Keisha doesn’t argue with you, but she gazes frankly into your eyes, and you look away first. This too, is more than one thing—true, but also not true.
There’s something uniquely satisfying about ending a wolf. The quick hard twist of the neck. The stab-and-pull of the blade through fur and flesh. The gush of blood. The letting.
“Here’s another fun fact,” Keisha says, showing you her laptop again. “Did you know that humans are the only land mammals that go through menopause?”
“Keisha, why on earth would I know that?”
“Because it’s fascinating. Most mammals keep reproducing until they die—of old age, or because of a predator, or whatever. But humans don’t.”
In spite of yourself, you are interested. “Why?”
“It’s evolutionarily advantageous for there to be female elders to help with the babies while not distracted by babies of their own. You know about hunters and gatherers, right?”
“Of course.”
“We really should say gatherers and hunters. Because, like, almost all the time, early humans survived on what was gathered, not what was hunted. I read this article on NPR’s website. It turns out that hunters were only successful three percent of the time.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” says Keisha, and now she’s on a roll. “If early human tribes depended on the hunters, they would have all starved.”
“So most of the food came from the gatherers.”
“Uh-huh. But when women have babies, that slows them down.”
“So the grandmothers took care of the kids?”
“That’s the hypothesis. And it could be because the grandmothers weren’t having kids themselves anymore that they were able to take care of their grandchildren, freeing up the younger women for foraging.” She shuts her laptop and sets it aside.
You thumb through her chemistry flash cards. Some of the terms are familiar, but you don’t remember most of them. “If that’s true,” you say, setting down the cards, “then why do we always hear so much about the hunters?”
“Because,” says Keisha, the word practically dripping with derision, “until recently, history has been written almost exclusively by men.”
You snort a little.
“It’s true!” She’s picked up the flash cards and begins separating them quickly into two piles, those she knows well and those she needs to memorize. The pile of terms she knows is much bigger. “Imagine how different our whole understanding of the world could be if women were reporting what had happened instead of men. History is recorded by those in charge, and in the Western world, that means almost exclusively by white men. That’s why I’m going to be a reporter.”
“You’re going to single-handedly change the world by telling it like it is,” you say with a laugh.
“No,” Keisha says, one word, firm. “Not single-handedly. No one changes the world by themselves.”
“Well,” you say, “Mémé sort of has.”
Keisha shrugs. “Your grandmother is amazing. And she’s saved lives, that’s for sure. But the world is the same as it was, Bisou. Now she’s stopped bleeding, and hunting, and you’ve started. Anyway,” she says, “if I can’t help you with the hunting, there have to be other things I can do.”
Maybe not in a fight, but definitely in other ways, it’s good to have Keisha on your side. “Here’s something you can do,” you say, scooping up the larger stack of flash cards, the ones Keisha knows. “Let’s add all the ones I don’t know to the study pile, too.”
Even before the teacher hands back your chemistry test, you know it will be your highest score of the year. Keisha is smart and thorough, and she doesn’t take shortcuts. Together, you studied three times longer for this test than you ever have studied for a test on your own.
“How are you so good at this?” you ask Keisha when you get back your test and see the red “92%” at the top.
“At studying?” Keisha smirks. “It isn’t that hard. I just don’t give up until I’ve solved the problem. Whatever the problem is—figuring out an equation or how to memorize a list or what I think the poet really means when he writes about a red wheelbarrow. I’m good at eliminating the wrong answers and accepting that whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be true.”
You’re leaving chem together. At the back table, with tears in her eyes, Maggie is shoving her test into her backpack.
She’s got her hair pulled up into a rough ponytail, but she’s missed one long strand. Her face is scrubbed bare, and her whole body seems to radiate stress.
You stop at her desk. “Maggie? Are you okay?”
She wipes her eyes, zips shut her backpack. “You two sure are peas in a pod these days,” she says, and she doesn’t look at your face as she stands up and heads out of the class, her shoulder hitting yours as she passes.
She’s gone before you can answer. “What’s with her?” you ask Keisha.
“We’re shitheads, that’s what’s the matter,” Keisha says, groaning.
And then you realize that the last time you really talked to Maggie was before the party at Big Mac’s, and that actually she texted you a couple of times and you never wrote her back.
“Have you called her?”
Keisha shakes her head. “I meant to call her after . . . you know . . . to tell her I was sorry, but I never did. We hurt her feelings.”
“We should go visit her,” you say. “After school?”
But when you go to the parking lot after the last bell to meet Keisha, you see James waiting for you. He’s standing on the top step in a rare ray of sunshine. When you emerge from the building, his face breaks into a smile.
“Hey, Bisou.” He leans in and kisses you. “Happy Wednesday.”
Is it Wednesday? Shit. It is. “Hey,” you say, and you kiss him back. The air is cold, but his lips are warm, and you’d way rather take him to your house, to your bedroom, to your bed, than go with Keisha to check on Maggie.
But you remember the look on Maggie’s face—hurt, angry, maybe even a little ashamed, like there was something wrong with her that was why you hadn’t called or texted her back, and you pull your lips away from James’s.
“I’m so sorry, but I can’t today.”
He moans, runs his hands up and down your arms, says, “Don’t tease me like that, Bisou.”
You laugh. “I wish I were teasing,” you say, and you kiss him again before stepping away. “But I’m not. I’ve got something I’ve got to do this afternoon with Keisha. See?” you say, pointing to the parking lot, where she’s standing by her Bug. “She’s waiting for me.”
He groans. “Really? Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”
You shake your head. “No.”
His shoulders soften in acceptance. “Okay,” he says. “But call me later?”
You nod, stand on your toes to kiss him again. “Later.”
Maggie opens the door, but not right away. Her eyes are narrowed, her face suspicious.
“What do you want?”
“We were worried about you,” Keisha says. “Can we come in?”
Maggie looks like maybe she’s going to say no, but then she sighs in resignation and she pulls wide the door.
Keisha pushes through first, and you follow, giving Maggie an apologetic smile that she does not return.
“You looked miserable today in chem,” Keisha says, sitting down on the couch in the front room. You take the armchair near the window, and Maggie slumps to the floor, crosses her legs, leans against the wall underneath the TV. She doesn’t say anything at first. She looks like she’s thinking about something, like she is deciding whether or not to trust you. And your heart aches for her. She’s always deciding whether to trust people, and then trusting them, and then regretting it. You don’t want her to regret trusting you, not again. You almost want her not to confide in you so that there is no chance of letting her down.
Then she says, “I hate everything about high school. I’m done. I’m out.”
“I’ve already got a job at my aunt’s nursery. Sweeping up, watering, not exactly sexy, but it pays more than minimum wage. And, I don’t know. I’ll take classes or something. At the community college.” She shrugs. “Anything but high school.”
“Wow,” says Keisha. Then she’s quiet, for a change.
“I’d hate to see you leave, Maggie,” you say. You know that you haven’t been acting in a way that makes that seem like the truth, though it is.
“I fucking hate it there. I hate the gossip. I hate the guys. Half the time, I even hate the two of you.”
First there’s tension, the pain of a bandage ripped off, and then there’s relief, the particular relief of an ugly truth said out loud.
“Maggie,” you say, “I’m really sorry. I’m so sorry. We’ve been—busy. But that’s no excuse to disappear.”
Her mouth twists, and you can tell she’s trying not to cry. “It’s not just you,” she says. “I found this fucking picture in my locker this morning when I got to school.” She reaches for her backpack and unzips it, fumbles through it until she finds what she was looking for—a piece of paper, folded in half. She thrusts it out, and Keisha takes it.
She unfolds it. You can’t see it clearly from where you’re sitting, but you can tell it’s a photo, low-quality, printed on regular computer paper rather than shiny photo paper.
“Maggie,” breathes Keisha, “someone put this in your locker?”
Maggie nods, and you scoot around closer to Keisha to see the picture. It’s a dick pic, sort of blurry, erect, pinkish and pale with a puff of brown pubes, and next to it—maybe for size comparison, maybe as a threat—is an unsheathed knife.
“Who would send something like that?” Maggie says. “What did I ever do to deserve this shit?”
“You didn’t do anything,” Keisha says firmly, and she refolds the image. “Maggie, this is a crime. Guys can’t just give pictures like this to people. At the very least, it’s harassment. Plus, you’re a minor. That makes giving you this picture a felony, I think, even without the creepy knife. We should show this to someone. Like, the police.”
Maggie shakes her head, wipes her eyes. “If I tell the police, then my parents will find out, and I don’t want them worrying about me. Anyway,” she says, “I feel better just telling you guys.”
For a minute, Keisha looks like she’s going to argue, like she’s going to insist that Maggie go to the authorities, but then she sighs and hands the paper back. “I’m really sorry, Maggie,” she says.
“I am too,” you say. “I’m sorry.”
Maggie smiles, kind of shy, and says, “I’m glad you guys came over.”
Then Maggie gets snacks from the kitchen and Keisha throws pillows on the floor and the three of you form a cozy triangle, legs crossed, a bag of chips between you and each with a glass of lemonade.
“So,” Maggie says. “Phillip, huh?”
You look over to Keisha to make sure that you’re still in agreement about keeping the truth of that night between the two of you, but Keisha either doesn’t notice that you’re looking at her, or she ignores you.
“Nobody can shut up about it. Did you see the rotating police patrols at school this week? And I guess they’re talking to everyone who was close to Phillip or was hanging out with him at the party. They came to my house last night.”
This is news to you. Now Keisha looks at you, shrugs. “It was no big deal. They just wanted to know what Phillip and I talked about that night, how he seemed, if I noticed anything that might link him and Tucker.”
“But Tucker’s death was an accident, right? Phillip—he was killed. His throat was cut.”
When Maggie says this—His throat was cut—you see it again, on the backs of your eyes: the dark wolf, leaping, the red that gushed from him in a hot pulsing fountain of gore.
“Yeah,” Keisha says, “but they were both in the woods. And they were both naked.”
You look up to find Maggie staring at you, suddenly and with wide eyes. A shock of dread hits you. But when she speaks, Maggie says, “Oh, Bisou, I didn’t even think about your mom. This must be hard on you, the way Phillip died.”
“Your mom?” asks Keisha, but you ignore her.
“Yeah, thanks, Maggie,” you say. “I appreciate that, but I’m okay.”
Maggie leans over anyway and hugs you, and as you breathe in the sweetness of her shampoo, you have to fight back tears. Maggie, with all those kids at school gossiping about her, and some creep leaving condoms and dick pics for her to find, and probably still dealing with the fallout from Tucker’s little STI gift . . . still, she’s worried about you, whether it’s hard for you to be hearing about a violent death.
If Maggie wants to be your friend, that’s a gift you’d be a fucking fool to refuse. So you wrap your arms around Maggie and hug her back.
When you release each other, Keisha is watching. You can see her brain churning behind her eyes. You know she’s working out what Maggie meant about your mom, and you know she’s going to have plenty of questions later. But for now, she keeps the conversation on Phillip and Tucker. “The police are looking for common threads,” she says. “They’re doing an autopsy. They’ll look for the same drugs they found in Tucker. And honestly, I won’t be surprised if they find them.”
“You really think some drug made them do this?” Maggie asks.
“I’ll bet they had the same toxins in their bodies,” Keisha answers.
Maggie considers this before speaking. “I wouldn’t figure Phillip for the kind to put anything in his body. No chemicals or anything like that. He was one of those ‘my body is my temple’ kind of guys. But,” she says, “he wasn’t above putting things in other people’s bodies.”
“You mean that girl at Berkeley?” you ask.
“Her,” Maggie says, taking a sip of lemonade, “and Cara Lee, that girl who dropped out of school freshman year. I ran into her, you know, a couple of days ago. Our moms are still friends kinda.”
“Really?” Keisha says. You know her well enough now that you recognize her tone, that trying-to-sound-casual-but-actually-terribly-interested tone. “Had she heard about Phillip?”
“Mm-hmm. She said that maybe there is a God after all.”
Driving away from Maggie’s house, Keisha is quiet, and even though her eyes are on the road and she’s as careful a driver as ever, you can tell she is far away in her mind. She doesn’t bring up what Maggie said about your mother, and you’re grateful. It’s not that it’s a secret; it’s just that it hurts to talk about. Still, you can’t stop yourself from asking, “What are you thinking?”
“Hmm?” Keisha’s gaze flicks from the road, to you in the passenger seat, and then back to traffic. “Oh,” she says, “it’s just strange. You know me. Verify, fact-check, double-check.”
“Yeah?”
The light ahead turns red, and Keisha slows and stops.
“And with Tucker and Phillip, I know the truth of the end of their stories. I know how they died, and why. But I don’t know what made them that way. What made them into wolves. Do you think they were just . . . born that way? Like, a genetic anomaly?”
“I don’t know what makes a wolf,” you say.
Keisha nods, but her hands tighten on the steering wheel, and you can tell it’s not enough for her. And when the light turns green again, Keisha, who always pays attention to everything, is lost in thought and doesn’t step on the gas until the driver behind her honks his horn.
Outside, the sun has disappeared. The sky is aglow with evening, and all around you, one by one, drivers switch on their headlights. Keisha reaches over and turns hers on, too.
The toxicology report is back by the third week of November. Blood alcohol concentration: .13. Unusual compounds discove
red: methylone and cathinone. Same as Tucker.
The cops pivot their investigation away from the high school and toward local drug dealers. Channel 4 News does a special report on designer drugs and the kids who use them.
And by the time Thanksgiving break rolls around, talk about the story at school has faded. You know this is in part because Keisha has let the story die; if she hadn’t been in the woods that night—if she hadn’t seen it for herself—she wouldn’t have ever stopped digging. And it occurs to you how interesting that is—how people follow the stories that they are led to, and how quickly most people will fade away from a topic that they’re not repeatedly, consistently reminded about.
People, you suppose, can get used to pretty much anything. After all, when the moon is full near the end of November and you bleed again, you are not surprised when its light, flooding through your bedroom window, keeps you wide awake. You are not surprised when you slip from your blankets, pull on your jeans, your boots, when you drape your claw around your neck and tuck it into your shirt before you zip up your red sweatshirt and tuck your hair into its hood. The forest waits, and as you close the door silently behind you, you breathe in the night’s damp air, you flex your fingers and tighten them to fists, and you go into the trees to roam and hunt.
Talk of the Wolf
Fall becomes winter, and winter stretches into the new year, and all the while the forest is barren of wolves. Each month with your flow, you go into the woods, no matter the weather, and you prowl under the full-bellied moon. Is the forest safe because you roam it? Or is it simply that there are no wolves, and your presence is neither a deterrent nor a provocation? You cannot know.
“There isn’t always a wolf,” Mémé reminds you, “but there is always the threat of one.”
Aside from the threat of wolves and the monthly appearance of your menses, your life moves through the seasons the same as it ever has. Since late November, James has been busy with basketball, and most afternoons he’s at practice or a game—even Wednesdays. You still see him at school and on weekends. When you are together, in stolen moments between classes, on weekend mornings when you accompany him on rainy jogs—he’s training for basketball, and you are training now, too—your desire for him is insistent, demanding. You wonder, one Saturday afternoon, your chin rubbed red from his weekend stubble, your vulva swollen with desire, if this is because you have seen death, and you have wrought it. It is no wonder you crave the aliveness of his mouth and hands so very much.
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