This Is Not a Werewolf Story (22 page)

“My mom is a wolf,” I say to her.

She pulls the covers up to my chin. Her hand is cool on my forehead.

“Mine was an orca,” she whispers.

In the morning when I wake up, my pajamas and hair are soaking wet. Something happened in the middle of the night, but I don't know what.

As I look out the window, the memory of the cougar screech echoes in my head. Right after it comes the feeling of Ms. Tern's words brushing my ear. It makes my skin tingle to remember. I try to shake it away. The doctor said the fever would give me weird dreams. The weirdest thing about that dream is how it seems so real.

I don't have long to think about it.

When Mary Anne comes in with my breakfast, her eyes are red and puffy and I can tell she's been crying.

I bet Vincent has already broken her heart. I know it's wrong, but I'm crossing my fingers so hard my knuckle cracks. Please. Please. I would never break your heart.

“He doesn't want me to tell you,” she says. “But I think you should know.”

It's all right, Mary Anne, I know. He's charming. But I'm loyal.

“Dean Swift wants to tell you later. But I
hate
secrets.” She starts to sob. “The cougar,” she says.

My head pounds. Has the cougar hurt White Wolf?

“The cougar attacked Bobo,” she says.

Bobo? I can't believe it.

“Bobo has been grievously wounded. The vet says her hind leg will have to be amputated.” Mary Anne takes a breath. “I thought you should know that her chances of survival are slim. The truth, even when it is sad, is something we must all learn to live with.”

I turn my face away from her. The ache fills my head and my chest so that I can't think or feel anything but it. A little later I hear the door shut.

What did Bobo ever do to him? Nothing. Bobo did nothing.

My skin is still hot from the fever, but inside I'm cold. What will he do to White Wolf? My mom knows his secret. And she's the one who cracked his back.

I need the recipe cards. I need to know how to get rid of my uncle.

Thursday morning I get up and go downstairs before anyone can come and tell me that I can't. I need to see Bobo. I need the cards. My head hurts and I'm clammy. But the sooner Dean Swift thinks I'm healthy, the sooner he'll give me what I want.

I stop by his office to ask for the recipe box. The door is open, but he's not there.

I step in. Then I turn and look down the hallway, both directions. Nobody's coming. I close the door behind me. I open every one of his desk drawers. I know I shouldn't. But I need to learn the rest of my mom's story.

Why did she hurt Tuffman that day in the woods? What is Tuffman's secret?

I can't find the box. It must be in the turret. I'm going to have to get my hands on a key.

Next stop: kitchen. I left Bacon and Cheddar Omelet and Island Cobbler in there.

I sneak in the side entrance instead of going through
the cafeteria. There's nobody in the kitchen, either. The search takes a while. There are lots of drawers and cupboards to look through. Finally I think to look at the corkboard near the phone. An envelope with my name on it is tacked there. I pull it down and open it. Cook Patsy has slipped the recipe cards into plastic protectors so that they won't get stained by splatters when she's cooking. She's always looking out for me.

“Thank you,” I say, even though she's nowhere around to hear it.

I look at the recipe for Bacon and Cheddar Omelet.

I hold my breath until I figure out what's written on the next card.

Island Cobbler.

I must have done something wrong. Ignore the measurement. I change the
P
to
I
.
Do you want nine lives?
That's better. Or is it? What does that mean?

I shake my head and then stop because that hurts. I look again. Why are there quote marks in front of the
D
and after the question mark? I add them in. “Do you want nine lives?”

Is this part of a conversation?

I step out of the kitchen, tucking the cards into my pocket.

In the hallway I run into Ms. Tern. I scream like you do when you get caught doing something or being somewhere you shouldn't.

“Are you looking for Bobo?” she asks.

I stare at her. Maybe it wasn't a dream last night after
all. The memory of it feels so real. Finally I remember to nod.

“She's in here,” Ms. Tern says. She walks to the storeroom next to the kitchen.

I don't follow. I don't want to see Bobo suffering.

“Don't be afraid.” Ms. Tern comes back to lead me in. Her hand is cool like it was in my dream. “She's a bit groggy from the anesthesia,” she says as she opens the door. “I put her in here since it's quiet during most of the day and warm because of the kitchen.”

I step in. There's a pile of blankets on the floor. Bobo lifts her nose.

I don't think about it. I just do it. I lie down beside my friend.

“Oh!” Ms. Tern says. “Please get up. That floor is filthy.”

I rest my hand under Bobo's muzzle and bring my face in close to hers.

I don't think I'll tell you any more of this part.

Ms. Tern leaves me alone with Bobo for a while. When she comes back, I let her convince me to get off the floor and go get breakfast. It's good to let grown-ups feel like they're helping you even when nothing can help. Everybody needs to feel useful.

What I see in the dining hall doesn't cheer me up. Vincent is on my stool. Mary Anne is next to him. When I come over with my tray, they're looking at something together.

“I like that scene,” he says. “But what if you made the bad guy handsome?”

They look up when I sit down a few stools away.

“Sit with us,” Vincent says like I'm crazy.

My new place is next to Vincent and not between the two of them. I try to look like I don't notice. But I feel like one of those reversible puppets. On the outside I'm a cheerful Little Red Riding Hood. But if you flip the puppet over you'll find a really angry wolf inside.

Dean Swift comes into the dining room.

Tuffman is behind him. A growl starts in my throat. Vincent looks at me sideways. I tap my chest and pretend it's a burp.

This weekend, Tuffman. You and me. In the woods.
I get it now. It's the only way it can go down—when we're both what we are in the woods. Natural law, right?

“Children,” the dean says, “the vet tells me that we must prepare for the worst. Bobo is an old dog. But a heroic one. The vet says that her injuries prove that she fought valiantly against her attacker. She lost three teeth in the fight.” He gives a shaky smile. “And it is not unreasonable to assume that she left them deep in the beast's hide. The cougar will feel the bitter sting of Bobo's bite for many days to come.”

I'm so proud of Bobo, I almost stand up and make a toast with my orange juice.
Here's to infected dog bites! Let there be pus and inflammation!

But the dean keeps talking. “Nevertheless, we must be realistic. In preparation for a memorial service, please write down your memories of our dear old friend—” His voice cracks. He covers his eyes.

Tuffman finishes the dean's sentence. “And give them to a teacher. We're gonna make a memory book so we can always honor the good times we had with our four-legged buddy.” His voice is high up in his throat, like he's got a lump of tears in there as big as mine. His mouth is turned down at the corners. His eyes are red and wet.

He's as sad as I am. I can feel it.

There's a word Ms. Tern uses: “gobsmacked.” It means the look on someone's face after they get smacked in the gob. That's your mouth. My gob looks smacked.

Nobody can lie like that. Not even Tuffman. You would have to have two hearts and two brains and two tongues, not just two skins.

After a minute Dean Swift looks up again. “Well said, Coach. Because of this attack, nobody will leave the building without my permission.”

The room erupts with chatter. Then above it all, Tuffman shouts, “We'll have that cougar in a cage by midnight tonight!” The anger in his voice sends an electric charge through the room. “Midnight tonight!” he shouts again, and we all stand up like soldiers, ready to fight.

Dean Swift nods and walks out of the room. Tuffman stomps out after him. Everyone is quiet for a long minute. Then there's a murmur, and the voices get shrill and loud and they're all talking about the cougar.

My throat clamps up. I'm about to start bawling. The doctor said the concussion would make me emotional. He said to try not to think about anything worrisome until I'm better. But
everything's
worrisome right now.

If Tuffman's the cougar and the cougar attacked Bobo, why would Tuffman look so broken up? And Bobo took a bite out of the cougar. Wouldn't Tuffman look a little worse for wear if he had three canine teeth stuck in him somewhere? Look at me. I'm living proof that a wound on one skin leaves a wound on the other.

My head hammers. I focus on my evidence. It's like I see it written out on a page in my scientific journal. First, set aside the science and the magic. The Fresnel lens, the spirit animals, and the mtDNA are all theories. Set aside the coincidences. Look at the evidence.

Item 1: Sneaker prints in the mud smelled like cougar.

Scents can get mixed-up. Especially after a rainstorm.

Item 2: Tuffman says a lot of weird things and stands too close to me and follows me around.

Little John practically stands on my feet half the time he's near me. And last week he walked up to me in
the bathroom and said, “The thunder's moving east.” What does that mean? But only a pollywog would accuse him of homicidal tendencies.

Item 3: My mom's recipe card said he wanted to kill her.

It said T wanted to kill her. T doesn't have to be Tuffman. It could be Ted or Tina or T. rex or Tinker Bell. Why would she call her uncle by his last name, anyway? Who does that?

But what really doesn't make any sense is this: Why would Tuffman have fallen for Vincent's prank if he was the cougar? When he was shooting the piñata, Tuffman
thought
he was shooting the cougar. My head whirls.

Conclusion: I can't make one until I have my mom's whole story.

I look around the cafeteria to calm myself down.

Little John is tapping the kid next to him on the head with a spoon. The kid is just shoveling cereal into his mouth like this is a normal part of breakfast. Mean Jack is twisting a wrapped-up string cheese around and around. Mark is wiping his face off with the dishrag that's for cleaning up spills.

At the little kids' table, Sparrow won't look at me. It hits me: He didn't come visit me. He didn't slide one of his drawings under my door, either, like he normally does when some nasty contagious stomach bug has half of us quarantined. And now, every time I try to make
eye contact with him, he turns his back to me.

I try to pay attention to the funny story Vincent is telling Mary Anne. She laughs a lot and then asks, “Can I use this in my novel?”

I stop listening and start thinking about what's wrong with Sparrow. He's hiding something from me. It feels like an explosion in my chest when I realize what it must be. He must be hiding a bruise. His grandma must have let his mom come see him. She must have hit him again. He doesn't want her to get in trouble anymore because even though she's a terrible mom, she's
his
mom and he loves her. That's how love works. You can't always stop it, even when you probably should.