Part 19 (2/2)

I am not like that long-ago, hair-trigger wolf.

My parents do not listen. When they found me with Zach they went ballistic.

HISTORY OF ME.

I have thought about not taking the pill in the city, not climbing into the cage. I'd like to see what would happen. How would a wolf hide in the city? Where would they hide? Central Park? Too small. Too overcrowded. Inwood? Maybe. In some ways it would be safer than upstate. Not so many shotguns and coyote-hating farmers in the city.

I would love to know if it's possible. I would love to try.

I imagine myself living off the ducks and turtles and rabbits in Central Park.

What about when I changed back? How would I-filthy, naked, most likely covered in dried blood-make it all the way back home? Even at four in the morning there are people on the streets. Would I be arrested? Probably not. I'd be confused, they'd think I'd been attacked. They'd take me to a hospital. Would my blood be tested? Would I be discovered? Locked up? Turned into an exhibit? I can see the headlines: First Werewolf Discovered!

Stranger than Fiction: Miss Wolf!

I can never do it. The risk is too great.

But I would like to. I think of the challenge. I think of the fun.

Besides, I am so much faster than any police officer.

If it weren't for my parents, I would do it in a heartbeat.

BEFORE.

Hilliard was ahead of the deer, me and Jessie flanked it. The fear it gave off was so pungent I would've gagged if it hadn't smelled so delicious, like swimming in chocolate.

We'd waited out of range of the herd's eyes, ears, and noses for so long that I'd forgotten what moving was like. Hilliard is strict about waiting for the perfect moment, for the wind to be in the right place for us to start moving without setting the deer off, for us to be able to cut off their exits. Healthy deer can outrun us. These were very healthy deer: glossy hides, sharp eyes, and musky inviting odors.

I waited, salivating.

Hunting is six-tenths waiting. That's the worst part. Then there's the three-tenths of running, and only one-tenth of bringing the animal down. That's the best part.

When the herd bolted, we'd already surrounded the slowest: an older doe. Hilliard went for the neck. I buried my teeth and claws in her belly. Jessie bit in deep on the deer's hindquarters. The deer went down.

I clawed the belly wide open, tore at the guts, the innards spilled out so hot they steamed, filling the air with the smell of blood, gas, and acid.

We hunkered down and ate everything: eyeb.a.l.l.s, entrails, ears. When we were done the deer was nothing but hooves, bones, fur, and stringy bits of sinew. No carrion left for the birds, barely enough for ants and flies to nibble on.

HISTORY OF ME.

I've made wolf life sound more romantic than it is.

When I'm a wolf I have ticks. Parasites suck the blood in my belly and mites breed in my ears. Tapeworms come from the deer I eat, fluke from the fish.

It's true that I hunt, that I run and play. Most enjoyable, all three. Except when they're not. When the prey gets away, which is most of the time. A part-time wolf is not as competent as a full-time wolf. A wolf as part-time as me? Three or four times in the summer. I am the least competent wolf of all.

Mostly I sleep. When I'm awake all I want to do is scratch and eat and play and go back to sleep.

When I'm a wolf I itch, I ache, I'm hungry all the time, and if I stray too far off the farm I get shot at. The farm is smaller to the wolf-me than our apartment is to the human-me.

But both are better than time spent in a cage.

PART THREE.

The Actual Real Truth.

HISTORY OF ME.

Being a liar is not an easy business. For starters, you have to keep track of your lies. Remember exactly what you've said and who you said it to. Because that first lie always leads to a second.

There's never ever just one lie.

That's why it's best to keep it simple-gives you a better chance of tracking all the threads, keeping them spinning, and hopefully not propagating too many more.

It's hard work keeping all those lies in the air. Imagine juggling a thousand torches that are all tied together with fine thread. Or running the world's most complicated machine with cogs on wheels on cogs on wheels on cogs.

Even the best liars, even the ones with the longest memories, the best eye for detail and the big picture, even they get caught eventually. Maybe not in all their lies, but in one or two or more. That's the way it is.

I hate when that happens. When people figure out that what you were saying wasn't true and your elaborate construction crumbles.

The lies stop spinning, there's no lubrication, gears grind on gears. That's the moment when Sarah stared at me after I laughed, and said, ”You're a girl.”

That moment could have lasted a week. A month. A year.

I was ashamed and angry and hating being caught and already spinning more lies to explain it all away.

But it was also a relief. It's always a relief.

Because the air is clear, now-at last-I can tell the truth. From this moment on everything will be true. A life lived true with no rotten foundations. Trust. Understanding. Everything s.h.i.+ny and new.

Except I can't, not ever. Because my truth is so unbelievable- What did you do over the summer?

Turned into a wolf, tore deer and rabbit apart . . .

-lies will always be easier.

Spin, spin, spin.

I have been through the moment of being found out a hundred times, a thousand times, maybe even a million. I'm only seventeen, but I've already seen that look of shock-she lied to me-so many times I have lost count.

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