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  This time when he speaks, he can no longer look at me or even at Jess’s stuffed animals; he has no courage or confidence, just words. “I’m not really sure about that.”

  Oh really? It sounds like the butterfly has been too busy flying all over town and not paying attention to what’s going on right in front of him. Before I can say something cryptic yet obvious enough so he understands that I’m Caleb’s girlfriend and have no desire to break up with him to start a new relationship with Jess’s ex, the door flies open and we’re interrupted.

  “Here you are. Mrs. Wyatt is looking for you guys.”

  Archie stares at us, and because I know him so well, I know he’s thinking of something to say about me and Napoleon being together behind closed doors. To prevent him from making an awkward situation even more awkward, I roll my eyes, and thankfully Archie gets the hint.

  Downstairs, Mrs. Wyatt puts a plastic storage box on the dining room table. The black plastic box looks out of place amid trays of food and her good china, but she tells us that she wants to give us some of Jess’s things. She knows we don’t need mementos to remember her daughter, but she wants each of us to have a keepsake. When she looks into the box she starts to cry. No one makes a move toward her; she’s looking at her dead daughter’s possessions, so this is expected. It would have been nice if Mr. Wyatt had been at her side to put his arm around her shoulder or gently press his head against hers so she knew she wasn’t alone, but he’s sitting in a chair in the corner. He’s clutching his tumbler of Scotch—at least I think it’s Scotch—so tightly and his eyes are so glassy, it looks as if he doesn’t know there are other people in the room.

  Composed, Mrs. Wyatt shakes her head, giving her teased hair a little bounce, and tugs on her black dress so the hem stays below her knee. The first gift she pulls out is for Arla. It’s a box of MAC cosmetics.

  “Jess loved her beauty products,” her mother says, beaming with pride.

  “Yes, she did,” Arla agrees. “I’ll think of her every time I mix ’n match my eye shadow and my lip gloss.”

  “That’s my girl!”

  Mrs. Wyatt hugs Arla tenderly. I push the thought from my mind that she’ll never again get to do that to her own daughter.

  Next, she gives a whole bunch of theater paraphernalia to Archie. Playbills from shows Jess and her family saw on Broadway when they visited New York, posters, articles, CDs, even a Phantom of the Opera sweatshirt. Phantom is Archie’s favorite musical because, as he once told us, he and the phantom are a lot alike. They’re both oddities and do their best to blend into the shadows of the world to remain unseen. It’s an out and out lie—Archie doesn’t hide from anything—but we let him have his moment and never questioned him.

  Finally she pulls out a bunch of bags and hands them to me. They’re filled with Jess’s Hello Kitty collection—dolls, stuffed animals, key chains, a lunchbox, T-shirts, hair clips, pencils, stationery.

  “Jeremy!” Mrs. Wyatt shouts. “It’s time.”

  Jess’s older brother enters the dining room carrying his sister’s prize possession, a Hello Kitty wheelie suitcase that she would use whenever she slept over my house. I’m speechless. Not because I’m moved by the gesture, but because I know I don’t deserve such kindness. Not from anyone and especially not from Jess’s mother. And Jess’s dog agrees.

  Underneath the chatter a sound bubbles and rises to the surface. I know that sound very well; it’s a growl. Standing in the archway is Misutakiti, Jess’s German shepherd, looking exactly the way he did when I saw him in Mrs. Wyatt’s car, motionless, but ready and eager to pounce. And his eyes are glaring right at his target: me.

  Slowly the crowd notices the canine intruder and his disposition, and the chatter becomes hushed, then silent. Misutakiti walks toward me gracefully, each step deliberate, each step a warning, and he doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of me, his eyes peering into me as if he knows what role I’ve played in his beloved owner’s disappearance. As if he knows more than I do. And whatever he knows calls out for revenge.

  The growl deepens, and white foam appears around his mouth, seeping out the sides. Suddenly Misu jumps forward and lunges for me, paws clawing, mouth open and teeth bared, eyes glaring with murderous intent. I scream and jump back, sending a lamp flying through the air. Misu falls into the wall next to me as a glass bounces off of him and shatters on the floor. Mr. Wyatt’s Scotch spills across the hardwood. Before Misu can get his footing and stage a repeat attack, Jeremy grabs his collar and drags him out to the backyard, the dog growling and barking the entire way.

  Mrs. Wyatt apologizes and says Misu must have smelled Jess’s scent on me and gotten upset and confused. Maybe what he really smelled was the scent of Jess’s death that still clings to me.

  My run-in with Misutakiti has unnerved me. Maybe it takes an animal to recognize the presence of another animal. Maybe Misu singled me out because he knows what I’ve been thinking about. Maybe Misu is a lot wiser than everyone else in this town.

  Ever since I got home from the funeral and the repast I’ve been wondering if I can confirm that I’m a . . . a . . . I can’t even say it! The word clings to my throat so it can stay hidden and not face the world. But it has to come out of hiding so it can be made real and either become accepted or be proven a mere myth. I have to say the word out loud so I can hear it. And so I do.

  “Werewolf.”

  I wait for something foreboding or important to happen, but nothing does. Disgusted with myself for giving in to such an idiotic thought, I jump off my bed and trip over my father’s metal box that’s jutting out from underneath my bed. Frustrated, I kick the box, and the contents spread out on the floor. Great, now I have to clean up this mess. I’m about to leave my room to get a drink when something catches my eye. It’s a calendar caught in the glow of the moonlight that’s streaming into my room. Picking it up I see that it’s current, a calendar my father must have recently added to his collection that plots out the phases of the moon.

  Sitting on the floor I look at the drawings—half-moon, crescent, gibbous, full. The full moon. It’s a black-and-white drawing, so the moon looks like it does in the old horror movies Barnaby and I used to watch snuggled together in my bed. A round circle, its surface decorated with swirling gray shadows, hanging motionless in a deep black sky, unmoving but filled with some kind of power.

  Staring at it is like being lured into a trance, but I’m not frightened because this is a familiar feeling. I’ve felt this before, right here with the moonlight invading my room and while walking near the hills with Jess on our way to my house to celebrate my birthday, a celebration that never took place. The moon uses its power and makes my body start to burn. It doesn’t feel like scorching flames or as if I’m on fire; the feeling is more like I’m glowing from within. The moon has switched on a light inside of me, and I’ve suddenly been turned into the person I was born to be. The frightening part is that I don’t know if that person is someone good or someone evil.

  My windows rattle as another violent wind erupts outside. The glass of the windowpanes shuddering in fear or delight, I have no idea. What I do know is that the truth is close to being exposed; it’s trying so hard to be unlocked, recognized. I look at the calendar and see that the next full moon is in three weeks.

  The metal box clinks loudly as I shut it.

  Three more weeks.

  Let the waiting begin.

  Chapter 13

  Patience is highly overrated.

  It’s a prerequisite for saints, a learned skill for archeologists, and a bonus for people waiting in line at the DMV. But for people who want to find out if some crazy woman put a curse on their heads, patience is elusive. I thought I was going to absolutely lose my freaking mind waiting, but “three more weeks” has finally turned into “three more days.” Three more days until December 26, the night the full moon returns. At least that’s the day after Christmas; otherwise I might find a very different kind of gift hiding under my tree.


  Even though I told my father it would be in poor taste to have a tree this year, he insisted. Surprisingly, Barnaby agreed with me. Jess always made a fuss over him, treated him like an equal and not like her best friend’s annoying little brother, so I guess he wanted to honor her death in a small way. But we lost the battle.

  “Christmas, after all, was Jess’s favorite holiday,” my father reminded us. “If we don’t celebrate, it would be like we were forgetting her.”

  I could’ve argued that point with my father, but I let it slide. No matter what I do, I can’t forget Jess. Staring out the window of the school bus, I see Jess waiting on every corner. I turn to the empty seat next to me, and I can see her there fiddling through her school bag, looking for something that she probably never put there in the first place. No one has sat next to me since Jess died because they all know they can’t take her place. Archie and Arla live on the other side of town and take a different bus into school, so I’m alone until I get into class. Only one more half day before our Christmas break. About four hours. If I can survive that long.

  I know that I’ll see Jess walking down the hallway and sitting in geometry. I have since the day she died. In fact, she’s the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think of when I fall asleep. She’s in my dreams; she’s in my conversations; she’s in the pauses when I’m not speaking. It’s like she’s inside of me and I can’t separate myself from her, like a possession, like I’m being haunted.

  Hunched over the toilet in the girls’ room I lift the lid of the bowl and grip it tight with two hands. My eyes shut as I feel my face stretch, and my breakfast splatters into the water. The second time the mixture of bile and partially digested food erupts from my stomach, my throat burns from the acid, and my body shakes uncontrollably. The third time I wretch, nothing comes out of me. My eyes are filled with water, so when I open them my vision is blurry, but I can still see a thin strand of saliva extending from my lips to the contents of the bowl. There’s no doubt about it; I’m connected to this filth. We’re one and the same.

  With one hand I flush and watch the disgust that was once part of me disappear. I wish it meant that now I’m clean, but I know that isn’t true.

  Still hunched over, one knee pressing into the hard, cold tile of the bathroom floor, I pull on the roll of toilet paper, and, without tearing off a piece, I wipe my mouth. I rip off some paper and wipe the sweat off my forehead and the back of my neck, then toss it all into the bowl and give it another flush.

  The mirror over the sink takes up the entire length and width of the wall, so I have no choice but to look at myself. I expect to see a tarnished version of myself, uglier, unkempt, like I got carried away and spent the night partying. I don’t expect to see a wolf.

  It only lasted a second, but it was there, either a reflection of my true spirit or my screwed-up imagination. The animal looking back at me was majestic and powerful and familiar. It was covered in a coat of thick red fur the same color as my hair, and when it tilted its head and looked directly at me, I could see that our eyes were the same unusual shade of blue gray. But the eyes of this animal were more different than just their color would suggest; they had powers. They pierced right through me, and this wolf knew the truth about me that I’ve yet to discover.

  The cold water feels good splashing against my warm skin, washing away the image or my memory and making me return to reality. After I turn the faucet off I let my head hang, let the water drip off my face into the sink, watch the single droplets connect with one another to create something larger so they don’t have to travel down the sink alone. So they have someone to be with when they enter the darkness. I want that. It hits me like a hard, unexpected slap to my face that I cannot do this alone. I know I have my father, but he’s my father; I’m supposed to stand behind him as he paves the way for me or he’s supposed to watch me run off into the world from a safe distance behind me. He’s not supposed to walk with me by my side, and that’s what I need now, now that time is running out. I silently count to three and promise myself that at the end I’ll stand up and look in the mirror at the only person I can count on, the one person who will come with me on this journey wherever it may lead.

  “Nadine!”

  She’s in two places at once, in the mirror and behind me to my left. Just like the wolf, she’s staring at me, not in surprise or in judgment, and I think I may have found a travel companion.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I heard you in the stall and was trying to give you some privacy.”

  My eyes glance down to the floor, not because I’m embarrassed, but because I want to see if she’s wearing those orthopedic white sneaker-shoes she wears at The Retreat. Thankfully, she’s swapped them for a pair of fleece-lined suede boots. Could be UGGs, but I don’t see Nadine as the trendy type, so I’m pretty sure they’re knockoffs. They’re cute though, sort of a pale blue, a few shades lighter than her blue khakis.

  She’s tucked her pants into her boots, and she’s wearing a body-hugging sweater, almost the same blue as her boots with white snowflakes on it. Her frizzy hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her face looks fresh and unblemished and inviting. She looks different. Or maybe it’s the first time I’ve really looked at Nadine for who she is and not the person I judged her to be.

  “Yeah . . . having a rough morning,” I confess.

  Nadine smiles, but doesn’t say anything. With her fist she bangs on the hand towel dispenser twice to produce a sheet of the brown, heavy-duty paper, holds it under the faucet in the sink, the one next to the one I just used, and wets it. She folds it twice then turns to me.

  “Hold still,” she says.

  I don’t have a chance to move before Nadine folds the wet towel around some strands of my hair and runs it down to the tips. She holds my hair away from my shoulder, careful not to get my shirt wet. I have no idea what she’s doing, but she’s doing it with such command that I don’t consider interrupting her.

  “Hold your hair back next time,” she says, brushing my hair back into place. “You might be aiming for the bowl, but vomit has a mind of its own.”

  Gross, but honest. And that’s exactly what I need right now.

  “Thank you,” I reply.

  Without moving closer to the garbage can, Nadine tosses the rolled up wet paper and makes a perfect shot. As she washes her hands, her eyes bounce off the mirror and look right at me. “Dominy, I don’t want to pry into your business,” she starts, “but is this something you do often?”

  “I’m too vain to be bulimic,” I laugh. “All that constant puking turns your teeth gray.”

  “And puffs up your cheeks so you look like a very industrious chipmunk on the last days before hibernation,” she adds.

  Leaning into the counter, Nadine laughs and looks so much younger than the matronly girl who squeaks down the hallways of The Retreat, clutching her clipboard to her chest. So much more like someone who could be a friend. And who doesn’t need a friend who isn’t too squeamish to wipe off stray vomit from your hair?

  “It’s because of Jess, isn’t it?” Nadine asks.

  I nod my head. “I know you didn’t know her that well,” I reply clumsily.

  “Just because I volunteer at The Retreat doesn’t mean I’m used to people dying,” Nadine states. “No one ever gets used to that.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that,” I say defensively. “It’s just . . . oh God I don’t know what I meant. I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. I’m the new girl; I totally understand I have to earn my keep,” she responds. “And your trust.”

  Do I tell her what I’m thinking? Do I confide in her? Do I share with her all the impossible thoughts and ideas banging around inside my head? Yes. I just told the universe that I didn’t want to take this journey on my own, that I needed a trustworthy companion, sort of a nuJess, and the next thing I know Nadine pops up. Can’t be coincidence; has to mean much more than that. Yes, I want to take this leap and
share everything with her, unburden myself so I don’t feel so sickeningly alone. I open my mouth to speak, but before the words come out we get company.

  “Archie!” Nadine cries. “This is the girls’ room!”

  “I know!” he replies. “The lack of urinals kind of gives it away.”

  “Just because you’re gay doesn’t give you carte blanche to burst in here without any warning!” Nadine roars.

  Ignoring Nadine’s protest, Archie walks right up to me. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine, thanks,” I answer.

  “I saw you come in here, and I’ve been waiting outside for like fifteen minutes,” he sputters. “I know it takes you girls forever to go and, you know, freshen up and do the lady thing, but seriously how fresh do you need to be? It’s only a half day!”

  I look at Archie and then Nadine. They’re perfect.

  “Could the two of you meet me after school?” I ask.

  “Are you going to keep me waiting again?” Archie shoots back.

  “Shut up,” I say. “Yes or no?”

  Archie’s response comes immediately, Nadine’s a few seconds later, but they both consent to my request.

  “Good,” I reply. “Meet me in the library after the final bell.”

  “Ooh, that sound positively clandestine,” Archie jokes. “Like you’re going to lure Nadine and me into some crazy web of mystery and intrigue.”

  He has no idea how right he is.

  At two minutes after one I’m sitting in a far corner of the library tucked away in the reference section that no one uses anymore. Who needs a vintage encyclopedia when you have access to the Internet? The sounds of eager students leaving the school ready to start their Christmas vacation fill up the halls and spill into this secluded area. Their happy sounds are muffled, not part of my life, not until my waiting period is over. But hopefully in a few more minutes I won’t have to wait alone.