Part 25 (2/2)

Zach nodded, his head still down. ”I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't-we didn't . . . I respect-”

”Go now,” Dad said.

Zach went, looking back at me for half a second, hand half raised. I smiled back at him.

”Wipe that smile off your face!” Dad yelled.

I tried not to laugh. He'd never said stuff like that before: ”Young man,” ”Wipe that smile off.” It was like he was quoting from a ye olden days handbook of angry parenting.

”Are you insane?” Dad asked in a lower tone, aware now that some of the hipsters and homeless were looking at us, wryly amused. ”Why would you take such a crazy risk?”

He grabbed my arm. I didn't shake him off despite really wanting to. Mom gave me her most powerful I-am-disappointed-and-ashamed-of-you look.

”We're going home. We'll talk about this there.” Dad turned on his heel, pulling me along behind him. I kept my eyes down, dragging my feet all the way along Seventh Street.

Home was more haranguing. Lots of words repeated over and over: trust, dangerous, responsible, disappointed. They yelled; I listened.

Except for when they demanded to know if we'd had s.e.x and I insisted we hadn't.

That was that. I was grounded.

Zach died the next weekend.

LIE NUMBER SEVEN.

Me and Zach slept together. Made love. Had s.e.x. f.u.c.ked. Explored every inch of each other's bodies.

Not once, many times, lots of times, all the time.

I liked it. He liked it.

Other than running it was what we did most.

We couldn't keep our hands off each other. It was like the pull of magnets, magnets that sparked when contact was made. Not sparked, exploded.

It was worst in school. We had to avoid each other. Sit nowhere near at lunch. Opposite sides of the cla.s.sroom. The only way I could not look at him was to keep my eyes down. Otherwise it was impossible.

I burned. He burned.

Sometimes in cla.s.s-even in bio-my concentration was shot. Even when I couldn't see him, I could smell him, which was worse.

There were days I didn't think I'd make it. I'd close my eyes. Imagine pulling him into the janitor's closet. Or worse, leaping across desks, jumping on him, demonstrating the reproductive systems, then and there, in front of Yayeko and the whole cla.s.s.

Sometimes it would make me sweat, make me damp between my legs. I'd have to run to the bathroom. Stick my head under the cold water faucet. Slap my face. Do anything but think about Zach. Plug my nose with cotton b.a.l.l.s so I couldn't smell him.

Every day at school I managed not to touch him, not to look his way was a triumph. It was also a lie. Other than keeping my wolfishness hidden, my biggest lie.

I don't understand how we got away with it for so long. How did no one notice? Except Brandon, and that was only because he saw us.

People are blind.

Same as you, if you believed what I said earlier, that we never made it past first base. How dumb can you be?

About as dumb as everyone at school. When they found out they didn't believe it.

It was a relief to be busted. Except that Zach was dead, so there was nothing to hide.

Now I'm not lying. I lied to my parents, but not to you.

They can't know because I swore to them that I hadn't, that I wouldn't. They were so freaked when they caught me and Zach kissing, so afraid of me fooling around. Afraid that it would unleash the wolf, afraid that I'd get pregnant and make more beasts. Afraid of me.

So I lied. When they caught us I told them that was the only thing we'd done together: kissing, nothing more. And the only time. I told them I was curious. That I wouldn't do it again.

But that's not why I lied to you. Not entirely. I mean, I was in the habit of keeping it hidden: from my parents, from everyone at school, most especially from Sarah.

I wanted you to think that I'm a good girl. Good girls don't kill.

s.e.x is beastly, animal, out of control. The feeling I get from f.u.c.king is not so far from how I feel when I hunt, when I bring down prey. The two are too close. Too intimate. Too likely to get confused. Not by me, by you.

I did not kill Zach.

AFTER.

”You need to bring him here,” Grandmother says. We're out on the porch in rocking chairs. Grandmother has a rug over her legs. Great-Aunt Dorothy is knitting something orange. I'm staring at the trees and trying not to scratch my arm where the new hair has come in. I've timed my visit badly. The place is overrun with wolves. The pull of so many changes is fierce: the hair starts to sprout within three hours of getting there. I can feel my heart beating faster.

Great-Aunt nods. ”Get him out of the city. Bring him here. We'll take care of him.” The click of her needles takes on an ominous sound.

The packet of birth control pills is in the breast pocket of my s.h.i.+rt. I keep them there when I'm with the Greats and don't want to change. That way Grandmother won't find them when she looks through my stuff. I put my hand over the pocket. Maybe the hormones will soak through the foil and cardboard and cloth into my fingertips, keep the change at bay.

”Take care of him?” I ask, though I think I understand what they're saying.

Grandmother tut-tuts and presses her index finger to her bottom lip. I'm not sure if she's shus.h.i.+ng me or telling me not to worry.

”It means he won't be killing any more people,” Great-Aunt Dorothy says.

”Not ever,” Grandmother says.

”Because you'll kill him?”

Grandmother nods and Great-Aunt clicks her needles louder.

”Good. He deserves to die. How will I get him up here?” I don't even know how to find him.

Grandmother laughs. It's a weird sound. More of a bark really. I'm not sure I've heard her laugh before. ”Ask him. He'll follow.”

I'm not sure I want him to. I'm relieved they haven't told me to kill him but I'm also angry. Which emotion is stronger? I don't know. What would it be like to kill another human being? I don't want to know. Yet I do. Part of me wants to f.u.c.k Zach's killer up.

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