Twenty-five
Returning to school as Mason’s boyfriend—openly—felt like being let out of a box.
It was easier to breathe out in the open, but still, the first steps were tentative.
In the parking lot on Monday morning, I climbed from my car into Mason’s, and we stayed there, holed up in his Jeep, until the last possible second.
I wasn’t nervous. I wanted this, and I didn’t give a damn what anyone thought. But making it known felt like letting strangers into something private. Stepping out of the box meant subjecting ourselves to prying eyes. Once the secret was out, we lost control over it.
Mason was nervous. He didn’t say so, but it was in the tight corners of his mouth. I kissed each one and they curved upward, earnest beneath anxious eyes.
We started toward art class with no time to spare. I took Mason’s hand and pulled him along. Under the dark open sky, it seemed like we could slip by unnoticed, real creatures of the night.
In the halls, squeezed between lockers and bodies, there were no shadows large enough to shade us.
Mostly, students were rushing to class, but I could feel eyes on me around every corner.
It didn’t help that Mason was the kind of person who received some form of greeting every few steps.
It made walking near him annoying on a normal day.
Today, after winning the state championship and being very publicly very gay, he might have achieved local celebrity status.
Every friendly congratulation was a spotlight.
Eyes snagged and trailed. Heads turned—to peek or to duck toward a friend and murmur.
No doubt word had spread through the student body like a flame. If Mason was practically famous on the high school level, our longstanding feud was infamous. We were as flammable as a dying forest. Everyone would know by lunch, if they didn’t already.
Mason pretended not to notice, chattering endlessly at my side, smiling at anyone who called out to him.
I took the opposite approach. I met their nosiness head-on.
The pair of girls from drama class who had been crushing on Mason since his first day actually slowed to get a good look as they passed; my frosted glare sent them speed-walking off.
I half listened to Mason’s rambling, busy looking down my nose at anyone unlucky enough to make eye contact. We must have made quite the sight: star boy Mason hand-in-hand with that broody kid with eyes like warning shots. A beacon and his guard dog.
I could feel his palm sweating. His hold was tight like he was bracing for something. I didn’t like that he seemed to have forgotten himself. He was Carrington’s sweetheart, and since the game, our hero. No one would try him.
And if someone did?
There wasn’t a single fight we could lose. We were monsters. We were untouchable.
“This enough attention for you?” I asked.
Mason paused mid-sentence. His open mouth curved into a smirk, and he stood a little straighter, like all he’d needed was a reminder—he thrived in the limelight.
“Not even close,” he said.
***
We let go of each other’s hands before walking into art class.
We had agreed not to be too showy around Cella when everything we did affected her.
I wished I could shield her from the rumor mill, but just on the walk to art class, I’d heard whispers about her relationship with Mason, the breakup, the fact that she and I weren’t together the way we used to be.
Just by coming out, we had subjected her to gossip and more embarrassment.
The least we could do was not make a big show of ourselves right next to her, where any watching eyes would be looking at her too.
Apart from Mason moving into the desk she’d left behind in drama, we hardly acted any differently in class than we had for the last few weeks.
Between classes, though, I didn’t have to walk in silence.
Mason insisted on accompanying me even when his own classes were in far-off buildings.
He abandoned his friends at lunch, and we sat together beneath a pine tree at the back of the school.
Mason ate his meaty lunches while I picked apart pine cones and flicked the pieces at him.
After three days of this, he whined, “I feel so weird with you just watching me eat every day. Can’t you bring a snack with you? In a juice box or something?”
“Are you trying to manage how often I drink, Mason?”
“No!” he lied. I threw a whole pine cone at his shoulder to show him I was annoyed.
But the next day, and the day after that, I filled a small thermos with blood and sipped it during the lunch period. It had occurred to me while I was still annoyed with him that it might be easier this way. Doing at least a little of my feeding when Mason was around and I felt so alive.
Lunch had become my favorite time of day—when we could be together like this, secluded but not concealed.
Still, Cella’s absence was an acute burn.
Mason could fill the silences she had left behind, but he could never fill the space.
It only seemed to grow wider the further he settled into it.
That weekend was the start of winter break.
With each passing day, it became clearer just how wrong I’d been to think it would get easier when I was away from her.
I had spent every winter break for the last decade going in and out of her house like I lived there.
This year, in the evenings, I binged episodes of the telenovela with my dad, took moonlit walks with Annalisa, and, upon request, tried to teach Casper how to draw.
He wanted to give every member of the clan a personalized drawing of a shark.
They all came out looking sort of like nail clippers.
I filled my days with Mason. I wasn’t bold enough to stroll into the wolves’ house just because they knew about us, so we stuck to the shed.
Our poppies were several inches tall and sprouting fernlike leaves.
We sometimes ventured into the forest—he was going through a picnicking thing—and, twice, drove out of town for the day so we could go on dates without worrying about anyone from my family seeing.
I really could never, would never, get enough of him.
But I mourned a time that had never existed, when Cella, Mason, and I took day trips and ate lunch as a group of friends. It stung to imagine another timeline, one where I’d been smarter about things. If I hadn’t played my cards so wrong, I could have had them both.
I missed her in everything I did.
***
I was filling my little thermos in the kitchen on the first school day of the new year when my brother came up the steps.
I inched out of the way of the fridge, thinking he was getting a drink himself, but Cedric rounded to the other side of the kitchen island and leaned his palms on the black marble.
“I want to show you something,” he said.
“Can it wait?” I shrugged my shoulder to indicate my backpack.
“You’ve got twenty minutes,” said Cedric. He was right, but Mason would be expecting me in the parking lot soon, and he got whiny when I kept him waiting.
“I’ve got to pick Cella up,” I said. “She doesn’t like to cut it close.”
“Somehow, I think she’ll be okay,” said Cedric. “Come on.”
He started toward the stairs without waiting for my agreement.
I contemplated. First the tattoo, now this; I couldn’t remember another time in the last several years that Cedric had wanted to show me anything.
Huffing that he’d better be quick, I shoved the thermos into my bag and hurried downstairs after him.
I hadn’t taken the series of turns that led to his bedroom since I’d needed his boots for Halloween.
Cedric had started locking his door when he was a preteen.
Back then, depending on his mood, he had either shouted or feigned deafness until whoever was knocking turned away.
Eventually, everyone had given up altogether.
I hadn’t seen the inside of his room in years, but my memory drew up inky walls, punk-band posters, and a black chandelier that was never lit.
This time, he flicked the light switch on his wall as he walked in. It didn’t take long to figure out why.
He didn’t want me to miss a single detail.
The chandelier let out dim yellow light. Cedric pushed the door shut behind me. I instantly pressed against it, my right hand searching blindly for the knob. I couldn’t look away.
The ebony bookshelf on his right wall was stuffed to the brim, books as slim as a finger and as thick as a log, books with modern shiny covers and books that must have been centuries old.
Anatomy of a Werewolf
Full Moon at Arms
The Revenant’s Nemesis: History’s Oldest War
To Hunt the Hunter
The Lycanthropy Reader
Life of Wolfman
The Value of Silver
The Mongrel Beast: Weapons and Weaknesses
The titles went on and on. Everything that was known about werewolves, mythologically and otherwise, must have been covered in his collection: their history, their lifestyles, their vulnerabilities.
Cedric’s obsession had never been a secret, but to think he had studied like this—like he was preparing for something.
The books weren’t even the worst part. On the bookshelf, on the dresser, on the desk, hanging on his wall, was silver. All forms of it. Necklaces, amulets, wires, coins, chalices, small jars of glittering powder. Knives. Throwing stars, brass knuckles, spearheads, hatchet stakes.
My stomach felt like a piece of paper crumpled in a fist. We had messed up, me and my dad and everyone else in this clan. We hadn’t taken him seriously.
“Cedric,” I said, mouth so dry my tongue felt like sandpaper against my palate. “What is this?”
He picked a shiny silver arrowhead up off of his desk, turning it over thoughtfully between his fingers.
“Where’d you keep disappearing to all break?” he asked.
“I was at Cella’s. Like I am every break.”
“Is that so?” He poked the sharp tip. “I thought I heard you mention something the other day . . . sounded like she hasn’t spoken to you in a while.”