This Is Not a Werewolf Story Read Online Free Page B

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    Tuffman can talk all he likes. They all can. The words burn, but they’re smoke, not fire—just the ashes of the truth, just what’s left of it.
    The truth about my mom is beyond words.
    I finish sanding Sparrow’s new pole. It’s a beauty, way better than the last one I made for him. He broke the last one using it as a drumstick.
    Do you want to know what the other drumstick was?
    A lightbulb.

    Did I mention I was hungry? I am ravenous, famished, voracious. Give me food, woman, I feel like yelling, except the cook is Patsy and she is very nice.
    â€œHey, Raul,” she says as I grab my breakfast tray, “will you give me a smile if I give you this?” That’s Cook Patsy’s favorite joke.
    Usually, though, it’s more like “Hey, Raul, will you give me a smile if I give you a bowl Little John didn’t sneeze into?” Or “Hey, Raul, will you give me a smile if I give you a spoon the chemistry teacher didn’t use to mix sulfuric acid?”
    Of course I always give her a smile, but today I give her a word, too. Because today she hands me a mini flashlight she found in the bottom of a box of my favorite cereal.
    â€œThanks!” I say, because I was not raised by wolves. That means I have good manners.
    â€œFor your nighttime, after-Lights-Out, reading emergencies,” she says.
    I click it on and off. It’s red. Very small but powerful. And LED so the bulb will never die. I wonder how she knows about my midnight reading emergencies.
    I smile at her again and slip the flashlight into my pocket. Sometimes I think Cook Patsy is looking out for me a little, the way I look out for Sparrow. It makes my throat tight, like I might cry, except it would be stupid to cry because someone is nice to you, wouldn’t it?

    Dean Swift is showing the new kid and his mom around the dining hall.
    â€œNow,” he says in the voice he uses for the parents, “boys and girls are together during mealtimes and some of our advanced classes. Our youngest residents, the Cubs, sit closest to the food service area. The older girls—the Wolverines—sit at the round tables, and the older boys—the Pack—sit at the picnic tables.”
    The new kid stares at the floor, driving the toe of his shoe into a crack in the linoleum. Every time I hearhim sniff up his tears, I look over to make sure Mean Jack and his wake of buzzards keep their yaps shut.
    Mean Jack catches my eye once and that’s all it takes for him to get the message. I was grateful to Jack for a split second after Tuffman yelled at me. But now everything’s back to normal. In my age group there’s the boys in the Pack and then there’s me.
    I walk to my usual stool at the counter. The counter is at the far end of the cafeteria, set against a window that takes up the entire wall. I sit with my back to the room, looking out at Admiralty Inlet. All I can see is sky and water, and today they are the same color.
    Dean Swift, Pretty Lady, and the new kid come over and stand behind me.
    My stomach feels hollow. Will Dean Swift introduce me? I wish he hadn’t said anything about me helping. It’s not really doing the guy a favor, is it? Here, new kid, here’s the boy who’s been here the longest and who fits in the least. Why don’t we have him show you around?
    In the end the kid will join the Pack. They’ll tease him. Mean Jack’ll take a little of his allowance every week and all of his brownie on Mondays. But if he puts up with it and doesn’t snitch, then Mean Jack’ll call him a stand-up guy and that’ll be that. Once you’re in with the Pack, you’re never out.
    The stool next to me scrapes, and Mary Anne sitsdown. Now my stomach feels like a trampoline with thirty kangaroos on it.
    Mary Anne’s a shifter, that’s what I call her. Not in the way I am, though. She shifts between groups of people. Everyone listens to her.