Wolves, Boys and Other Things That Might Kill Me (2 page)

The biggest wolf, black with huge feet, leads out to the solitary wolf. He stands out front for a few seconds without moving. I think they are locking into each other somehow, and then the solitary wolf steps backward and drops down on its back. The man whispers to his wife, “It’s submitting to them. I’ve seen that on television.”

I hear Dad breathe funny, and I know something bad is about to happen.

The man starts to say something else, and my dad holds up his hand and
shh
s him. The woman doesn’t say anything for a change. The four other wolves step behind the big black. The big black lunges at the wolf lying down. I can’t see what is happening except that the wolves swarm and make tearing sounds that I feel down in my stomach muscles. The wolf being killed yelps four times. In the emptiness left by the storm I can hear everything. I don’t know how to describe the sound, except it’s sharp and pitiful. We just stand there, staring. I think I’m going to throw up, but I don’t.

Then the hail comes back like a wave, pelting us and the ground and the wolves. The pack stands erect in the weather, heads up. Then they just circle the dead wolf once in a line and trot off.

The woman grabs her husband’s arm. “Oh, I can’t believe it.”

Her husband says, “That was disgusting.”

I whirl around. “Dad, they killed him.”

Dad’s face is hard and flat. “Yes, they sure did. And don’t you forget it.”

Don’t you forget it
? I let that boil for about ten seconds.

I say, “Gee thanks, Dad. I’ll just put some more string around my finger.”

He eyeballs me. This look probably scares some people. “That’s not what I meant, KJ. The minute that wolf backed down it was all over.”

Classic Samuel Manning Carson. It was the wolf’s fault for being outnumbered, ambushed, and then ripped to Alpo. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, little missy, and you better get used to it. Lessons from Life. Spare me.

We scowl at each other and then look away. The couple stays silent on the way back to the van. Dad needs to report the wolf death since Fish and Wildlife are out counting noses all the time. The hail has ruined the fishing for today.
So what,
I think. My tip was in the toilet anyway.

THE FIRST DAY OF THE END OF MY LIFE

IT TAKES ME twenty minutes to walk to school from our cabinesque house. Last week I read in the
West End News
that the average commute in town is six minutes. I guess they didn’t survey anyone without a car. The paper said the town’s year-round population is 947 strong, but I find this statistic hard to believe. Sometimes it feels like I could fit the whole town inside my head. Ever since kindergarten, it’s been the same school, same kids, same me.

I guess I’m not exactly the same me. After sixteen years, I finally started to look like a girl this summer. Not a big deal. I had to buy a real bra and I grew my hair out. But Dad acts like it’s a big deal, like I’m a felon until proven otherwise. All I know is that if he says I’ve “bloomed” one more time I’m going run away from home and become a shrub.

I pass the Brandin’ Iron Motel and then the Pony Express RV Park. The summer tourist season is still in full swing. At the RV park, a mom in yellow overalls yells at her pint-size son, “Get in the car, before I leave you.”

The little boy wails. I hear car doors slamming. The air smells of diesel from motor homes lining up to get into the park.

I pass the High Country Fly Shop and Touring Company. Dad’s inside, tying flies with Ruben, one of the guides. I’m not sure where the other three guys are this morning, probably out with clients. I am not a guide, I’m a flunky. But at least I stay around all year. They’ll be gone before the snow sticks, leaving me and Dad to run the store, just like every year. I wave to Dad, but he doesn’t see me.

A police truck passes me in the street. Officer Smith waves and yells, “Lookin’ good, KJ.”

The ornery half of the West End police force is right behind him in his truck going two miles an hour. Officer Farley yells, “Nice shirt, KJ.”

Must be a big police meeting at the Quickie Mart.

I hurry along, picking at my stupid new shirt. Why did I think salmon would be a good color on me, and why is it suddenly so tight in all the wrong places? One of the many disadvantages of not having my mother around is that there is no one to tell me not to wear things like this shirt. There is no one to say, “Was the light off in the bathroom when you put on that makeup?” Most girls think they would love it if their mothers left them alone, but that’s because they never had their dad do their hair on the first day of kindergarten.

I see my reflection in the bakery window. It still startles me. Mrs. Williams waves from behind the counter inside. She makes the worst doughnuts in three counties. I wave back and keep walking.

I guess it sounds superficial to complain about my clothes and hair when I’m talking about my mom being gone. Fashion advice isn’t what I miss most about having a mom. It just sucks having to wear my momlessness every day.

Maybe one of the worst big things about having my mom gone is that it’s like she never existed. She died in a car wreck when I was three. It happened about a year after my parents moved to West End. My mom’s sister, Diane, told me that my mom and I were driving to Bozeman to stock up on groceries, and she hit some ice. We smashed into a telephone pole so hard it snapped in half. Diane said they found me tucked in my car seat, sucking my thumb. She didn’t say what happened to my mom. I’ve just guessed about that part.

My dad doesn’t talk about my mom, and I don’t ask him to.

I walk through the door of the school just as the first bell rings. I am going to be late, as usual. I don’t remember my schedule so I have to pull it out and read it for the fiftieth time: period 1—journalism.

This class will probably be a joke, since the journalism teacher is really the home economics teacher, Mrs. Brady, aka Mrs. Baby. She has had a baby every year for the last four years she has lived in West End. Everyone says she only teaches for the maternity benefits, but I think she comes to school to get away from all her crying kids.

When Mrs. Baby was my foods teacher last year, she suggested I take journalism. I think she likes me because I did an annotated recipe book for my class project entitled “Twenty-Five Uses for Leftover Elk Meat.” Her favorite was Elk Shakes—The Real Man’s Protein Drink.

Every other week the journalism class turns out a newspaper for the school. It’s usually so boring even the seventh graders don’t read it.

I walk as fast as I can through the Hall of Fame, our illustrious entry hall full of trophies and photographs of notable West Enders. Surprisingly my picture has not yet been selected for enshrinement.

Everyone is saying hello and pushing around in the hallways. I say hello to a few kids. A few kids say hi back, like always. But they’re looking at me. The class pervert says, “What happened to you this summer?” when I pass him in the hallway. I am going to throw this shirt in a hole and set it on fire when I get home.

I open the classroom door just as the final bell rings. Mrs. Baby gives me an irritated look so I sit down quickly. I can’t believe it—she’s totally pregnant again.

“Glad you could make it, KJ.”

“Thanks,” I mumble.

When I finally stop gaping at Mrs. Baby’s prolific belly I realize I’m sitting next to someone I have never seen before. Someone who is not from my corner of nowhere. Someone whose green flannel shirt is topped off with blond shaggy hair.

At the end of roll call, Mrs. Baby says, “Virgil Whitman.” She pauses, stares at the name, and then looks at the shaggy head in front of me. “Um, Virgil . . . do you go by a nickname?”

Nice one Baby
, I think.
Way to insult the new guy
.

“Virgil’s fine.” The voice from the hair cracks a little. He has some sort of faint accent but I can’t place it. Then I think maybe it’s just that he doesn’t sound like everybody else around here. All the kids in the class stare at him.

“Well, that’s fine. You’re a junior? Where are you from?” says Mrs. Baby.

“Saint Paul, Minnesota.” His voice stretches out the last syllable and makes it sound like
Min-e-sooda.

“My dad’s been there,” says Addison. Addison is so lame. The only place her dad ever goes is the hardware store, and she’s already got a prime hulk of a boyfriend, Kenner Martin, sitting next to her, as usual.

“Why’d you move?” says Kenner, sounding none too happy.

“My mom is doing some research here,” says Virgil. “We’re just here till June.”

“What kind of research?” says Kenner. Kenner is smart but he likes to take swipes at anybody who admits they are, too. He comes from a long line of reflexively resentful ranchers. Plus he just likes to torment people.

Mrs. Baby jumps in. “I hope she’s not here to study our strange customs.”

Virgil says, “No, she’s a wildlife biology professor. She’s here to study the wolves.”

“That is so sweet,” says Kenner.

Virgil looks over at Kenner but doesn’t take the bait. “And she wanted to be close to my aunt Jean.”

“Jean Arrant is your aunt? It just keeps getting better,” says Kenner and smirks at Addison. Addison smiles back at him. They’re like married people.

Virgil nods. “Yeah, she’s actually my great-aunt. Do you know her?”

Addison says, “Oh, everybody knows her.”

Jean Arrant is like the Howard Hughes of West End. Rich but crazy. Supposedly eats cow brains and sculpts porn.

Clint, one of the requisite stoners taking the class, says, “Party at Virgil’s.” His friends Bret and Stewie nod in righteous agreement.

“Your mom studies wolves? Oh, that is so lucky,” says Sondra Reese. Sondra is a genuine animal freak. Today she is wearing a purple T-shirt with a giant turquoise dolphin on the front. Last year she stood outside the Fourth of July Rodeo with a sign that said RODEOS ARE INHUMANE! EVERY TICKET CAUSES PAIN! The police asked her to leave after some kids started trying to rope her feet.

The shaggy head turns to Sondra, and I get the profile. His face is a little broken out, but his nose has a perfect Roman hook. His eyes are deep and surrounded by amazing long lashes. He looks embarrassed, which of course makes him devastatingly cute.

“So you must travel a lot then,” says Mrs. Baby.

“A little. My mom brings me along to take pictures.”

“You’re a photographer?” says Dennis Welch, getting into the act. Dennis has more acne than the rest of the school put together. I’ve only heard him speak when he was using the words
Star Wars
or
computer
in the sentence. Either he has a crush on Virgil, too, or he’s trying to get some points with the only guy in school who hasn’t given him a wedgie.

“No,” says Virgil. “I just do it for fun. But I could bring some stuff in tomorrow.”

“That’s a great idea,” I say. I say it out loud . . . before my brain can control my mouth. I slide back into my seat but there is no place to hide.

Virgil turns around and looks at me. He has the sunniest face I have ever seen. His skin is tan and rough except around his pale blue eyes. His whole face is curved up in a disturbingly unguarded smile. Even his bushy eyebrows smile. He’s solar. I smile back, from my crouched position. He says, “I’ll bring some pictures.”

Mrs. Baby says, “Yes. Good. Well, as most of you probably know, this class puts out the school newspaper every two weeks. And newspapers need pictures. So, Virgil, bring your photos in. Friday we’ll assign departments. Everyone needs to bring in a sample of their writing or photography, and we’ll figure out what everyone wants to do.”

“What about editor?” says Dennis. Last year’s editor, Logan Kittredge, moved to a real city so his dad could make some real money doing a real job, or at least that’s what Logan said.

“I won’t assign that job for a few weeks, Dennis.”

Kenner says, “Ease up,
Star Trek
.”

Dennis pulls out his day planner and makes a note.

I would laugh at all my provincial inmates, but I’m too busy lusting. I’m not usually interested in a guy with “take a number” on his forehead, but this guy doesn’t have a forehead—it’s buried in messy blond hair. And he’s not one of the twenty guys I’ve known my entire pubescent life. He smiles like the Fourth of July. What’s a dumb girl to do but get in line with everyone else not in his league? I guess journalism just became my most beloved class.