This Is Not a Werewolf Story Read Online Free

sobbing.
    Tuffman made Sparrow cry.
    All my sad turns to mad. I must look like I’m about to charge after Tuffman and drop him. Mary Anne grabs my arm and pulls it down, like it’s a leash on a lunging dog.
    â€œWhatever you do will just make it worse,” she says.
    She keeps her hand on my arm, and I know she’s trying to say she feels bad about what Tuffman said to me. The tears jump from my throat to my eyes.
    â€œYo. Forget about the jockstrap. He’s just trying to get under your skin,” Mean Jack says. “We got bigger fish to fry here. Has anyone seen the snake?”
    Mary Anne’s face goes white.
    Mean Jack takes charge. “Me and Mary’ll finish up spring cleaning here. Raul, you go collar Sparrow. Last thing we need is this story getting back to the authorities.”
    Last thing you need, you mean. But it’s hard to hate a kid who just saved you from bawling in front of yourcrush. And he’s right. Forget about Tuffman. It’s my fault anyway. I let him get under my skin. I let him see what I was thinking. I have to be careful. Words aren’t the only thing that can give my secrets away.
    â€œCome on, Bobo,” I say.
    She stands up and stretches. I hear her joints crack. As we head out the door, she puts her nose in my hand. Thank you, she’s saying. You always know what a dog really means. Did you ever think of that? A dog can’t lie.
    There’s a drawer in my mind where I put things I don’t like. I shove everything Tuffman just said in it.
    I know where Sparrow is, and I’m not gonna let him sit there and cry all alone in the dark.
    When Sparrow feels bad he runs to Fort Casey. He’s stealthy. Nobody but me ever sees him go. He dashes across the big field in the middle of the fort and heads for a bunker built into the hillside. The Blackout Tunnel is the darkest, blackest, scariest place you can imagine. If by some freak occurrence a prehistoric man-eating, bone-gnawing dinosaur survived the asteroid, then that’s where it’d be living. Put your hand in front of your face. Now bring it so close that it’s almost touching your nose but isn’t. If you were in the Blackout Tunnel, you wouldn’t be able to see that hand.
    I head out the front door. I take the path the new kid took, but nobody is going to call security on me because1) I’m not what they call a “flight risk”—meaning I’ve never tried to run away—and 2) Dean Swift believes in what he calls “personal liberty”—which as far as I can tell is a fancy way of saying that kids should play outside a lot and grown-ups shouldn’t bug them much. Over the front door he had me carve a sign that says Silva Curat! which is Latin for The forest heals!
    I’m warning you. Do not ask him about the forest and its wondrous ability to Heal children. His eyes will pop up round as boiled egg yolks, and he’ll talk until your ears bleed.
    I agree with him, though. Only, I would’ve carved something different. I would’ve carved The forest has secrets. I should write Mary Anne a note and ask how to say that in Latin. But then she’d want to know the secrets.
    I look around, remembering the feeling I had earlier this morning when the crows gathered. It’s gone but I know it’s near. Today’s Thursday. Woods magic happens Friday at sunset. Everyone likes the weekend. But I like it most of all.
    Bobo lopes up ahead. The path drops off and she jumps down onto the driftwood pile. Her hind legs give way and I wince for her. She forgets how old she is. But a second later she’s at the water’s edge, barking at the waves.
    A gleam down near Bobo catches my eye. It’s black and shiny. As I get closer I see it’s a helmet. It must havegotten knocked off the kid’s head when he got tackled.
    I pick it up. Bobo sniffs it. Her eyes ask, Good to eat? I scratch her ears. You’ll break every