The Gathering Storm

A streak of red darted over the sand with soundless steps. Tendrils of smoke unfurled from the tracks the creature left behind. With every stride the
kitsune
took, the mist around it thickened— Or was it the smoke from its paws? Or was it something else entirely?

The
kitsune
was quick, but its wits were quicker. There was something in the shadows creeping toward it; something fueled by hatred, by revenge—something so powerful that it threatened the entire world. But the
kitsune
's allies were near; it could feel them: the jaguar's muscles rippling under dense, silky fur; the thundering wings of the lightning bird overhead. And somewhere
beyond the white-capped waves, the seal had command of the sea and all that dwelled within it. The
kitsune
could feel other forces, too; forces for evil that approached with grim steadiness. It was not a fair fight; four against hundreds—thousands—maybe more.

The call of the horn came again, but the
kitsune
did not stop. Its destiny waited in the eye of the storm, and no force in the world could keep the
kistune
from it.

The sky darkened as a sudden burst of thunder crackled overhead.

The
kitsune
pressed on.

Beeeep. Beeeep. Beeeep.

That sound . . . It was so familiar. . . .

Mack Kimura struggled to wake up, but the dream wouldn't loosen its grip. In the battle between dreams and alarm clocks, though, alarm clocks would always win.

Mack opened his eyes, and the beach vanished, the mist melted into nothingness, and the dark shadow receded. All that remained was the horn. But no, even that wasn't real; it was just Mack's alarm clock. Somehow his dreaming brain must have made it sound deeper.

What a weird dream,
he thought, trying to remember exactly what had happened.
Was I, like, some kind of fox?

But the dream was already slipping away, just like the mist that often rolled over the small coastal town of Willow Cove, where Mack lived.

I've been watching
way
too many animal documentaries,
Mack thought, shaking his head. Mack's grandfather, Akira, was really strict about television. The only shows he ever wanted to watch were nature documentaries. They could be pretty interesting, but Mack would rather watch a superhero movie any day. Their nightly arguments over the remote control were just one of the many ways in which Mack and his grandfather clashed. Sometimes Mack found it hard to believe they were even related.

Mack smacked at his alarm halfheartedly until it finally stopped beeping. Hearing the alarm blaring on a hot, sunny morning could mean only one thing: the first day of school was here. Mack had been counting down for days. It's not that he loved school—he'd rather have summer vacation last all year—but the first day of school meant that his best friend, Joel Hastings, was finally home from his grandparents' farm upstate, where he'd spent the summer. Mack had missed him a ton.

After Mack got dressed, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and ambled down the hall to the kitchen, where breakfast was waiting for him: a bowl of steaming white rice, a banana, a rolled-up omelet, and a saucer of silvery sardines.

“Big day, Makoto,” Mack's grandfather said, his wrinkled face grinning. “Sit. Eat.”

Mack sat down and reached for his chopsticks. “It's Mack, remember?” he asked.

His grandfather gazed at him with eyes that were the color of the ocean on a stormy day. “You can be Mack if you choose,” he said evenly. “I will choose to be Jiji. Or Jiichan, if you prefer.”

“Okay, Jiichan,” Mack said, stifling a sigh.
Jiichan
was the Japanese word for “grandfather”—it was affectionate, but not quite so affectionate as “Jiji,” which was practically baby talk. One thing was for sure, though: Mack's Japanese pronunciation was perfect; Jiichan had made sure of that.

Mack poked at his eggs, wishing that his grandfather could just understand. They didn't live in Japan; in fact, Mack had never even visited the country where his
parents had been born. But Jiichan seemed determined to live like he was still there, even though he'd been in the United States for almost seven years now, ever since Mack's parents had died in a car accident when he was five years old. It was the weirdest thing: the longer Jiichan was in the United States, the more ferociously he clung to his Japanese heritage. From the silk screens in the house to the perfectly maintained lotus pond and gingko trees in the backyard, everything felt Japanese to Mack—except himself.

Mack picked up his chopsticks and brought a few grains of rice to his mouth. The eggs and banana would be fine, but there was no way he was going to eat even one bite of the sardines. The last thing Mack wanted was to smell like an aquarium on the first day of seventh grade.

As usual, Jiichan seemed to know what Mack was thinking. He pointed at the shimmery fish with his chopsticks. “Brain food,” he said.

“I'm, uh, full,” Mack replied.

“More for me, then,” Jiichan said as he pulled the porcelain dish across the table.

“You'll be the smartest grandfather on the block,”
Mack joked. He was glad to see Jiichan smile in response.

Mack could just barely hear the rumble of the bus as it traveled toward his house. He grabbed the banana and stood up so suddenly that his chair scraped across the floor. Jiichan winced, but his eyes never left Mack's face.

“The bus,” Mack explained as he reached for his backpack.

Jiichan nodded, but there was an expression on his face that Mack couldn't quite figure out. “Yes,” he said. “I heard it too. Have a good day at school, Makoto. . . . Mack.”

“Thanks, Jiichan,” Mack said. He opened the screen door and bounded down the front steps two at a time. When the bus stopped in front of his house, Mack saw that Joel had already snagged their favorite seat—right side, seventh row.

“Makoto, my man!” Joel bellowed as Mack got on the bus. He thrust his hand into the air. High slap, low slap, behind-the-back slap.

Then Mack elbowed Joel and said, “It's Mack, remember?”

“Right. Sorry about that,” replied Joel. He scrunched
up his nose to adjust his glasses. “It's gonna be hard to remember. Makoto is such a cool name, dude. Why would you ever want to change it?”

Mack shrugged. How could he explain to Joel, whose family had lived in Willow Cove for six generations? Joel, who always fit in so easily? This year, Mack finally decided he was done with being known as the Japanese kid with the weird name. Starting in seventh grade, he was going to be Mack.

Mack reached into his backpack and pulled out the envelope he'd received a whole week ago. It was still sealed, in perfect condition.

“I can't believe you waited,” Joel said, a note of awe in his voice. “I mean, I only had mine for ten hours, and it's been torture.”

“You didn't open it, though, did you?” asked Mack.

“Of course not,” Joel replied. “You think I'm going to mess with tradition and jinx us?”

Mack grinned at him. Ever since first grade, he and Joel had been best friends—and ever since then, they'd been in the exact same class. Last year, when they moved up to middle school, Mack was sure their lucky streak
would come to an end. But somehow, Mack and Joel had beaten the odds and were in all the same classes together.

Would their luck hold out for seventh grade?

“You ready?” Joel asked. “One . . . two . . . three!”

At the same time, the boys ripped open their envelopes. Mack's eyes darted back and forth as he read his schedule. First period, English. Second period, geometry. Third period, earth sciences. Fourth period, band. Amazingly, Mack's and Joel's schedules were a perfect match—so far.

“I've got social studies for fifth period,” Joel said. “Then lunch.”

Mack nodded. “Me too.”

“Seventh period, gym,” Joel continued. “You too, right?”

Mack stared at his schedule. The words were clearly printed there:
Independent Study: Physical Education.
The hint of a frown crossed his face.

Mack's silence told Joel everything he needed to know. “Oh, no,” he groaned. “Seriously?”

“I—I don't know,” replied Mack. “What's an independent study?”

Joel grabbed Mack's schedule. “Dude, what is this? Some kind of experimental gym class or something? And who's ‘D. Therian'? I thought Coach Connors taught all the seventh-grade gym classes.”