Part 20 (2/2)

”You're a wolf,” I say as we run past St. Mark's.

He reeks of it.

But how can that be?

The Greats say our kind mostly avoid cities. Except for boy wolves who don't want to change. Is that what he is? Then why follow me?

He stops in his tracks. I stop, too. But too slow. When I've turned around he's already off again, half a block away. I sprint hard to catch him. Watching his ungainly form weaving along the sidewalk, avoiding other people, elbows sticking out. I should be able to catch him but the half-block lead is opening up to a full block. I am tempted to tear Mom's dress, but she'd kill me. I press harder, das.h.i.+ng across Eleventh, narrowly avoiding being hit by a taxi, who hits his horn and screams abuse.

The boy is even farther ahead, dodging the traffic on Fourteenth.

I pull up short of Union Square. Tonight I don't have the reserves to catch him. They were drained away by the funeral, by Sarah and Tayshawn, by Zach. I'm spent.

I am unnerved. I head home. It's a necessity. As I regain my breath, I find myself wis.h.i.+ng the Greats didn't live so far away. I have a hundred questions. If the white boy is what I think he is, if he did what I think he did, then I need their knowledge, I need them to tell me what to do.

Right now I'm wondering what it would be like to tear open his abdomen, watch the innards fall out.

I wonder what I should tell my parents.

As I pull out my keys and unlock the door to our apartment building I turn. Across the street in front of the supermarket the boy watches me.

LIE NUMBER TWO.

I kissed Sarah first.

In the cave, after the funeral, when me and Sarah and Tayshawn were entwined, it was me who started it, not them.

I don't know why I lied. Does it matter who kissed who first? All three of us kissed. No one pulled away. There was no hesitation.

I guess I wanted it to be that way. For them to start it, not me. As we sat there talking, I could feel my lips getting warmer, along with my skin-the cave, too-the air between us. I knew it wasn't only me. Their mouths were glistening, redder than usual. Their eyes clear. They were as much in heat as I was.

Sarah wanted to kiss me. I'm sure of that. Tayshawn, too. Otherwise why would they have responded? They needed me to set their heat free.

But it does matter. Me making the first move? They'll always be thinking I'm easy.

By kissing them first I confirmed the thousand s.l.u.t calls as I walk by.

When I leaned toward Sarah, she was already leaning toward me.

I should have waited.

AFTER.

Dad is waiting, sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop.

”Hi, Micah,” he says, looking up, smiling at me. He's showing his concern, that he knows what day it is, and he cares. There's no reason for me to be annoyed. I am annoyed anyway.

”Hi, Dad,” I say, hoping that I can get this over with and be in my room quickly.

”How'd it go?”

I shrug. How does he think the funeral went? Well, probably not how it actually went. I am not going to tell him about walking out, about Sarah and Tayshawn. Nor about the white boy following me home. I'm not going to tell him anything that matters.

”It was weird,” I say, because he needs to hear something. ”I mean, the funeral was weird. All these people I never saw before and the preacher said stuff that was all wrong. Not like Zach at all. It was like no one had even met him, let alone knew him well. They were all talking about imaginary Zach.”

”Funerals are always that way,” Dad says, closing his laptop to show that I have his full attention. ”Everyone talks about an idealized version of the dearly departed. All their warts are removed and they become someone they're not . . .”

I lean against the fridge, knocking off a magnet and causing one of Jordan's vomits on paper to fall to the floor. I ignore it. ”The party after was worse. I only knew his friends from school and none of them like me. And they were all drinking-”

”You didn't-” Dad begins.

”No, Dad. Of course not.” I'm not allowed to drink because they're afraid I'll turn wolfish even though the Greats say that's horses.h.i.+t. Well, mostly horses.h.i.+t. Great-Aunt Dorothy remembered that it had happened once with her grandfather, but only once, and she doesn't remember it happening to any other wolf. ”I've still never had a sip of alcohol. Even if I wanted to try it, I wouldn't surrounded by those creeps. They think I'm a freak. Which is true, just not the way they think I am. I can't wait till school's done,” I finish, hoping I've said enough for Dad to feel as if we've had a talk and he's done his fatherly duty. I'm pretty sure that's how it would have been if I had gone to Will's place.

”I'm sorry,” Dad says. ”You okay?”

I nod. Even though I'm not. I wonder what he'd say if I told him about the white boy. About what I suspect.

”Your mom wants to talk to you.”

”She in bed?” I ask, even though it's obvious. It's not as if there's anywhere else she could be.

”Uh-huh,” Dad says, reaching out to pat my shoulder. I don't brush his hand off though I want to. ”You sure you're okay?”

”Yeah,” I say. ”Tired.” Confused, guilty, sad, angry, worried, mourning. I am many things. I want to know who that boy is, why he's following me, what he wants. I want to know if he killed Zach. I want to know why.

I want Zach to be alive.

I knock on the door to Mom and Dad's room. ”Mom?” I call, not bothering to be quiet for Jordan asleep a thin wall away.

”Come in,” Mom says.

I open the door. Mom's in bed, wearing her frilly pajamas that make us both giggle. She pats the bed. I sit. She pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head. My throat hurts so much it closes over. For a moment I can't breathe, tears stream out of my eyes. I can't seem to stop. I cry and cry and cry.

”There, there, cherie,” she says, stroking my hair. ”There, there, my love.”

BEFORE.

Me and Zach, we raced each other a lot after that first time in Central Park. The result was never in question. He was fast, I was faster. I knew that. He knew that.

But it was Zach who taught me how to run right.

Running beside him, matching stride for stride, hearing his breath, smelling it. Duplicating it. Teaching myself to run as he did. No one ever taught me, you see. I had no technique. Learning from Zach made me even faster, copying all the things Zach learned from his coach: landing light on my heels, knees higher, longer stride. Fists pumping, elbows in tight by my side.

I even tried to get my heart to beat at the same pace as his.

I could hear his beating when I slept, taste his breath. It was as if he had crawled into my skin. Under it, always there.

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