This Is Not a Werewolf Story (7 page)

I hurry to get ready. Maybe Vincent will sit next to me at the counter.

But as I'm going in to breakfast, Vincent is coming out. He's telling a story to Mean Jack and Jason, and the two dimwits are laughing so hard they can't breathe.

So that's that. I know it's dumb, but it feels like someone has taken a rake and dragged it back and forth over my lungs. Vincent is already part of the Pack—the pack I'm not part of.

But Vincent stops when he sees me.

“Raul, my man,” he says. He grabs my hand and shakes it. With a flick of his chin he tells the other two to go on without him. “I was waiting for you. Save me a seat at lunch, okay?”

It's crazy how relieved I feel. But I wonder. How long will it last? How long will he be able to be friends with me and with them? A week, I bet.

“I can hardly understand what those two are saying,” he says. “It's like they speak their own language. Don't throw me to the wolves like that again, okay?”

He doesn't even know how funny that last comment was.

Fishing Friday. It's my job here. Every Friday after lunch and before parent pick-up I take the Cubs fishing at the lake at the edge of White Deer Woods.

Today Dean Swift joins me at the counter for a quick meeting.

“No sign of Gollum?” he asks.

I shake my head.

Dean Swift exhales. His shoulders drop. “Very unfortunate. But we have another small crisis that is slightly more pressing. Remember the bone Sparrow found in the Blackout Tunnel?” he asks.

I nod.

“The bone undoubtedly belonged to a dog. Last night I explored the Blackout Tunnel myself. It appears that over the winter an animal used it as a den.” Dean Swift stares out the window like he's thinking. “That new housing development they put near the ferry terminal has been a catastrophe for so many of our animal friends. I believe we are dealing with a predator—most probably a coyote—that has been displaced from its territory.” He shakes his head sadly. A second later, his
spine straightens, his elbows jut out a little, and he begins a Lecture.

“In packs, coyotes have been known to attack humans. However, the animal that has claimed the Blackout Tunnel appears to be a loner. And if his territory is centered around the Blackout Tunnel, I doubt you would encounter him so far north as the lake. Especially in the middle of the day. I believe that suspending our normal activities would teach a lesson of fear to our young Cubs. Fishing Friday is their sacred hour free from adult supervision and in the tutelage of that divine preceptor, Mother Nature. But I'm counting on you to keep your eyes open today. Bobo must go with you, as usual. She will function as an early warning system.”

Coyotes don't scare me. But I know what he means when he talks about the new housing development. It borders the far side of White Deer Woods, and coyotes aren't the only predators the new human families are making nervous.

After breakfast the Cubs all follow me out of the dining hall and line up in front of the equipment room so I can hand out their poles.

If the dean only knew how Fishing Friday normally goes down, he wouldn't waste his breath warning me about a coyote.

Six times Jane has hooked me, not a fish. Four times Tim has eaten deer poop. Now, the little turds
do
look like berries, but after the first three times you'd think he'd make a mental note of it. Three times I lost one of them for more than an hour, and we all had to fan out in a long line and form a search party. Twice Little John was sure he saw a witch and got so scared he wet his pants. I keep telling him that yes, there is magic in those woods, but no witches.

Before we leave, I line them up and hand out the equipment—poles, hooks, and bait.

Sixty times someone's pole has floated away to the middle of the lake.

When it's Sparrow's turn, I hold his brand-new pole out to him and then jerk it back a little as he grabs for it.

He laughs. “I won't bust it up, I promise,” he says.

I hand it to him and squeeze the back of his neck lightly. His hair is soft and wispy.

He flips the pole over in his hand and then looks up at me with his face really still. I can tell he's too happy for words when he gets that look. He traces a finger along the design I carved. It's of two wolves, and they're running around the bottom, tail to mouth. It's the best carving I've ever done. And he gets what it means, he knows what I'm saying to him. I'm saying,
Hey, Sparrow, you're no cub, you're no weak runt, you're a wolf. You're in my pack.

Five times Sparrow has slipped his hand in mine while we walk back to school from the lake.

You know what Sparrow's problem is? It's so bad it's hard for me to tell it. When he first came here he always had a couple of bruises on his cheek or his arm. Over the week they would fade and turn into yellow smears. Then Friday night he'd go home with his mom.

When he came back on Sundays he'd run to his room, open the door, and chuck in his duffel bag. Then, quick like a bunny, he'd head down to Fort Casey all by himself. But every single time, Sparrow would come back with more bruises. He'd tell the dean that he'd fallen on the stairs at the fort, or that he'd stood up under the cannon and gotten a lump on his head.

I had a bad feeling about it. How can one kid get hurt so much and so bad?

So one Sunday afternoon after his mom dropped him off, I decided to find out. First, he ran to his room and put his bag away. He came back out wearing a too-big baseball cap, and I followed him over to Fort Casey. You know where he went. To the Blackout Tunnel.

Before he stepped into the tunnel he looked back, like he wanted to make sure nobody was watching. He lifted his head up, and for the first time I saw what the baseball hat hid. A huge bruise under his eye.

He stayed in the tunnel for a while and then came out. When he got back to the school he ran up to the
dean and said, “Dean Swift, a little boy playing on the field at the fort hit a baseball right into my eye.”

Dean Swift clucked a few times, put an arm around him, and took him to the nurse.

I was confused.
Nothing
had hit him at the fort.

My gut told me that Sparrow shouldn't go home on the weekends. But I kept my mouth shut, because I didn't know who to tell or even really what to say. It was just a feeling, that's all.

It turned out Sparrow's mom was hitting him—not because he was bad but because
she
was. I heard the dean telling Cook Patsy one day when they forgot I was in the kitchen. I couldn't see his face, since I was chopping up onions and had to keep wiping my eyes, but I've never heard his voice so furious. Those were the worst onions I've ever chopped.

The dean had found out that Sparrow was lying about getting hurt at the fort because he didn't want his mom to get in trouble. I think he was just sitting in the Blackout Tunnel feeling sad and trying to imagine accidents that would match the bruises his mom gave him.

Now his grandma picks him up for the weekend, and he
never
has bruises anymore.

So I take special care of Sparrow. I should have told the dean what I saw that day at the fort—even though I didn't understand it. It took another month before
the dean figured it out. How many more times did Sparrow's mom hit him in that month?

Dean Swift says we have to forgive ourselves when we make mistakes. He has a funny reason for it too. He says if you don't forgive yourself for making a mistake, then you get so that you never want to admit that you made one.

I'm still chewing on that one.

Today Vincent is coming fishing with us, even though he's not one of the little kids. It was the dean's idea—to give the new kid a chance to have some fun.

“If he has a great day today, it will make it easier for him to return on Sunday night,” he said.

Here's the thing about Dean Swift. He lies, sure, but only because sometimes it's easier than explaining everything. He's disorganized, but that's because he's always thinking. Studying the natural light phenomena of the island is a big job.

But the main thing is, he's kind. And that's all that matters, isn't it? To us, anyway, to the ones who got left on the edge of an island with nothing but a suitcase full of clothes and a head full of trouble.

No kid here is lucky, but we're all lucky to be here.

When it's Vincent's turn for equipment, I hold up a fishing pole in one hand and a slingshot in the other. Then I shrug a little so he knows he can choose one or
the other. Some kids think fishing's boring. But everyone loves a slingshot.

Twenty times I've been hit so hard with a rock in the back of the shin or the private parts that I almost fainted.

Vincent looks from one to the other. “Can I just hang out and watch?” he asks.

I nod. Vincent's not a little kid, but I've seen lots of little kids act like this. As far as I can tell it's just that they're afraid of messing up. So when Vincent says he wants to sit and watch us all have fun, I make sure he sees that I'm packing the slingshot. In case once we're out there in the woods, he changes his mind and decides to try something new.

The dean opens the door for us and hands me the walkie-talkie to use in case of emergency. To him a scraped knee is an emergency.

That man has
no idea
what happens in those woods.

We walk single file in the weeds along the roadside. Bobo leads the way. No traffic on this road, since it only leads from Highway 20 to the school. The lake is ten minutes away, halfway between the highway and the school.

While we walk, I think about my problem. The counselor says I have “trust issues.” He says it's because the people I relied on most—my mom and dad—have
not been able to take care of me. He says that's why I don't like to talk very much.

Wrong
, is what I want to say to him—but not enough to say it. The reason I don't talk is because I can tell nobody is really listening. What I have to say doesn't really matter.