Between Read Online Free Page A

hoarse. “When did… did you shift?”
    “I haven’t shifted.”
    Relief was clear on both their faces. “Then why would you think that you are… like him?”
    “I can just tell, okay?” I shouted. This conversation was making me angry. “Don’t you think I would know?”
    “Look, you’ve been sick. Those jocks at school have been picking on you. You’re just confused, you aren’t a… a…” Dad’s voice trailed away.
    “A hellhound,” I finished for him.
    “You aren’t,” Dad said firmly as if claiming it would make it true. “We’ll forget about what happened at school today. Those guys deserved what you gave them. That’s the way to take up for yourself, son.”
    Yeah, he’s forgiving me ‘cause he’d rather have a bully for a son than a hellhound. He didn’t stop to think about how suddenly I seemed able to take up for myself when I hadn’t been capable for months.
    I glanced at Mom, who was wiping her eyes with a tissue. “I’m so sorry I let you down. I never wanted to.”
    “I know, Mom.” It hurt me to see her so upset. She just hadn’t been the same since Sam left. It broke something inside her. I didn’t want to make it worse. “Can I go to my room now?”
    “I’ll call you for dinner.”
    We ate dinner that night in silence. All of us pretended that nothing was wrong—all of us knowing that there was. When I was in bed and staring at the ceiling, Dad opened the door and came in. He stood over my bed, staring down at me through the dark. Finally, he spoke. “Whatever this phase is that you’re going through stops now. I expect you to be strong enough to handle yourself, to know who you really are.”
    My stomach clenched and I said nothing.
    He cleared his throat. “Do you understand me, son?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He left without another word.
    I lay there, processing his words, hearing what he didn’t say. I wondered if he ever went into Sam’s room and told him to just not be a hellhound. I didn’t think so, because with Sam, there was no denying what he was. We all saw him shift—even when he tried to hide it. Dad thought I was acting out; he thought since he hadn’t seen me change that I couldn’t really be one, that I had some control over it.
    I wished he was right.
    I knew that he wasn’t.
    ***
    Everyone whispered at school. Everyone went out of their way to give me space. The teachers eyed me warily and the jocks avoided eye contact. I didn’t really mind being treated like a freak; in fact, deep down, a part of me liked it. It made me feel powerful.
    Control feels good. Other people’s fear tastes good. Power is yours for the taking, the voice in my head told me.
    Sometimes, I deliberately walked down the hall and bumped into Brent. The satisfaction I felt when he skittered out of the way made me smile. I liked that he was afraid of me. I wanted him to be.
    At home Dad pretty much ignored me. He no longer asked what my grades were. We didn’t watch sports together. I listened to Mom cry herself to sleep every night and then she was back to pretending in the morning.
    But that wasn’t the worst thing.
    The worst thing was the rage.
    Sometimes, I felt like a switch inside me had been flipped and all of a sudden, I was ripping things apart. One evening, I was doing my homework and it overcame me. I ripped apart my math book, ripping the hardback cover completely off and tearing the pages to shreds. I didn’t know what to do, so I stuffed it all in a trash bag and threw it in a dumpster on my way to school.
    I told myself I was just tired of doing homework, tired of working so hard for excellent grades.
    After school a few days later, I was leaving when I passed Brent and his crew. They fell silent, avoiding eye contact. I should have kept going. I didn’t. Instead, I shoved Brent up against the lockers and dumped the contents of his book bag all over the floor. When he lunged at me, I decked him in the jaw and proceeded to destroy all his notebooks and