Prologue:  

TLDR; I’m a werewolf, get over it  

 

    I’m just your everyday, average, ordinary werewolf. Except, we aren’t called werewolves. Rather, we are called changelings. I howl long and loud in the bright moonlight. If my best friend got in between me and my goal, I’d kill them without hesitation. My body becomes more muscular and covered in long, thick, dark fur while my fingernails and toenails grow and become claws. I even have a tail and run around on all fours (not like those fake werewolves of Hollywood legend that are basically over hairy men standing on two feet). I, for all intents and purposes, look like a regular old wolf except for about double the size. Of course, this is only three days of the month during the three days of the full moon - before, during and after. And I have absolutely no control over the changes.  

    I wasn’t always a changeling. A person (obviously) has to be bitten to become a changeling. Ignore that crap about born werewolves or magic creating werewolves. It just doesn’t work like that. Not exactly like that, anyway, not anymore. Surviving a changeling bite isn’t easy either, so not surprisingly there aren’t many changelings running around. Since most humans that are attacked by a changeling die, either from blood loss or they contract rabies, or they get eaten, changelings are an endangered breed. Then there’s the pesky problem of being hated and hunted. That’s a story for another time, though. 

    I know what many of you are thinking, “Rabies? Come on, man. This isn’t some rabid bat we’re talking about here.” You’d be right; changelings are so much worse than some rabid bat. More than 59,000 humans die from rabies worldwide each year. About a third of those are changelings alone. All changelings carry the rabies virus too. It’s only a matter of whether a human is susceptible to the virus or not. Think of the rabies as comparable to vampire venom, it’s a way to incapacitate its victim so that the changeling can eat at its leisure. Also, I mean, a changeling doesn’t just want to bite humans. A changeling wants to chow down on humans. We’re basically just living, breathing doggie chow to a changeling. So, to sum up, a human must survive blood loss, rabies and possibly being eaten in order to turn into a changeling.  

    But I digress. I’m getting ahead of myself.  

    See, I wasn’t always a changeling-hmmm, I said that already. Anyway, I used to be a shy, introverted kid. I would keep my head down and just try to get through the day. I was, and to a certain extent still am, a bit of a geek. I wore glasses that were far too big for my skinny head with lenses so thick they looked like they were cut directly from an old Coke bottle. Seriously, you could fry ants with these things. They were big and heavy and had an annoying habit of sliding down my nose at the most inopportune times. My hair is always a mess, no matter how hard I or my mother tried to comb it down or how short it was cut. I kid you not, dear reader, I once had a buzz cut; we’re talking full on Full Metal Jacket style haircut. Not only did it look horrendous on me, but I swear I still had pieces of hair that would stick up. I often wore clothes that were too big for me as they were hand-me-downs from my brother. Not that I minded wearing my brother’s clothes, it’s just that he’s always been a few sizes bigger.  

    In any case, I don’t often think of those days. They can bring a bit of sadness to my eyes. Sometimes, though, you have to look back to see what’s ahead. So, let me take you back. Back to before. Back to a far simpler time (though I didn’t see it that way then-hindsight and twenty/twenty and all that nonsense). Back to when I was only an average student at Albert K. Browne K-12 School in the incredibly small ass town of Moose Woods, Idaho. Back to normal.   

 

 

Chapter 1:  

Nightmare on Oak Street 

 

    Nestled right near Elk River, Idaho, is our town. It’s in the middle of nowhere and has a staggering total population of 162 people. It’s the middle of my junior year at Browne School (go Fighting Moose). Our school is kindergarten to twelfth grade, and, since kids from neighboring towns are bussed in, at 250 students, our school has a higher population than the town itself.  

    Cole and I have been attending since we were in kindergarten. I have practically no friends or even people to occasionally talk to except for the one faithful friend I have, Max, and my brother, Collin. I don’t expect this to change in the near, or let’s be honest distant, future. Max is the same friend I’ve had since before either of us was capable of coherent thought. Our moms are friends and so they hung out together before we were even born, when Collin was an infant. In fact, Max and I are born only one day apart. I’m proud to say that I’m older. Unfortunately, that’s the only thing I have to be proud of.  

    Of course, I’m still the butt of pretty much every joke in school and picked on regularly, regardless of the fact that my best friend is the most popular kid in school. I’ve always thought that it is really strange that I, the most unpopular, and he, the most popular, are best friends. I keep waiting for the day he tells me he can’t hang with me anymore, yet it doesn’t happen.  

    Even the underclassmen hassle me, but the junior high kids and elementary kids, for the most part, don’t bother me too much. I try to not let it get to me, but then some days it's just too much. I’m clumsy, gangly, can’t really do much of anything physical. Every year I barely pass P.E. So, I’m bullied for that. Then I’m also super smart. I don’t mean to brag, but I’m a junior in senior classes. So, I’m the youngest in my class, not athletic, incredibly shy, not attractive in anyway shape or form. Yeah, I’m picked on all the time.  

    This day starts out the same as the hundreds before it. I wake to the irritating sound of my clock/radio alarm. My hand snakes out from underneath the covers and smacks the button to shut up the evil thing. I stare, bleary-eyed, at it for a few seconds before the time of 6:45 a.m. registers. I groan loudly as I stretch to work out the kinks and stiffness of my back. I must have had a bad nightmare. Not that I remember what I dreamt, but I only feel like this in the morning after a really bad nightmare.  

    I get a flash of something, and my brain tries to hold onto the image. Claws. Fur. Yellow…eyes…maybe. That’s all I can make out before the image gets fuzzy again. This doesn’t bode well for the day, I think, as an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach arises. I’m not really superstitious and I’ve never really believed in ghosts and ghouls, but right now, when that uneasy feeling passes through my stomach and a shiver runs up my spine, I can almost believe in anything.  

    I fumble slightly for my glasses which are right next to my alarm clock. Or at least they’re supposed to be. I look around on the floor and there they are, just slightly sticking out from under the bed. I sweep my hand around on the ground where I thought I saw my glasses and I swear I feel something furry. I jerk my hand away.  

    “What the fuck?” I ask quietly to no one in particular. I shake my head and think it had to have been an incredibly bad nightmare if I knocked my glasses off in the middle of the night and now, I’m imagining there’s some kind of furry thing underneath my bed. I laugh at my own ridiculousness. I bend at the waist, almost falling off my bed, and put one hand on the ground. I grab my glasses, put them on my face and forget about nightmares, furry creatures, and yellow eyes.  

    I can hear my mother downstairs cooking breakfast. She always sings to herself as she cooks, and her beautiful voice drifts up to me from the kitchen. I catch a couple of lyrics and smile as I hear an almost perfect rendition of “I Dreamed a Dream” from Les Misérables, my mother’s favorite musical. I never understood why she loves a musical whose title literally translates to “The Miseries,” but then everyone is different. Personally, I prefer “One Song, Glory” from Rent, or anything from Rent really.  

    I know that she’s likely been up for hours already as she would’ve gotten up with my father who leaves for work at 5:00 a.m. on the dot every weekday morning as he has for longer than either my brother or I have been alive. Father gets up at 4:00 a.m. every morning. I admire my parents so much for everything they do for us.  

    “Kids! Breakfast! Hurry up and get it while it’s hot!” my mother shouts from downstairs. I hurry to get dressed in basic khaki slacks and a blue polo. I realize I've been staring into space for the past ten minutes or so just listening to her singing. I grab my book bag and take a glance in the mirror on my door to make sure I don’t look like I just rolled out of bed. I square my shoulders and bring myself up to my full 5’8” height. My limp, brown hair is nothing special and there’s a stubborn piece of hair on my right side that refuses to stay down no matter how much I comb it or wet it down. Even hair spray doesn’t help. Oh well, I try to flatten it once more before giving up. The small clump of hair springs back to sticking up. I shrug as I pull my door open and start to exit my room only to collide chest to chest with my brother, Collin, who has his fist raised to knock on the door. His fist comes down, nearly knocking on my forehead before he stops himself and laughs.  

    “Hey, kid,” he says. He calls me “kid” all the time even though I’m only one year his junior. I look at him intently and my mind wanders a bit again. He’s fairly easy on the eyes, at least that’s what girls at school say. My mom always said he’s a handsome boy. I suppose either or both are true. I’ve never really thought about that before, ya know, with him being my brother and all. He’s pretty tall, around 6’4” with dirty blond hair that always, and I do mean always, looks like he’s walking the red carpet at a movie premier or some kind of gala with the world’s most elite...movie stars, millionaires, or whatever. I mean, I don’t think he’s even had one pimple while he was going through puberty whereas I have acne all over my cheeks, forehead, and chin. He even has a light dusting of dark brown hairs along his square jawline, making him look, I guess the word would be rakish or maybe rugged. My gaze shifts to his eyes. His eyes are a warm chocolate brown, and they constantly look like there’s some private joke between you and him, but he never lets you in on it. I think about my own eyes as I look at his. Where his are a deep brown, mine are a gorgeous bluish-green, truly the only part of myself that I like. His brow furrows as I study him. I can tell he’s getting a little uncomfortable and wondering what I’m looking at, but he just shrugs.  

    He slings an arm around my shoulders and asks, “So, ya gonna ask your secret crush to double date with me and Jackie?” This is an ongoing joke between us. Jackie is his longtime girlfriend. They’ve been together since something like seventh grade, never straying. I’ve never even been on a date with anyone and because of this, he thinks there’s some secret crush that I have, but that I won’t tell anyone. He thinks my secret crush is the reason I won’t go out with anyone. Well, there is that, but also, it’s difficult to go on a date with someone when everyone knows you as the school loser.  

    Well, honestly, he’s not wrong about the crush. There is someone that I’ve been crushing on since we were both in the eighth grade. He’s the most popular kid in school and he also happens to be my best friend. I could never go out with someone like him in a million years though. I mean, there’s an exceptionally long list of reasons why not, but the most important one is that we don’t exactly run in the same circles. I mean, obviously, I’m gay and he’s not. But that’s not the most important reason. Even if he would go out with me, I could never destroy his social status like that. In high school, especially a small school like Browne, social status is everything. I’m at the bottom and he’s riding high at the top, where he belongs.  

    This thought follows me as we make our way down to breakfast and I feel that gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach start to grow. I just know that something is gonna happen, I just don’t know if it’s going to be good, bad, or otherwise. Regardless, I don’t like the feeling. We make it to the dining room just as our mom has the plates laid out on the table.  

    “There you guys are.” she sighs as though it’s been an hour since she called us down. In reality, it’s been maybe five minutes. My brother and I sit at the table and dig into a full breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast. Ma always says that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and she makes sure that we eat a full one every morning. It’s not always bacon and eggs; sometimes it’s omelets or cereal with fruit or pancakes. On one memorable morning it was grits, but with my super sweet tooth I dumped so much sugar on them that Ma vowed we would never have them again. Well, in any case, we eat well. Collin manages to burn most of it off in track practices and meets. I manage to burn off most of it running from bullies, though occasionally I do some swimming, nothing competitively though.  

    Our mom joins us at the table and, having already eaten, sets her coffee mug down and holds it with both hands. The steam from the mug fogging up her glasses a little as she lifts the cup up to her lips. She looks us over as she sips from what is certainly her third or fourth cup this morning. She swears that coffee is her one and only vice and that if she only has one, she may as well make the most of it. I chuckle to myself as that thought crosses my mind. Mom looks at me, head cocked to the side, but doesn’t say anything. I smile at her, and she smiles back at me.  

    Breakfast is a quiet affair, and we hurry so we can make it to the bus stop on time. While we can both drive and we do share a car, we take the bus every day. Partly, because we don’t always have the spare money for gas, but mostly because we didn’t get a parking pass at school. The school holds raffles to see who can get a pass since there is limited parking. We got one last year, but not this year. Who knows, maybe I’ll get one next year after Collin has graduated and then I can drive all by myself.  

    The whole time we’re eating, our mom is smiling at us. She does this most mornings and we don’t notice too much anymore. We eat everything on our plates, not even leaving a crumb big enough for a mouse. Our mom beams at us as she gathers up the plates to bring them to the sink.  

    “Better hurry so you don’t miss your bus,” she says to us as she turns on the sink to wash dishes. I glance at the clock and realize we only have five minutes to get down the block. Collin grabs his bag as I grab mine and we rush out the front door shouting a good-bye and “I love you” over our shoulders. As we’re running down the block to get to the bus stop, I see the bright yellow of the school bus start to pull up to the stop. Collin, who’s a bit faster than I am (he better be, after all, he’s been all-star for the past two years in a row in track!) gets to the stop first and has the driver hold the bus for me. I clamber aboard as my breath wheezes in and out of my lungs. The driver just looks me over and closes the door. I manage to get out a faint, “Thank you” as I drop into the seat directly behind the driver. I take the time on the bus to get settled before getting to school.  

  

 

Chapter 2:  

The Worst Day of My Life......So Far  

 

    Once we’re in front of Browne School, the bus doors open to let us out. I start to get up when I’m suddenly and roughly shoved back into my seat. Patrick, the same kid that has bullied me every day of forever, laughs as he jumps down the stairs to the pavement. Collin comes up right behind him and holds a hand out to help me up. I take his hand and haul myself to my feet. Someone behind Collin snorts and another person scoffs. Obviously, me being shoved is taking too much time for them.  

    “Forget about that asshole,” he sneers at Patrick’s retreating back as he pulls me to my feet. I just shake my head. I know that the bullying isn’t going to stop anytime soon, regardless of who my brother and best friend are. My arm banged on the back of the driver’s seat as I was pushed, and I know there’s gonna be a bruise there. I sigh.  

    I exit the bus and see my best friend, Max, in a group of people on the sidewalk waiting to enter the school. I walk across the parking lot slowly towards him. The hangers-on gathered there look at me as though I’m something that got stuck to the bottom of their shoes and they would rather just scrape it on the pavement. No one says or does anything, though. Not one person here would dare do or say anything to me with both Max and Collin here. Even with that level of protection, I still don’t feel welcome here. I look at the faces of the people gathered around Max. I recognize all of the people here; I recognize, if not know, all of the people in the school. There’s Susan Davis, a hopeful that wants to date Max, Jamie Killian, Collin’s girlfriend and possibly the only person besides Max and Collin that doesn’t give me shit on a daily basis, Delilah Ortiz, Max’s girlfriend. Then there’s the kid that quite possibly the one that hates me the most, besides Patrick, of course, Dylan Staine, he’s second behind Collin in track. Last but not least is, Phillip Green, he’s only a few rungs above me on the social ladder, but still treats me like garbage. He thinks that if he picks on me, people will like him better. Unfortunately, he’s not wrong. 

    “Hey, Cole,” Max says excitedly as he raises his hand for a high five from my brother. My brother slaps his outstretched hand in equal excitement.  

    “Hey, Cal,” he says to me with the same outstretched hand. I unenthusiastically touch the palm of his hand with the tip of index finger. He looks at me worried. “What’s up, man?” he asks, concerned. I just hang my head and shake it slowly. There is no need to go into everything. My brother speaks up for me, though, and says, “Patrick,” with a sneer so menacingly that he’s almost growling. Max just nods as he understands, and Jamie gives me a quick hug. Max claps a hand on my shoulder. There’s nothing more to say. Patrick isn’t going to quit his crap any time soon. Jamie lets me go and turns to Collin. She gives him a hug and a quick kiss before we hear the first bell.  

    The three of us and Max’s followers quickly head inside the school, so we aren’t late. I speed walk to my locker to grab the books and things I need for the first few classes. I’m in the process of locating my Chemistry book (somehow the little bugger found its way in the back of my locker and shoved under a pile of papers that I have no idea where they came from). I hear, though I’m not really paying close attention to it, the sound of someone walking towards my locker area. I’m the only one in the hall at the moment since the students and teachers are in the classrooms. It takes me a few seconds to process this information. Since I’m not planning on meeting with someone, though, I just ignore it thinking that it’s someone on their way to class. As I dismiss the sound, I get a nagging feeling in my gut and so, I listen closer and realize that the sound is not of someone hurrying to class, but of someone walking leisurely down the hallway. This strikes me as odd as first bell has already rung, and second bell is going to ring any second. I try to ignore it, but that gnawing feeling in my gut is back.  

    I should have listened to my gut. All of a sudden, I feel myself shoved inward towards my locker. I throw my arms out to catch myself and my hip ends up hitting the edge of the metal locker. Then pain explodes through my back as the locker door slams into my back.  

    “Son of a....,” I start to swear as I whip around with my fists raised. I don’t know why I think I can fight whoever it is, but my fight or flight instinct told me to fight. As I see that it’s Patrick that has assaulted me, I lower my arms and the flight part of the instinct runs through me. He stands there with a challenging look on his face, one eyebrow raised with his hands on his hips. His look is daring me to finish my thought or even attack him back. I shrink down a little and step back towards my locker, my face burning a bright red. I can feel the heat rising from my neck to my cheeks. I can’t figure out if it’s embarrassment or fear that has the red spreading.  

    “Ha! That’s what I thought, loser,” Patrick sneers as he lunges in my direction. I flinch back, just as he’s expecting, and he bursts out laughing. I grumble “Asshole.” low, under my breath as Patrick walks away with what can only be described as a swagger, but it wasn’t low enough. Patrick whirls around with fire in his eyes.  

    “What did you say, Shrimp?” he barks at me. I think this time, this one time, I’m gonna stand up to him; that I’m going to say something back to him. As my mouth opens to tell him off, I lose my nerve and mumble “Nothing.” barely audible.  

Patrick snorts out another laugh and sashays away.  

    I angrily push my glasses up that have fallen to the end of my nose. I rush to shove my things I don’t need back into my locker, shove the things I do need into my bookbag, and pick up papers and things that fell when I hit the locker. I book it to my first class, which, of course, I’m now late for. The second bell has already rung and my lame attempt to try to sneak into the classroom and into my seat has not gone unnoticed by my teacher, Mr. Smithin.  

    “Let’s try to make it on time from now on, huh, Mr. Hemming?” he says without looking up from the blackboard that he’s writing on. His back is to the classroom door so, I don’t know how he does it, but he seems to know exactly where everything and everyone is at all times.  

I nod slowly as I slink down in my seat next to my lab partner and mumble “Yes, Sir.” I know he hears me even though I’m halfway across the room. My lab partner ignores me, but that’s nothing unusual. Most kids in the school either ignore me or join in on the bullying. Max and Colin are the only two that care about my existence and to some extent, Jamie, but I think she only cares about me because of Collin.  

    On the long, black lab table at the front of the class, Mr. Smithin has set up a couple Bunsen burners and various jars of different colored powders. Mr. Smithin is finished writing on the blackboard. I look up at the blackboard, but I can’t focus on what the writing says. I find my attention wavering. Normally, my attention in this class is spot on; I love Mr. Smithin’s c lass. He’s a great teacher; he’s informative, fun, and gets you laughing while learning. For some reason, I just can’t concentrate today. The day has barely started, and I just want to go home. That gnawing feeling is back. I push down the worry and nagging feelings and try to focus on Mr. Smithin.  

    I finally tune into what Mr. Smithin is saying. “…use something as simple as Borax…,” he sprinkles a little bit of the white cleaning powder over one of the lit burners, “…the flame will turn green.” The flame sparks up a little and indeed turns green.  

    “Mr. Hemming, what chemical would I add to make the flames turn pink? It was in your reading from last night.”  

My head snaps to look at Mr. Smithin’s face as I hear my name and I stutter out, “I…uh…,” I as I can’t seem to collect my thoughts. “Uh…Strontium Chloride?” I finally spit out, remembering the name of the chemical from the reading I did the night before.  

    “Are you asking me or telling me?”  

    “Telling. Strontium Chloride.” I hope, I think to myself.  

    “Well, class, let’s see if Mr. Hemming is correct.” That doesn’t bode well. Normally, if a student is correct, he’ll just say so. He opens the jar labeled “Strontium Chloride” and takes a small bit out with a small scoop. He sprinkles the salt-like compound over the burner and dark red flames spark up.  

    “Looks like Mr. Hemming was partially correct. The Strontium Chloride turns the flames red, which admittedly is close to pink. However, we’re looking for which compound turns them pink, not red. Partial points for trying, Mr. Hemming. Ms. Davis, do you know which one it is that will turn our flame pink?”  

    A girl that sits in the seat right in front of mine perks up and says, “Certainly, Mr. Smithin. The correct answer is Lithium Chloride.” She says this with a not so small amount of derision, putting emphasis on the word Lithium. Mr. Smithin doesn’t say anything, instead he just opens up another jar, this one labeled “Lithium Chloride.” His look as he does this does seem to be slightly annoyed, almost as if he didn’t like the way she answered. He sprinkles a little of the powder on the burner and the flame turns a hot pink color for a fraction of a second before returning to their standard yellow and orange flame.  

    “Thank you, Ms. Davis. Lithium Chloride is the correct answer.” Susan Davis turns around and makes a face at me. “Of course,” he continues, likely due to the face Susan makes at me, “the pink of the Lithium Chloride is close to the red of Strontium Chloride sometimes, so it seems our Mr. Hemming wasn’t completely wrong.” Her face drops as she hears Mr. Smithin continue and turns back around in her seat.  

The rest of the class passes in somewhat of a blur. As the bell rings, I get my things packed back up and stand to leave the room. Before I can exit the class, I hear Mr. Smithin call my name.  

    “Caleb Hemming, please come up here to my desk.” He says to me with truly little emotion in his voice. I gulp audibly. I think I know what’s coming. I slowly make my way to his desk. By this time, the room has completely emptied of my class and the next class isn’t in yet, so we have the room to ourselves.  

    “Yes, Mr. Smithin?” I ask meekly. I wait for him to answer. It seems like it’s taking an eternity. While I wait, I try to focus my thoughts. My eyes scan the room but land back on Mr. Smithin. He turns his head slightly away from me to look at a paper on his desk. I notice, not for the first time, the tip of a tattoo or birthmark or scar on his neck. His dress shirt’s collar blocks most of the image, but from what I can see, it looks like claw marks. The mark on his neck has been the subject of much conversation within the school and no one knows what it really is. Everyone is too afraid to ask and anyone that works up the courage to ask is told it’s nothing for them to worry about.  

    “Mr. Hemming,” Mr. Smithin’s voice snaps me back, “I noticed something going on with you today. Usually, you’re my top student. Is there anything you need to talk about? Anything going on at home?”   

    I sigh. I don’t really have any excuse as to why I’m off my game today. I answer him the best I can.  

    “No, Mr. Smithin, there’s nothing really going on, I just don’t feel well today. I’m just really tired since I didn’t sleep well last night. I’m sorry about today in class.”  

    “There’s no reason to be sorry, Caleb. I just want to make sure you’re doing okay.”  

    “Thank you, Mr. Smithin. I appreciate it.”  

    “You’re welcome, Mr. Hemming. If you need someone to talk to, please let me know. Hurry now so you aren’t late to your next class.”  

    “Okay. Thanks again,” I say as I turn around and leave the room. I head to my next class and barely make into my seat before the bell rings. Ms. Patts, my English teacher, barely glances at me as I drop into my seat. English class passes relatively uneventful. Ms. Patts doesn’t call on me and I don’t raise my hand at all. We’re studying The Scarlet Letter right now and I’ve read it a few times already. I know there’s a quiz on it tomorrow, but that still doesn’t prompt me to pay more attention. The bell signifying the end class rings before I’m aware that the time has passed.  

    The next period is lunch. I go to my locker and put away everything except my lunch. The way my school works is there are four classes a day, each lasting an hour and a half. In the middle of the classes is lunch. Lunch lasts an hour, and the entire school is let out of classes to eat at the same time. Since our school only has 100 kids, it really isn’t that big of a deal.  

    I get through lunch without incident from Patrick. Max and Cole sit near me but are talking with Jamie, Delilah, and the other people at the table, so I’m pretty much left to myself. I open my copy of The Scarlet Letter and reread through the last few chapters to get ready for the quiz tomorrow. I don’t mind sitting by myself and reading though. It passes the time. I finish my book about halfway through lunch and still have nothing to do. I stare at a section of the wall and continue to eat mechanically till the bell rings for the end of lunch.  

    I return to my locker and grab my bookbag and Calculus book for period three and history book (U.S History up to 1945) for period four. Period three bell rings just as I sit in my seat. At least I’m not late for this class, I think. Ms. Gronke, my Calculus teacher, is writing today’s assignment on the board. Today we’re studying Hydrostatic Pressure and Force. She’s drawing a few shapes on the board with various lines and letters on them. I force myself to concentrate since this is one class, I can’t let my mind wander.  

    Period four is history and my least favorite of any class I have taken. I’ve never understood the point of learning history. I mean, it’s over, it’s done, let’s move on. Mr. Thompson by default is then my least favorite teacher. It’s really not his fault, he’s a great teacher. I just don’t like his class’s subject. He does an excellent job of making it fun to learn though, so I’m at least passing with a solid B in the class. He loves to act out scenes in the class of battles or events we go over. Right now, we’re learning about the Civil War. He shows up to the class in a uniform from the Union Army as well as bringing a few artifacts that have been passed down through his family. He gets the whole class laughing with his reenactment of Lee’s surrender at Appomattox, which I’m quite sure isn’t completely historically factual.  

 

 

Chapter 3:  

Homework? Check. Dinner? Check. Hell? Double Check 

 

   The bus ride home is rather uneventful. I find out from Cole that Patrick got detention. I lift my eyes skyward and silently thank whatever powers that be that he finally got some type of punishment. Cole is in Patrick’s last class, and he tells me that Patrick was called down to the detention class before the end of the class period. It turns out that not only did someone see what he did to me at my locker this morning, but he also mouthed off to a teacher and shoved down a junior high student which resulted in the kid’s glasses being broken. I can relate; that’s happened to me more than once. The principal has had enough, and consequently, Patrick got a full week’s detention.  

    At least something went right today, I tell myself.  

    I spend the bus ride listening to music through my headphones from my cell phone.  

    The bus drops us off at our stop, down the street from our house. Cole and I walk home in silence. Not for any real reason except we don’t really have anything to say at the moment.  

    We walk into the house and see Mother sitting on the couch. She’s watching her afternoon shows. She really likes Gilmore Girls and is rewatching the series for the millionth time. I smile as I see her and think that she deserves to be able to relax a bit, at least once in a while. She looks up at us as we’re taking our shoes and backpacks off.  

    “Hey boys. How was school?” she asks, pausing the television. Cole smiles at her and I just shake and hang my head. I don't feel like going through the day with her. I’m just exhausted and ready for this day to be finished. 

    “Cal? Hunny? What’s wrong?” Mom asks me. I sigh and know that there’s nothing I can say or do to get my mom to drop the issue. So, I just walk slowly to the couch and sit down with her. Cole, knowing I wouldn’t want an audience, quietly goes upstairs to start his homework.  

    As I sit down with Mom, I really don’t know where to start. When I voice this to her, she says what she always says, to just start at the beginning. So that's what I do. I start telling her about the day I’ve had from nearly missing the bus to Patrick’s many instances to the classes I messed up in. By the time I’m done, I just feel hollow and empty instead of better. Mom doesn’t interrupt and instead holds me to her side and lets me finish. When the words have finally run their course and there are tears running down my face, she squeezes my shoulder, kisses my forehead, and tells me something that never fails to make me feel better.  

   “Cal, I love you. You are a gifted boy whose intelligence will always have others expect things from you. Your father and I only expect one thing and that’s that you’re honest with us. As long as you are always truthful, with us, with yourself, or with a significant other, you will find that those in your life are worth having there.” Then she said something she’s not said before, but made me feel great, nonetheless.  

    “Besides, that Patrick kid is a right little arsehole.” Her British heritage shows through in that little instance with her voice thickening to have a slight accent. That brings a surprise laugh from me.  

    “Now, go on upstairs and get your homework done. I’ll start dinner. How do you feel about your favorite?” I nod, giving her a watery smile.  

I grab my bag from the front door and head upstairs, visions of my mom’s casserole dancing in my head. Upstairs, I toss my book bag onto my bed and follow it by leaping on the center of the bed. I unzip my bag and pull out my science and math books. I’m thankful I don’t have too much homework, especially considering that I crashed and burned during class today.  

    I’m working so diligently that I don’t notice an hour has passed. I’m finishing up my last question for Chemistry, having already finished my Calculus, when a knock on the door makes me jump and yelp. I get my heart rate under control and call out that the door is open. Cole opens the door, and he walks in giggling.  

    “You heard that, didn’t you,” I ask him, my eyes narrowing. He nods, still chuckling too much to answer. My eyes narrow further, but before I can say anything, he tells me that dinner is ready. I finish the last few words I needed to write for Chemistry and put my books, notebooks, and homework back in my bag. I hop up from my bed and follow Cole out the door and downstairs.  

    We get to the table, and Father is already there, having just gotten home roughly fifteen minutes ago. He gives me an encouraging smile as I sit in my chair. No doubt Mother has told him all about what happened. I return his smile in earnest. Thanks to Mother and the hour I had to cool off, I'm feeling much better now, than I have all day.  

    As Mother sets the casserole down in the middle of the table, I take a large whiff of steam coming off the dish. I inhale the mouthwatering scent of beef, tomato, mushrooms, and pasta. Ever since I was little, this has been my favorite comfort food. Mother sits down and we all dig in. Just tasting that wonderful mix has the tension of the day just rolling off my back. No one really speaks as we’re all too busy eating, and all that can be heard is the clink of silverware on plates.  

    We’re all so hungry that we finish off the entire casserole. Mother smiles, Father leans back in his chair and pats his belly, Cole is scraping the plate to get the last little bit of sauce, and I’m just grateful that I have such a wonderful family.  

    “Thank you, Mom. That was really wonderful,” I say to her as she stands to clear the table. She smiles at me and nods. In silent agreement, we all get up from the table. Father goes to the living room, and Cole and I go to the sink where Mother has just put the last of the dishes. She hugs us both and goes to join Father in the living room. Cole and I get to work washing the dishes; Cole washes and I rinse and dry.  

    Once we’re done, we join our parents in the living room and plop down on the couch. Father is getting Netflix set up on the television. He scrolls down to “Resume Watching” and selects the next episode of Supernatural. We watch it together every night together.  

    The four of us laugh our asses off at the funny antics of the Winchester brothers. Cole actually snorts as Dean is barking at the mailman and swearing at birds, but the show ends far too soon and now it is time for bed. After all, as Mother and Father are quick to remind us, it is a school night.  

    Cole and I head upstairs to our respective rooms, get dressed for bed and snuggle in for, what I fervently hope, is a peaceful night’s sleep.  

              I’m at school and for some reason they are all laughing at me. Not the normal “you’re a dork” laughter that I’m familiar with, but a cruel,           malicious, even evil laughter. Everyone in the school, including Mr. Smithin and even the janitor is pointing and laughing. The room we’re in,           the gymnasium from the looks of it, starts to spin around me with the faces of the students and staff blurring together. At first, it’s slow, then,         gradually, it picks up speed. Faster and faster, it spins when suddenly from far down the hall, I hear a loud crash and screaming. The                       screaming is getting louder; the room is spinning faster. I hear growling and snarling and snapping jaws. Suddenly, just when I think I’m                   going to throw up from motion sickness, the spinning and noise stops. I look down at my hands, but my hands aren’t there. In their place I             have two massive paws with long, lethal claws jutting out from the front of them. I open my mouth to scream and a howl comes out. I look             across the gymnasium and see the yellow eyes from my nightmare a few nights ago. They’re getting bigger as though they are getting                 closer, but don’t seem to be connected to anything, just eyes in the darkness. They rush me, getting within a few inches of my face, and                 then...  

    And then I shoot up in bed, dripping with sweat. Just a dream, I tell myself. I’m fumbling for my glasses on my bedside table and as I grab them to put them on, I hear a crash. It sounds like the one from my dream. I slowly get out of bed and creep to the door. I inch the door open, careful not to open it too much lest it squeak on its hinges. From my small sliver of door space, I see a dark shadow moving around in the hall. It’s massive, but I can’t make out what it is. Suddenly, as if the massive shadow can sense my presence, the enormous head whips around to face me. I can’t see anything beyond shadows, but I manage to notice two yellow eyes staring at me thanks to the moonlight of the full moon filtering in from the open door of my brother’s room. I barely have time to register the fact that his door shouldn’t be open when the shadow pounces at me. I let out a long, loud scream before everything goes black.  

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CONTINUE READING WITH KINDLE VELLA