined glossy and dark. A pleather corset hugged her torso outside of her shirt extenuating her large curves. The tops of her big pale boobs bub- bled over the neckline of her low cut poet’s blouse. She finished off the look with a full black skirt and combat boots.
“Hi all. People call me Raven.” She nodded and looked around at each of the other members. “I’m basically here because, you know, it’s hard growing up around here, when you’re, you know, different.”
“Different how, hon?” Angel asked.
“Well, you know, kinda Goth…I like different music, clothes, styles, just different.”
“You’re here because you’re a Goth girl?” “Well, I guess, yeah.”
“Hmmm,” Norman muttered. “Probably secretary at best.”
Angel shot him a nasty look.
“Well, to be an ally too. Allies are super important, right? We all gotta be here for each other, right? Making sure everyone is safe, welcome, and included,” she stammered as she turned red all over.
“O-kay.” Angel turned to the last student. “So, what’s your story head-scarf ?”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“Well, you are wearing a scarf wrapped around your head, are you not?”
“We call it a hijab.”
“Okay then, what’s your story, hijab?”
“Jesus, show some respect,” Randi cut in. “Um, yeah, your not making her feel very
safe or welcome, I don’t think.” Raven added.
“I’m Muslim. We wear the hijab out of modesty. It is part of my religion, my culture, and it is not okay to make light of it. My name is Feven. My family came here from Eritrea about six years ago as refugees.”
A purple, lavender, and white streaked hijab concealed her hair, framed her face and draped in soft cowls below her neck. She also wore a long sleeve, silky, purple, blouse that belled out at the wrists and draped over a full-length purple skirt. Her skin and eyes were brown and stunning.
Norman looked back and forth between Feven and Angel. The other’s could see his wheels spinning as he rocked and attempted to determine who ranked higher on his diversity scale.
“Maybe co-vice presidents?” he quibbled to himself.
“Your accent is really pretty,” Raven said. “I don’t think I’ve heard of Eritrea. Where is it exactly?”
“In Africa. It borders Ethiopia. I learned the Queen’s English,” Fever made air quotes, “from British missionaries in primary school.”
“Well, hells bells, between a werewolf and a Muslim terrorist, I’m not sure who to be more afraid of.”
All heads turned to Angel and everyone, except Norman, talked at once, but Randi was the loudest. “I told you, asshole, that you are safe from me, and you’ll stay that way unless you make me decide different.”
“What about you?” Angel asked Feven.
“I’m an American, and fully human, same as you. Muslim does not mean terrorist. I pose you no threat. I mean you no harm.”
Angel decided to return to the were thing. “So, Team Jacob, you say we are all perfectly safe, and let me tell you I have a million baby cousins all around the Magic Valley that I care about, so how is it, exactly, that we’re safe, if you are, as you say, a werewolf ? Are the rest of your family werewolves too?”
“Yes. It runs in families, but of course, you can also become one by being bitten. And you’re safe, because we have it under control.”
“How many people are in your family?” “Four in my immediate family. My mom, dad,
brother and me, but we know other weres in the area.”
“You know other werewolves? Do you hang out with vampires and witches too? Are you going to be bringing any imps to our meetings?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“So, how do you have it under control?” “We just do, all right?”
Angel, looked around to the rest of the group and asked, “are you all okay with this? Are you buying the under control thing? Does anyone else here want to know how the local werewolves have their predatory tendencies under control?”
Before anyone could answer, Randi yelled, “we got training, okay? Cesar Millan trained us.”
“Cesar Millan, the dog whisperer?” Raven
asked.
“Yes, that Cesar Millan. My parents are rich.
Most weres are. Being were has certain advantages. So, my parents hired the very best to condition us to hunt chickens instead of people.”
In Norman’s mind, Randi sealed president. “You were trained? Like a dog? By Cesar
Millan?” Angel smiled.
Randi jumped up, lips curled, teeth exposed, and growled, “it was a solution to a problem, okay?” “It’s cool,” Raven interjected. “You should be proud that you’re unique, and that your family, you know, cares about people enough to, you know, try to not kill people. I want you to know that I respect
that. I respect you.”
“You respect that she basically part dog and hunts chickens?” Angel gibed.
Randi leaned forward, every muscle tensed as she locked eyes with Angel. “There have been one or two incidences, slip-ups, since the training. Wanna hear about them?”
Before he could answer, Raven cut in again. “She can’t help that she was born into a family of weres, you know. She deserves our respect for making the best of a tough situation. Would you rather she hadn’t got the training? What about all those baby cousins you are so worried about?”
After a strained moment, Angel responded with a shrug, tiny snort, and eye roll.
Randi relaxed her shoulders a bit and glanced back toward Raven. “Thanks, I guess.”
She backed up and sat without taking her eyes off Angel.
Angel turned to Feven. “Okay, so teen wolf ’s cards are out on the table at least. What about you sugar? What’s under that scarf of yours?”
“Hijab,” Raven corrected.
Angel shot her a look and turned back to Feven, curls waving. “Sorry. Hijab. What are you hiding under that thing?”
“I’m not hiding anything.” “Really?”
Feven shifted. “Really.”
“Well, then, take it off and show us.”
Feven looked around at the others for sup- port. They avoided eye contact.
Angel stared at Feven, while Randi looked toward the ceiling, and Raven and Norman both focused on the floor. Norman rocked. No one spoke.
Raven broke the silence. Without looking up, in a little voice, she said, “is it something embarrassing? Do they make you shave your head? Or mark you? Like, with a tattoo?” She sucked in a deep breath. “Or with a branding iron?”
Everyone looked at Feven.
> “Are you kidding? It covers my head! There is hair underneath. What’s wrong with you people?”
“I’m sorry,” Raven blurted. “I’m your ally. It’s okay. You don’t have to show us anything. Sorry.”
“She’s right,” Randi added. “You don’t have to show us anything. Sorry.”
Norman didn’t say anything as he examined the hijab with suspicion.
Angel continued to push. “Well, I for one, need to know what’s under there in order to feel safe.”
“What do you think I could possibly be hiding?” Feven challenged.
“I don’t know. Maybe explosives, or a knife.” “A box cutter?” Norman offered.
“You think I carry a bomb, or knife, or box cutter, next to my head? Do really think that? Do you think my family came here to hurt people?” Feven’s frustration turned to tears.
No one answered.
“Do you?” Feven shouted.
It was Randi who asked, “Why did you come
here?”
Through deep sobs Feven replied, “Do any
of you even know what it means to be a refugee?” Feven looked Angel purposefully, straight in the eyes. “No one would ever choose this life if they had a choice.”
She turned her accusing gaze on Raven. “You want to know something about Eritrea? The people there live in constant threat of war. They are arrested for no reason. You can’t count on basic human rights.”
She turned toward Randi. “My parents had to figure out a way to protect me. Military service is mandatory, so they gave up their high-paying professional jobs. My dad was a cartographer and my mom was a teacher, but they sacrificed every- thing to come here and work in a yogurt factory, so I wouldn’t be forced to become a soldier or build roads. So I could be safe and go to school.”
Her gaze moved to Norman. “So I could make some bloody friends. And I don’t care how diverse you think that makes me. I don’t want even want to be diverse and I don’t want to be your stupid president or co-vice president.”
To Angel, “I want to be accepted for who I
am.”
To Randi, “I want to people to understand I
mean no harm.”
To Raven, “I want some real frick’en allies.”
Everyone sat in deep discomfort, stewing in the tension, guilt, and hypocrisy that permeated the room until Norman dropped forward out of his chair, and made his way on bent knees across to where Feven sat. Still looking down, he held out his Tupperware as an offering in front of him, “gopher gut?”
“Gopher gut?” Feven repeated in disbelief. “It’s something. I mean, it’s a start, right?”
Raven mumbled with a shrug.
Angel answered, “for the Magic Valley Com- munity College Diversity Group, academic year 2017-18, I guess gopher guts are what we have to work with right now, so, yes, it’s a start, but we’ve got a lot more shit to do.”
Feven nodded, smiled a little, and took the offering.
“Thanks, Norman.” “You are welcome.”
Resurrecting Rocky
In 1975 advertising executive Gary Dahl invented and marketed the Pet Rock. By the end of the same year he was a millionaire. He thought a rock made a perfect pet because a rock does not need to be fed, bathed, or groomed, and it cannot die, become sick, or be disobedient. He packaged the rocks with a care and training manual, one big gag filled with puns and jokes about tending to and teaching the rock. A clever guy gets rich off a simple idea – nice story.
But one has to wonder if Mr. Dahl was familiar with the concept of recognition – the act of bringing something wicked into being or causing a possession through attention, sometimes love. Recognition is the origin of spooks, spirits, and hauntings. Could Gary Dahl have known his funny rocks had the potential to become cursed items through the devotion of their owners? Could he have fore- seen tragedy?
Probably not. For if history teaches us one thing, it is that the truest evil is born not of malice, but of ignorance.
***
“Mom, I found your pet rock in Grammie’s attic. Can I keep it?”
Zoe plunked a cardboard carrier case, complete with air holes, labeled PET ROCK in funky 70’s font on the table. It had been sealed with what looked to be several rolls of scotch tape, now a dried out flaky mess. DO NOT OPEN written in magic marker emblazoned all sides of the box.
“Oh my God. I had completely forgotten.” Sarah flashed that smile people reserve for nostalgic moments.
“Your old care and training booklet is even in the box.”
“That’s right. I remember. I trained him to do all sorts of tricks.”
“Grammie said I could have him, if you didn’t mind.”
“Sure, I don’t mind. He’s all yours.”
What a stroke of luck. Zoe had been lobbying for a hamster or gerbil. For no reason Sarah could recall, she disliked pets, especially anything small and needy, maybe Zoe would bond with the rock enough to quell any more rodent requests for a while. That would be great.
Zoe loved the rock and named him Rocky, a predictable name, in fact, the same name her mother had christened the rock some forty years earlier. Both girls, all those years apart, knew without a doubt this was his true name because Rocky shared such information. Honesty and trust are the cornerstones of any truly meaningful relationship.
Sarah had adored Rocky, and Rocky had been devoted to Sarah, but Rocky suspected and hoped that maybe Zoe loved him even more. All signs indicated it. Zoe doted on Rocky. She made him a bed out of an old hand knitted scarf, she taught him tricks from the booklet, and gave him many caresses and kisses. During these times, when Zoe really concentrated on Rocky she learned things. He would do anything for her. He loved her. If she loved him back and loved him most, they would always be together.
All children instinctively understand recognition, and all adults spend years trying to forget it. Recognition causes spooks, spirits, and hauntings and it’s hard, if not impossible, to be mature when you’re afraid of porcelain dolls, looking into closets, and the ghosts floating around your house needing to exorcise old secrets, so grownups unlearn recognition in the early adult years. Recognition dwells in the hazy memories of childhood along with many other things best forgotten.
That’s why Sarah was shocked when her brother turned completely red and choked on his coffee when she causally mentioned that Zoe had resurrected Rocky from the attic. Job slammed down his cup and shot up out of his chair. “That thing tried to kill me, Sarah!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Jesus, how could you forget?” Job paced in quick steps.
Job leaned toward her and whispered loudly through gritted teeth. “That thing pounded me in the face when I was sleeping. You swore up and down you had nothing to do with it. You said you weren’t even in the room, so we knew it was the rock. Scott helped me seal it up and hide it in the attic. I wanted to bury it or take it to the dump, but I could never get the courage to retrieve it once we put it up there. I went to counseling. I still have nightmares! How could you let Zoe touch that thing?”
Sarah could tell Job wasn’t lying but her memories were muddled.
“For Christ’s sake, Sarah. You drove mom crazy until she bought the damn thing for you. You carried it everywhere, talked to it, and acted like it talked back. You kicked all your dolls out of your dollhouse, so Rocky could live there. It was creepy as hell even before the incident.”
As Job spoke she thought hard and it started coming back, she had adored the rock and some- how knew the rock loved her as well. Their cousin Scott had come for the summer making Sarah the constant odd man out, so she shared all her little sister misery with Rocky. He was her confidant, her one true friend, the only one who would do any- thing for her.
Job remembered too and insisted they find Rocky and get rid of him, so they searched Zoe’s room. They looked through piles of clothes and stuffed animals, inside the trophies on the shelf, and even hunted through the sock drawer, b
ut Rocky was nowhere to be found.
“She must have taken him to school with
her.”
Job begged as he left, “promise me Sarah,
you’ll get rid of that thing.”
When Zoe arrived home later that afternoon, Sarah asked if she had brought Rocky to school with her.
“No. He’s in my room. He likes to sit on the window ledge and look outside. He especially wants to see when I’m coming back home.”
Sarah could have sworn they’d checked the window, but no matter, now she knew where Zoe kept Rocky during the day and could locate and dispose of him tomorrow. Job had already texted three times asking if the rock was gone. Best to just put the whole thing behind them even if it meant they’d end up with a hamster.
Sarah slept fitfully that night. She couldn’t remember her dreams well. They were vaguely familiar confusing flashes of creepy dolls that could move on their own, horrible things lurking un- der the bed, and apparitions begging her to listen, and through it all she felt an excruciating sense of loneliness and isolation. When she opened her eyes, before the alarm went off, Rocky was on the pillow not three inches from her face. When her brain caught up with her vision, Sarah suppressed a gasp and carefully slid her head back. She stared in disbelief at the smooth stone as she tried to gather her wits.
Rocky was going through his own, very different struggles. They had loved each other once. How could she even consider getting rid of him? Separating him from Zoe? Sealing him away again, so alone? He would have done anything for her. All those years ago, when she said her brother was stupid, that he was a bully, that she wished he would just die, he was the only one who listened. He tried too. He tried his best to do it for her, but he was young then; he didn’t know how. He hadn’t had all those years in the box to consider his haste, his mistake, to figure out the proper way to get the job done. He still loved Sarah, but he wasn’t going back in a box.
Sarah rallied all her courage, quickly rolled over, jumped up, and dashed down the stairs in her nightgown.
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs to catch her breath and think. She’d get his box, put him in, tape it up and bury it or throw it in a lake. He’s just a rock, she thought. Just a rock. What can he possibly do? Sarah sat heavy on the step.
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