Feral (38 page)

The story, Claire figured, would also go on to rehash some of the other details: that Isles had been fired. She would be referred to as a shamed instructor. As a history teacher who would never teach again, and was facing her own charges for sexual misconduct with a student.

When Claire glanced up, she saw Becca standing near the checkout counter with a fresh-faced freshman cheerleader—a girl apparently idolizing her, hanging on to Becca's every word as though they were rocks on a cliff, keeping her from falling to certain annihilation.

“Good intentions are one thing,” Rich whispered into Claire's ear, somehow reading her mind. “But Becca will never give up her love of being adored.”

“Look!” Rachelle said, pointing at the
Star
. “It's here.”

“Lucky thing you all came for that paper when you did,” Maxine called from the front counter, while Becca and her new friend finished paying for their coffees and turned to leave the store. “We're '
bout out
.”

Claire chuckled as she carried her copy to the counter, plunked her money down. She tore through the pages, stopping when she finally found what she'd been looking for—her own byline—
Claire Cain
—and her headshot. In the
Kansas City Star.
“The Face of Fear,” an ongoing first-person account about living with PTSD. A series that Mavis had felt was far too big for the
Peculiar High Press
.

Rich and Rachelle leaned in close to her, reading over her shoulder. “It's good,” Rich said. “Really good. Honest.”

Claire smiled up at him. “I hope so,” she said. She folded the paper under her arm, planning to take it home to share with her father.

A soft brush against her jeans drew her attention toward a strange cat swirling around her ankles. A calico missing her right ear. Claire gasped, closing her eyes tightly.

Ain't no house cat
, Claire heard bouncing through her mind. It was still a struggle to keep a tight rein on wild thoughts that kept trying to invade her reality.

“Claire,” Rich called softly. “Claire.”

Her heart thundered and sweat began to turn her cheeks shiny as she cracked her eyes, forcing herself to look down at the cat's tricolored face.

“That's Maybelline,” Maxine shouted. “Named her that 'cause I found her in an old shipping box of lipstick. Showed up about the same time animal control started roundin' all the ferals up. All those wild cats used to like to shadow me a bit every now and again, mostly when they were hungry or wanted to play a bit, but Maybelline seems to have a special interest. Followin' me around like a human, that one.”

Claire flinched. “Human?” she repeated, glancing through the plate-glass window, toward the cemetery.

“Now, don't let that cat's looks scare you, hon',” Maxine insisted, leaning against the barn-wood counter. “She looks rough, but she's the sweetest ol' thing. Gonna have to take that one in for good.”

Sweet Pea is dead
, Claire reminded herself,
and she was never anything other than a cat. Maybelline is a cat, too, Claire. A cat—nothing more.

Claire squatted, reached for the calico. Maybelline leaned into her hand, purring the moment Claire started rubbing the back of her neck.

She smiled, letting her fingers dig deeper into the cat's fur. When she hit a sore spot behind the cat's ear, though, Maybelline let out a fierce yowl and swiped at Claire's hand with her claws.

Letting out a yelp of her own, Claire checked her knuckles to find that Maybelline hadn't broken the skin. But when she glanced into the yellow eyes of the adopted and soon-to-be spoiled store cat, she saw it still buried inside: a hint of the wild thing she could have easily become.

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S
he felt it again—the tug. It started gently, like the first warm ray of sun after a violent spring storm. It came as relief, like the gentle kiss of rain on a drought-cracked earth. It intensified, pulling at her with kindness, like a child begging her to come outside to play. Serena answered the call—as she always did—and found herself hovering above the spot marked with her name.

The tugs occurred regularly—as often as she was remembered. She relished those times when memories brought her back to the world and she got a chance to smell the sweetness of grass that had just been mowed, to feel the silvery smoothness of the moon rippling around her like a whirlpool, to taste the sunshine. Sunlight on the fields where Serena had spent her childhood tasted like the banana Popsicles she'd loved when she was little.

Her father had been the first one to tug her back to the cemetery—shortly after her permanent marker had appeared. “Looks good there, kiddo,” he'd said of the marker, in the same awkward way he'd once talked of new dresses she'd put on for church, once she'd filled out and had gotten a more womanly shape. He bent down to pull a few extra-tall strands of grass away from her headstone, the same way he'd once straightened her collar.

“Know what I was just thinking about?” he'd asked. But he didn't need to tell her. Serena
had
already known—her first-day-of-school kindergarten dress. He'd picked it out for her, on a shopping trip they'd taken together.
Blue flowers to go with those big blue eyes
, he'd said, smiling at the little dress he'd plucked off the rack. That was part of being called back—reliving the joy that a memory of her had brought someone else.

Other tugs had been painful, though—especially the one from the girl with the big blue coat and the troubled eyes. The girl who'd told Serena the strange story—about visions and Owen. “It's okay now,” she'd assured her. “Everyone knows what really happened.”

Serena had wished, then, for arms to comfort the poor girl. Some way to thank her.

Serena glanced about the cemetery, eager to find who had tugged her this time.

It was her best friend who paused inside the wrought-iron gate to take a deep breath. So Becca had finally come. She'd had to talk herself into this visit, Serena knew. The permanent marker made the rest of it permanent, too.

Becca'd cut her hair all the way up to her shoulders. It made her look older. Or maybe it was everything that had happened in the last few months that had aged her.

She'd walked halfway to the grave before Serena realized that the woman accompanying Becca was her own mother—not Mrs. Holman.

It seemed so strange to see them together—but it pleased Serena, too. Her mother had come before, but always by herself, and always so sad. Being together, she knew, was helping them both.

Serena studied the two portraits the two women had hung in their minds: Her mother was thinking of the swaddled baby she'd carried into the old house, first day home from the hospital. And Becca was fondly remembering the nights they'd spent in same old house, after the family had moved out, laughing and getting tipsy on the booze they'd all tried to pretend was not the most vile thing they'd ever tasted.

No one person ever saw another as they really were—it took a variety of images from a cluster of loved ones to finally get the complete picture. To understand who someone had been. Some of the memories were true, and some were distortions, some complete fiction—but that, Serena knew, was all part of getting the full picture. The two portraits Becca and her mother carried were a good start.

Serena watched the two slowly trudge between the white stones to bring handfuls of her favorite lilies to place beside her marker. They squatted, the downward curve of their shoulders showing how heavy a task it was. How much they wished the three of them could all be somewhere else—together.

It was hard to look at the weight they carried—even now, months later. She turned her attention upward, slightly, toward her own tombstone.

Her initials,
SS
, had been engraved at the top. Now, as Serena stared, she swore the matching pair of letters looked like a set of bookends. There wasn't much space between them—just as there weren't many chapters filling the space between the beginning and end of her life.

Serena sent a breeze down to tickle the backs of the women's necks.
It's me, and I love you, and when you remember me, you bring me back. Don't you know that? Don't you feel me here with you? There's not enough space between my bookends for bad stories. Fill it with all the good.

When the women stood, Serena blew another breeze—a harder one this time, almost like a tap to the shoulder—that made Becca turn her head up. She wiped a couple of silvery tear tracks from her cheeks. “Hey, look at that,” she said, pointing. “That cloud looks like two S's.”

Serena's mother sniffed as she glanced up at a pure white puff and the patch of blue sky shining out in the midst of the dark gray underbellies of surrounding clouds. “It does,” she agreed. Her own tears trailed away as her face spread into an awkward, almost apologetic smile. She draped an arm across Becca's shoulder, and Becca shaded her eyes to get a better look.

After a while, they lowered their heads. Mrs. Sims brushed a stray green leaf from the top of the headstone, and Becca reached down to straighten the bouquet that Serena's breeze had tilted, as though a well-manicured grave showed the depth of how much they had cared—and still cared, even now. Slowly, they headed back for Mrs. Sims's car. Their shoulders, Serena noted with pleasure, were not quite as round as before.

As quickly as the S-shaped cloud had formed, it began to dissipate. It didn't change shapes, and it didn't roll away. It simply, quietly, dissolved.

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As I sat down to draft
Feral
, I had a mental outline of where the story and its main characters would take me. But when Claire and I crossed the city limits of the fictionalized city of Peculiar, neither of us could have anticipated where our journey together would ultimately lead. Writing this book has been a wild, surprising ride.

Thanks to:

My incredible editor, Karen Chaplin, who encouraged me to think about
Feral
in an entirely different light. Thanks for asking the hard questions, for unabashedly honest critiques, and for pushing me to take this book to a new level.

My agent, Deborah Warren, for her enthusiasm and her positive energy.

Copyeditors Veronica Ambrose and Bethany Reis for ensuring the tiniest details helped make
Feral
come alive.

The entire talented crew at HarperCollins, for such a great cover, and for giving
Feral
a home.

Team Schindler—my exceptional first reader, photographer, and biggest fans.

My fabulous readers and bloggers, for always making long hours at the computer screen worthwhile.

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..................................................................

HOLLY SCHINDLER
is the author of the critically acclaimed teen novel
A Blue So Dark
as well as
Playing Hurt
. A lifelong resident of Missouri, Holly encourages her readers to get in touch at www.hollyschindler.com.

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..................................................................

HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

FERAL
. Copyright © 2014 by Holly Schindler. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

www.epicreads.com

ISBN 978-0-06-222020-2

EPub Edition March 2014 ISBN 9780062341358

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FIRST EDITION

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