Part 34 (2/2)

Then her tone changes. ”There's nothing wrong with being a girl, Micah. There really isn't.”

”This again,” I think, but I don't say it.

”You need to accept who you are.”

She's right, but not the way she thinks she is.

”I don't want to be a boy,” I tell her. ”Honest.”

I don't know what Yayeko is thinking, not till later. But I can tell you now: while she talks about my denying my femininity, she's thinking about subst.i.tuting sugar pills for my real ones, which she does.

On the third day in her home, I change.

AFTER.

It's 5:00 a.m. and I wake out of a dream of forest and deer. I'm flushed and sweating and I know.

I've thrown off the blanket. There's spotting on the sheets.

I'm itchy, I'm worse than itchy, it's like my skin is trying to tear itself from my flesh. Coa.r.s.e hair has sprouted across my arms, my back, my everywhere. My head throbs, my eyes. Everything blurs. My muscles ache, my bones. My teeth s.h.i.+ft, get bigger, move. My jaw is breaking.

I roll off the couch, land heavily on the floor. The shudder goes through the apartment.

I hear stirring. Yayeko, her daughter, Megan, her mother. Their breathing hurts my ears. My hands and feet slip on the floor because they're not hands and feet anymore: paws, claws.

I'm crouching, my backbone ripples, lengthens. There's howling. I think it's me.

Smells flood me. Human smells: salt, sweat, meat, blood, fear.

I smell prey.

Lots of it.

I'm always hungry after the change.

HISTORY OF ME.

My first memory is of looking into the eyes of a wolf. They were gigantic and blue. I was small enough that when the wolf looked at me, sniffed at me, and then licked me, it was all I could see. I stared up into those wolf eyes.

Except it wasn't a wolf, it was a husky. Owned by the old couple who used to live next door.

I remember that I liked its smell. I remember that it smelled like home to me. I couldn't have been more than a baby. Later I asked. My parents told me that the old couple and their dog moved away before Jordan was born. Before I was two. ”So cruel,” Mom said. ”Keeping such a big dog in so small a s.p.a.ce.”

I wonder if the wolf in that dog could see the wolf in me?

It accepted me without question. Let me pull its tail, lean against its belly, and fall asleep.

Wolves don't lie. Nor do their dog relations. We recognize each other.

I didn't feel that at home again until I met Zach.

But there was no wolf in him.

AFTER.

I smell blood moving in the veins of the tallest one. I smell it in the other two, hiding behind salt, water, and fear. Their fear smells delicious. It's the prey smell.

I move toward them, growling. I am hungry; saliva drips over my teeth, down my jaw. The smaller one backs away. The old one moves with her. Their movements are slow and awkward. Even without kin here, this is an easy hunt. But I wish Hilliard could see me corralling them.

The tallest one takes a step toward me. She does not smell like fear.

The young one moves again.

I leap.

But the tall one moves between me and my prey. I land on her, pus.h.i.+ng her to the floor, my teeth bared.

The small one and the old one yelp and whine. I swipe a paw and knock the old one over. She lands hard and is quiet. I smell urine. The young one caterwauls as if I've already gutted her. I tense to leap again.

But the tall one is looking up at me, low sounds vibrating in her throat.

I know those sounds.

I turn back to the little one. I'm hungry and she's whining at me to eat her.

The tallest one reaches up and touches the fur around my neck, she digs her fingers in, pulls my gaze back to her. My saliva drips on her face.

Her low sounds continue, unwavering and steady and sure. ”Micah,” she is saying. Over and over again.

My name.

”Micah,” Yayeko says.

I'm hungry. I'm a wolf.

”Micah, Micah, Micah, Micah, Micah, Micah, Micah.”

”Micah's a wolf,” I want to tell her. But wolves can't talk.

Megan is leaning over her grandmother, crying.

”Micah,” Yayeko says again and again. ”Micah.”

Her words are making me sleepier than I am hungry.

I rest my snout on my paws, remembering what it's like to have fingers.

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