Not Your Ordinary Wolf Girl (7 page)

Another surprise awaited me up in bed. Switching on the light, I saw twigs, grass, and clumps of moist soil scattered across the mattress. I inspected the mess with a sinking feeling. After changing the sheets, I lay down and closed my eyes, just for a minute …

It was mid-afternoon by the time I crawled out of bed again. My eyes were puffy and my head ached. Between chugs from a pitcher of tap water, I nibbled on dry crackers. The fridge was now officially empty, except for condiments and a head of lettuce rotting into soup.

I ditched the lettuce, plugged in my cell, and checked all my messages, knowing my mom must be waiting to hear from me. Sure enough, she was about to send out a search party. Vinnie'd also called, to yell at me that we needed to reschedule the video shoot. The third-floor neighbours were demanding I put down my violent dog. The only pet I'd ever owned was a guinea pig in third grade whose death had convinced me I never wanted to go through that again. The message would've been funny if it wasn't so bizarre: “This is a one-dog building and Zoe was here first. One dog, you hear? We refuse to live any place where Zoe feels unsafe.”

Jules had called, too, demanding to know “exactly what is up your butt?” Malika had checked in around
noon. Her voice was heavy with concern, which made me feel guilty—but not enough to call her back right away. Mostly because I had no clue what I could possibly say that would relieve her worries. The final message was a surprise: Harris. He confessed he'd pried my number out of Malika and wanted to know if I felt well enough to grab a beer at the Cake Shop later on.

I'd never be able to face any of these people until I'd eaten, so I grabbed my wallet and jogged the six blocks to our local supermarket. I felt as if I could run forever and added that to the new list of things that made no sense about my life.

SIX

E
ntering the store, I knew someone was frying sausages and zoned in on the sample booth, where I pretended to have a hard time choosing between the six varieties. After allowing me to taste each of them twice, the sample woman began to cluck like an angry hen. So I tossed a few packages in my cart and hurried away.

My cart filled up with a huge barbecued chicken, turkey bacon, three sirloin steaks, two pounds of ground beef, an economy-sized package of pork chops, and a rack of lamb. I tossed in a bag of oranges and a dozen cans of frozen lemonade—not because I particularly wanted them, but because the vitamin C might counteract the gout I would surely get from my new all-meat-all-the-time diet.

As I unloaded everything at the register, a skinny brunette who seemed to be on a macrobiotic diet got in line behind me. She started to pile her greens on the counter, frowning judgmentally at my mountain of meat, then she looked up at me and gasped. “You're in that band! I saw you in an ad for PETA! Aren't you vegetarian?”

I blushed and began to babble: “Oh, yeah, that's me. This meat is for a … friend's barbecue. I agreed to … uh … bring the protein. Ewww! Animal flesh! Right?”

The woman nodded once, then tossed her sprouts and fresh vegetables onto the counter and hunted around in her handbag.

“Someone else is bringing the condiments,” I said, cringing inside as I continued to blather. “Ketchup, mayo, herbs, marinade, and stuff. Another person's on salads … starches. You know.”

The woman's head bobbed, but she wouldn't meet my eyes.

A barbecue in October? I really needed to work on my lying skills.

I paid as fast as I could, grabbed my bags, and marched out the automatic doors. My cheeks were pink, but my head was held high.

Too famished to wait until I got home, I sat behind a tree in the park across the street and dipped into one
of the bags to find my barbecued chicken. I ripped off a juicy leg. Just my luck: the moment I shoved it into my watering mouth, the woman who'd been behind me in line walked past. She raised an “I knew it!” eyebrow, whipped out her phone, and snapped a few pics.

I bared my teeth and leered greasily. That photo was totally going viral. No way to stop it. At least eating meat wasn't illegal. I tossed the clean bone into a garbage can and dug into a wing as I crossed the park. I found myself turning down my mom's street. The smell of brewing coffee wafted out the apartment door as I unlocked it. My mother might have a loose grip on reality herself, but she made the world's best espresso.

Betty Mitchell, aka Mom, was reading the local news section of the
Times
at the kitchen table. Her long sandy-brown hair was tied up in a messy loop on top of her head. Her jeans and smock were smeared with dabs and squirts of every imaginable colour. Her painting clothes should be framed as works of art in their own right.

She glanced up. “Sammy! I didn't know you were around today, sweetie.”

“Wasn't supposed to be.”

“What's wrong?”

I ignored her question and swooped down to plant a kiss on her cheek.

“How's it going?” I asked.

She sighed. “You want a happy answer or the truth?”

“Happy,” I said, without hesitation. Mom was always losing it about something. She had what I called “excessive empathy.” When she shoved the paper away, I guessed she'd been about to rant about the news. “Thanks. I could use a little more happy right now.”

“Ahh. Okay, I won't pry.” She paused anyway, hoping I'd elaborate. I didn't. “Well, then. I'm working on my portrait gallery for the big show tomorrow.”

I'd been so preoccupied, I'd forgotten about her show.

She pointed at a new row of paintings leaning against the wall—all bright slashes and dabs of colour that hinted at animal-like figures. In recent years she'd developed a name for herself as a painter of pets. Mom took the portraiture very seriously and didn't work from photos. She made several appointments with her “clients” so she could capture the true essence of Little Fido or Dottie. What I loved about her art was that it was such an interpretive process. Sometimes you couldn't even tell her images were based on cats and dogs. Once, I'd accused her of simply painting abstracts, and she hadn't denied it, just raised an eyebrow and murmured something about “auras.” The show she was preparing for was a featured exhibit at Woofstock, a
dog owners' convention in Toronto that she drove to every year.

“Looks great,” I said, shoving my bags in her fridge and then taking a seat across the table. “Those remind me a little of graffiti murals.”

“They're one of my inspirations,” she said, clearly pleased I'd figured that out. “To get into dogs' heads, I need to reflect their natural environments. Where do they spend a lot of time in the city? Alleys!”

So Mom was skulking in alleyways these days? Perfect. If I told her about my recent dreams and adventures, she'd be afraid of every shadow.

“Making espresso?” I asked, glancing pointedly at the percolator on the stove.

“It's almost ready,” she said.

I licked my lips greedily. “Caffeine deprived.”

She stood up and took two hand-painted cups from a cupboard above the sink. Mine had a picture of a toad snapping up a fly. Mom's handiwork. “Is Vinnie working you too hard?” she asked.

“No more than usual. Just having wicked food cravings.”

My mother's face froze and her cheeks turned a splotchy red that meant she was in shock. This was why I didn't tell her things. She jumped to horrific conclusions.

“Mom, god, no! I'm not pregnant!”

She smiled in relief. Then tensed again. “Are you sick?”

“My body just seems to, uh, need certain foods right now.”

“Are you anemic?”

“Maybe. And I'm running a bit of a fever. The doctor says I'll be fine.”

“Well, I'm glad you saw a doctor. Sounds like some kind of infection.”

“Maybe.”

She took a container of cream from the fridge and set it down in front of me, along with sugar and little spoons. “You know, I wasn't much older than you are now when I had you …”

“Change of subject! Please!”

“Okay.” She patted her hair anxiously, but only succeeded in making it messier. “Sam, you need to be serious about these things. It takes only one careless moment. Or, in my case, a night of incredible, reckless, passionate—”

“Thanks for the mental image.”

My mom had told me that my dad was the most beautiful man she'd ever met and they had absolutely nothing in common. They got married, had me, and when he told her he was leaving, she realized she
was okay with it. Neither of them was cut out for marriage. So she raised me on her own. Mom had a few boyfriends over the years, but she truly did seem happier on her own. I couldn't blame her. I kept my father's last name because Sam Lee was cooler than Sam Mitchell, and if it sounded a bit like Stan Lee, that was a bonus.

As she filled our cups with scalding black liquid, I leaned forward to inhale the deliciousness. Then I slammed mine back.

“What was the bad thing you didn't tell me before?” I asked, feeling a little guilty for shutting her down. And somehow it seemed like the safest topic. “I'm ready now.”

My mom refilled my cup. “Well, when you came in I was reading about these girl-gang muggings that have been happening downtown.”

She picked up the newspaper and passed it to me. I skimmed the article and flashed back to the news clip I'd seen in the hospital lobby. “It's disturbing,” I agreed.

She nodded. “All this violence! I don't know why it seems so much worse that teen girls are doing these things … I guess it just doesn't happen often. There've been three attacks in the past two days.”

“Do they know who's doing it?”

“Not yet. It's just horrible. They dress up like
dogs, and there are bite marks and scratches on all the victims.”

It sounded eerily familiar. Scanning the article didn't give me any new info. There was a blurry black-and-white photo of two teens taken by another security camera. It looked as if one of them wore a glove shaped like a paw, complete with vicious claws.

“Anyway,” Mom said, “there's more bad news. I just got a call from the folks at Silicon Systems on your first floor. Their ceiling's leaking. Your problem tenants have probably flooded their bathtub again.”

“I'm going to rip their heads off!”

Her eyes widened. “Don't overreact, Sammy. The Silicon guys went down to the basement and shut the water off as soon as they realized what was happening, and I've called a plumber.”

“Is there damage?”

“Nothing major.”

“How about the guy on the second floor?”

“Not answering, so I'm not sure yet.”

I forced myself to breathe calmly and poured myself a third cup of espresso, which I drank in two seconds. When I helped myself to the last dregs in the percolator, my mother's eyebrows communed with her hairline.

“Wow, I guess I'll make more for myself.”

“Oops, sorry,” I said. “We're gonna have to replace the drywall on the ceilings, too.”

She started to clear the table. “It's just in their storage room. Not a big rush. You know, Sam, the best gift you can give yourself is to listen to your body. If you're craving certain things, like caffeine, or feeling really irritable and stressed, it's nature's way of telling you something's wrong …”

I flopped back into my seat, wondering why she'd stopped herself mid-lecture. Normally she could drone on and on about how I needed to make healthier choices for my body. Then I figured it out. She'd opened the fridge to put away the cream and my grocery bags had slumped over, allowing her a glimpse inside. Uh-oh.

“Sam, um, is there anything else you want to tell me?”

“My body needs more protein.”

“But I never thought you'd be a meat-eater again.”

“You make it sound like I've become a cannibal. Aren't you glad you don't have to make tofu and beans for me anymore?”

“Sure, but—”

I looked at the clock on her wall. “Oh! Gotta jet.”

“Okay, Sammy. Be careful out there.”

I extracted my bags from the fridge. “Hey, do you know how to cook a rack of lamb?”

Frowning, she took something out of a drawer. A meat thermometer. She pressed it into my hand and told me to heat the lamb to 140 degrees. “What kind of rub will you use?”

Spices hadn't even occurred to me. She gave me a head of garlic and some rosemary. I accepted the bounty and sprinted for the door.

“Feel better!” she hollered after me.

“I'm fine!” I yelled back as I hurried out. I really needed someone to talk to, but it wasn't going to be my mother.

I took out a drumstick and gnawed on it as I walked down the street. I'd made it half a block when someone yanked my arm—hard—forcing me to turn around and sending my chicken leg flying through the air. My first thought was it must be the vegetarian police! I dropped my bags to free up my other arm. The four self-defence classes I'd taken were about to become seriously useful … if I could remember them.

I recognized my attacker. She was the girl I'd seen with Marlon's brother after The Puffs' concert. Ponytail Girl. Behind her was her friend, Freckles, wearing a very realistic wolf 's paw. Just like the girl in the newspaper article!

“Let go of me!” I hollered.

“Shut up!” Ponytail Girl spat, still gripping my arm.

She wore long sleeves and jeans, but I could see that dark hair peeked out around her neck, wrists, and ankles. So thick I'd call it fur. I'm not a shaving fanatic or anything—I'm more of a “be comfortable with your natural state” girl. But I gaped at the thick fur on her face.

“Stay away from him,” she growled.

“Who?”

“Don't play dumb,” said Freckles. “This is for your own good.”

Then Freckles high-kicked me in the chest, knocking me on my ass, and they ran off.