Chapter #11Go home. by: Seuzz   You're bemused at the sight of your mom on the steps to the trailer, hugging herself against the dawn's chill. Not that you're surprised to see her: you knew she was there the moment she arrived, and you watched her mind with increasing amusement as she prowled around the trailer trying to find a way in. But you'd taken the house key off her ring before sending her to work, and you'd locked the door when you left. You weren't quite sure about your sleep habits, and didn't want her getting any funny ideas. Like the funny idea she had on the way back home of sneaking in and knifing you to death in your bed.
She jumps when she hears your bike, and shifts uneasily on the stoop.
"Good morning, mother," you say cheerfully. "I hope work went well."
She says nothing as you lean your bike against the side of the trailer.
"Of course, what I hope and what actually happened are two completely different things, aren't they?" you continue. "Mr. Davis gave you notice, didn't he?"
Again, she says nothing.
"I believe his exact words were 'You're not going to hold a job here when you're always hung over'. I suppose I can't hold it against you, since he was going to fire you anyway. Still, you shouldn't have stopped by the convenience store and bought that beer. That also counts as alcohol."
You give her something like a sucker punch to the brain. She staggers, and curses you, loudly.
"We don't want to wake up Mr. Llewellyn, do we?" you say. "You remember what he said the last time he had to break up one of our fights."
"Just you wait until—" You punch her again.
"I told you to be quiet. And it's no good thinking that you'll catch me unawares. I don't sleep anymore, so even if you had gotten in the house, and even if I had been home, you wouldn't have been able to use that butcher knife. Unless you were to use it on yourself."
She rises, her mouth twisted in rage. She's beyond terror and horror, and you might actually have to touch her, or seize her mind directly ... except that you're not alone.
She stops as the growls rise, and retreats, stupidly, up the steps as the wolves pad into the yard. Yes, you brought them with you, down side streets and back alleys, just for the pleasure of this moment.
"Jesus Christ, what are they?" she says.
"They're wolves, mother. They're my brothers and sisters. Except for this one." You scratch the bitch's ears. "I suppose if they're my siblings, then she's my mother. I guess that can't be quite right: a boy can't have two mommies, whatever some people say. Still, she's much more affectionate than you ever were." You lean down, and the bitch licks your face fondly.
Her face twists. "God almighty, what are you?" she whispers.
"I'm your son, mother. I know it's a strange concept, since you've never treated me like that's what I am. But I do wish you'd learn."
"God damn it, Karter," a voice roars. "I told you you wouldn't be stayin' here any longer if I had to come out and break up another fight between you two!" It's Llewellyn, the park manager, an older man, bald and fat and strangely lumpy, like one small, misshapen potato set on another and then set on lumbering legs. He has a bad hip, and twists and waddles as he comes up to your trailer, clad only in ratty overalls. He freezes when he sees you, your mother, and the pack.
You've always hated him as a loud-mouthed, bad-tempered busybody.
"Kill," you say calmly, for effect, though it is unnecessary. Swiftly and silently, you wheel the wolves about and lunge them at him, pushing him to the ground and neatly tearing away his throat so quickly he can't even cry out. Your mother gasps and stifles a scream, but you continue staring at her, smiling. Your biggest and strongest wolf rips all the flesh away from Llewellyn's neck while the others tear at his coveralls and arms and shoulders and feet. You can taste his blood and flesh in your own mouth; but, filtered through the wolves' minds, it tastes delicious.
"I'm getting tired of making threats and giving demonstrations, mother," you say. "And I've never acquired the taste for discipline that you seem to have. So we'll settle this for all time, now. Will you be a good member of the pack? If so, I will let you live. If not—" You're standing over her, and you bare your teeth and let an authentic growl ripple from deep within your chest. She shudders and slaps her hands over her eyes, but nods. "Good. Drink deeply, then." You seize her by the hair and force her head back and cover her mouth with yours. As you have a bit of yourself lodged within her, you can share with her visions from your larger mind, including the illusion, lifted from your wolves' senses, of hot, thick blood lapping out of your throat and down hers. She chokes on it.
* * * * *
"Jesus, you stink, Karter."
"Bite me, Linwood. I was up all night and didn't have time to shower."
You try rushing past him, but he slaps the ball out of your hands, then pivots back to the line and sinks it from halfway down the court. "I wasn't talking about you, I was talking about your play."
"Hey, I got more points off you today than yesterday."
"You stunk yesterday, too."
"Fuck. Give me four inches, asshole, and I could take you."
"Where? In your legs or your shorts?"
"Legs. In the shorts you'd have to spot me six."
"Six?!"
"I've seen you in the shower, Linwood. God, you make me feel inadequate."
Linwood guffaws and slaps at your chest. "Christ, Karter, you've got guts saying something like that."
You grin back. "So, we still playing this weekend?"
"Sure. Ten o'clock tomorrow?"
"Awesome." The coach has come out, so you bump fists with the ball player and jog to the shower, to regretfully wash the wolf scent off you.
* * * * *
You sent the pack back up into the hills and released them to do their usual stuff while you went back to school. You then called the police and put your mother, in a deep state of shock, to bed. It'll be an interesting newspaper story tomorrow morning: local man killed and ripped limb from limb by wolf pack in the middle of the city. Of course you told the police you didn't actually see anything, because you were inside the trailer at the time.
After you shower, you prod Patrick into looking for you. You're still short of food at home, so you'd pricked him with the thought of bringing you breakfast. As you're chatting with Jenny Taylor, the captain of the girls' soccer team, he comes up to you, looking for all the world like a puppy.
"Hey Adam, you liked Magda's lasagna so much yesterday I thought I'd bring you some of her flan for breakfast," he says enthusiastically, holding out a plastic container.
"Cool beans," you shout. "Well, cool whatever it is." It is quite delicious, creamy and fruity, and you give him a hearty clap on the shoulder after tasting it. You point the spoon handle at his chest and turn to Jenny. "Hey, Jenny, you know my boyfriend here?"
"Boyfriend?!" they both shout simultaneously.
"Oh, Christ," you grin and hang your head. "I didn't mean 'boyfriend,' I meant 'little brother'." You drop your arm around Patrick's shoulder. "His name's Rick. Kristy Carlson's sophomore bro."
"I thought his name was Patrick," Jenny says.
You look at Patrick, then look meaningfully at Jenny. "It's Rick. Okay?"
She laughs and shrugs. "Sure, whatever you say, Adam."
"Okay then. And if it's that way, forget about that 'boyfriend' slip, too. I'll never live it down if you spread that around."
"Well, you might live it down, but I doubt Patrick would," she grins mischievously at him.
"Jenny." You give her a serious look until she looks abashed.
"Okay," she grumbles. "But it's too good a story not to share."
"Alright, then. Here." You turn to Patrick and give him long, deep kiss on the cheek. "Now I'm the one who's got a crush on him. Right?"
"If you say so." She can hardly stop laughing.
"Get the details right. That means I'm the one who's patting another guy's ass—" You give the miserable Patrick a firm pat on the backside "—and his name is Rick. Okay?"
"Sure."
"Okay, get outta here, Rick." He's almost crying, but he looks happy, too. Until you start bombarding him with images of yourself in athletic shorts, and the thought that you look incredibly sexy in them. By the end of next week you'll have him so sexually confused he won't know what is and what isn't supposed to give him an erection.
* * * * *
At the end of second period you spot David's old friend, Caleb, in the hallway. "Ryerson!" you call as you come up behind him. You clap him on the shoulders, then give him a playful, light punch in the kidneys. "What've you been up to? Where's your posse?"
He looks around at you sourly. "They're around someplace."
"You look lost. Whatsamatter? Your best friend die or something?"
He looks at you sharply, angrily, and his face flushes. "That's a really tasteless thing to say, Karter," he snaps.
"What?" You look at him blankly. "What's wrong?" He turns his back to you and goes back to shoving things in his locker. "I'm serious," you persevere. "What did I say? I didn't mean anything by it, whatever it was."
Ryerson says nothing for a few moments. "A friend was in an accident," he finally says.
"Holy shit! I'm sorry. I hadn't heard. Is he okay? Who was it?"
"David Johnson. And no, he's not okay. He's dead."
"Oh, fuck! Jesus, Caleb, I hadn't heard." You pull him around and look seriously into his eyes. "Caleb, I didn't know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that." He glares over your shoulder and bites his lip. "I'm serious, Caleb. Are you okay?" He shrugs, and little wetness starts to show in his eyes.
You put your arm around his shoulder. "Look, I'm not going to force myself on you, but ..." You look down at the floor and sigh. "I know it seems like I don't give a fuck about anyone or anything, but I do about the important stuff. You can always talk to me. About whatever's on your mind. Or if you need a distraction." You squeeze his neck in the crook of your arm. "Okay?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Really?" He looks at you; his glance is a little sullen, but the anger has retreated. "You and me are okay?" He shrugs again, but turns it into a curt nod. "Alright. I'll keep an eye out for you." You give him another squeeze, then release him.
You get the story in third period from Kevin Keighley, about David's accident. You're interested to learn that Caleb, despite what David had thought, did not abandon his friend, but went around to the base to tell the authorities about David's presence in the burning warehouse. Caleb himself has been questioned closely, and is probably going to be in some kind of trouble. It doesn't make any difference to you one way or another, but you mark Caleb down as someone you should keep an eye on.
* * * * *
In biology class, you listen attentively and take copious notes, and not once do you look at Ms. Henderson's breasts. She looks frustrated and deflated by the end of the period.
* * * * *
At lunch you sit with Kyle and Jenny and the other leading soccer players. Patrick tries sneaking over some chicken and dumplings he brought you for lunch, and you insist on his joining the group, while loudly praising the lunch and the flan. He is terribly embarrassed, especially as he keeps catching the amused looks Kyle and Peter and Jenny and the others are exchanging. His humor is not improved when you tell the story of the skinny dipping and Kristy's humiliation, and top it by complaining of your own deflation at the sight of Patrick's prodigious schlong.
"You're always complaining about the size of your dick," Zach Vanderburg, the team goalie, and a genuinely nasty person, says. "It's like you're compensating for something."
"Yeah, I'm compensating for the tininess of your dick." He turns beet red. "Seriously, Vanderburg, don't try trading quips unless you know what you're talking about."
"Faggot."
"Christ, you're incompetent. Okay. Lessee. 'Faggot.' Um. Oh, I know. 'Well, Vanderburg, at least I'm not in love with my team captain'."
There are shocked grins all around the table. Vanderburg stares at you, then starts to rise. Kyle pushes him down. "Stop it, Zach. Adam's right, you don't know what you're talking about."
"I know a faggot when I see one," he growls.
You put your face in your hands and groan. "Okay class, consult your notes," you say. It's one of Mr. Federmann's pet phrases, instantly recognizable to all the seniors at the table. "Peter, what's the correct response to Vanderburg's attempted insult?"
"Um ... 'Of course you do, you're always staring in a mirror'."
"Rhianna?"
"Uh ... Oh, shit. Okay. 'You would if you'd stop masturbating long enough'? No, wait, that's just ugly."
"Too late. Jenny?"
"'Of course you do, you're in love with my boyfriend'!"
Zach slams his fists on the table, rises, and stomps off angrily. "God, he's going to kill me," you moan.
"No he won't," says Kyle. "I'll calm him down."
"Thanks. You're a doll. Well, Rick, what do you think? The soccer team cool enough for your company?"
He puts his face on the table, but you can see him grinning with pleasure.
"Okay, I think you're in with Rick. What say you guys?"
"He's a sport," says Kyle. "He's adorable," says Rhianna.
"Thanks." You stand up, and clap Kyle on the shoulders. "Okay, I love you, bye bye." You kiss him on the back of the head. He slaps at you as you retreat, grinning. "Faggot!" he calls cheerfully after you.
* * * * *
You don't need a cigarette, but it's expected of you, so you go off to your usual spot and let one burn down between your fingers. While there you see Darcy Whitehead coming toward you. Jesus, yesterday it was Dana—but that was David's fault—and what would Darcy's problem be? Well, you did spend most of your date with her last Saturday night huddled in a ball in her lap, making her feel motherly.
Her chin is tilted insolently—not a good sign, this is gonna be a tough one. Some never go quietly, and you should have pegged Darcy as one who'd make trouble. Actually, come to think of it, you did peg her that way, thinking she'd pose a fun post-seduction challenge ...
"So I guess I was another of your one-date wonders, huh?" she says defiantly.
You look at her uncomprehendingly. "What do you mean?"
"You were just going to go out with me once and then never follow up."
"What do you mean?"
"Fuck you, Karter. Is there any girl you ever went out with a second time?"
"Yeah, lots. Not immediately, maybe ..."
"Only when they complain. Well, then consider this an official complaint."
You rub your nose. "I don't know what you want from me, Darcy."
"I want a little consistency. I want respect. I want you to take me seriously."
"I do take you seriously. I told you, you frighten me."
Her mouth snaps shut. It's true: it's what you told her before and more than once during the date. Darcy is one of the smart girls at school—brainy, but also determined, headstrong, and contemptuous of slacking or bullshit. Like you, she lives with a single mother, but is determined to pull herself out of that particular socio-economic trap. She is, in fact, more than a little frightening, and almost every guy in school shies away from her for that reason. And that is the charm of toying with her: of raising self-doubt and storms of emotional confusion in her mind, and breaking her icy self-control.
"Well then I guess it's time to man up, little boy," she finally says.
"Jesus." You drop into a crouch and laugh softly, suck on the cigarette and look up at her. "Yeah, that's the only problem we've all got. We'll all got to man up around here. You asked me how many girls I've asked out a second time. Well, how many guys have asked you out even once? And it's not because they don't want to. You scare the shit out of everyone."
She says nothing, and you look away, shaking your head. "You know something, Darcy? Not to boast, but I've melted icebergs and I've bent steel girders and I've even turned blocks of granite to powder. Ask around. I know I've got a reputation, and just between you and me, I think it's deserved, the good parts and the bad. But I can't tame a lion tamer. If I thought you could leave the whip and the whistle at home, and not tell me where to go and what to do and when to pounce, maybe I wouldn't shit myself at the thought of creeping back into a cage with you. Or the backseat of your car. Much the same thing."
"I didn't realize I came across that way," she says stiffly.
"You didn't realize— Jesus!" You put a tremble in your laugh. "Why do you think I spent half our date weeping in your lap?"
"I thought you were ..." She trails off.
"You thought I was what? Even I don't even know what I was doing. No one would have. No one knows what you want, Darcy. Though I have my suspicions, which I might tell you if I thought you wouldn't punch me, and which are the reason I'm not keen on repeating the experience with you."
"I won't punch you. What are your suspicions?"
You give her a long and measured look, the kind of glance that says you are taking your life in your hands by even voicing your thoughts. "I think you want me on your college applications," you blurt out. "You know, another mark of distinction. 'Oh look, this one was class valedictorian. Straight A's in her advanced classes. Christ, she even bedded Adam Karter. Let's give her a full ride'."
She sneers. "They don't care about—"
You toss your cigarette away impatiently. "I know they don't care. Do you think I've got tapioca in my skull? They don't care, but you do. You don't care about what happened on that date the other night. You don't even care about a second date, or a third. You only care about the fifth or the tenth or the twentieth. You only care that there is a twentieth, and maybe—maybe—about what happens on it. Because you got 'em all beat at the brains, but if you can beat 'em with me—if you can twist me around your finger and then hang me on your bedpost, the way Laurie and Debbie and Amy and the others can't— Well, you'd have 'em beat all down the line, then, wouldn't you? Brains and personality and skill beating their breasts and hips and thighs."
She swallows but doesn't look away.
You blink some wetness into your eye. "Because, damn it, Darcy, but you are attractive. Not just—" You wave a pointed finger at her, from her crown to her feet and back again. "Although, goddamn it, you've got more than enough there too. But you've got more. There aren't many girls who'd know how to be a best friend along with doing the girlfriend thing. You could do that. And it frightens us, because we know we can't measure up to what you can offer.
"But you're so brainy that you're transparent, Darcy. You don't care about me or my feelings. You only care about what I represent."
"You've got a pretty high opinion of what you represent, don't you?" Her chin is tilted, but she's looking fragile.
You give her a withering glance. "And who exactly started this conversation by talking about my reputation? Who started it by complaining that I didn't treat her any better than anyone else—like I guess she thought she deserved?"
She starts to say something, but then shakes her head, turns and walks away.
"Darcy!" you call, and she stops, but doesn't look back. "You're wrong, Darcy. I like almost everyone in this school, which is why I can't say 'No' until afterwards. But I like you more than almost anyone else. I only wish you liked me."
She says nothing, then walks slowly away.
Well, not your best possible performance, you sigh—you'd never survive a real conversation with her, so you had to play the wheeziest trick in your pack: accusing her of doing the bad stuff she wants to accuse you of, and getting your accusation in first. But you hit her hard enough and fast enough that it knocked her back, at least temporarily. Problem is, she's smart, and given a day of solid thought she'll see through all the bullshit you hurled at her. Still, it was fun, and that's all that you really care about. And you're amused at the thought of gumming up that steel-trap mind with a lot of pointless self-reflection, even for only a little while.
* * * * *
Fourth period is Chemistry, and you spend the lecture part staring at the back of James Black's neck and wondering what makes him tick. He is the most tightly shut personality in the school, and even you have never been able to pry anything revealing out of him. Idly, you toy with the idea of dropping a bit of batter in him, just to do some snooping, if nothing else.
In the lab you're paired with Lawrence Farmer, who's a bit of a queen and overcompensates with a lot of womanizing. He's very much an alpha personality and dislikes you as a rival, but you ignore it and treat him like a good friend. Which just pisses him off even more.
"I hear you have a boyfriend!" he chirps nastily while you're consulting your notes.
"Oh, God!" You put your face in your hands and sigh. "Well, he is cute, but he's a sophomore and so won't give me the time of day."
Lawrence laughs so loud that Mr. Pruitt shouts "Quiet!"
"It's Kristy's brother, right? You went skinny dipping with him?" Lawrence is gleeful.
"Yeah, I went over yesterday to watch a movie, and it was hot and I didn't have any trunks.
Lawrence's eyes shine maliciously. "Didn't he offer you any?"
"Well, yeah. But I said no. I'm a sexy guy."
"Are you actually, like, trying to seduce him?"
You give him a dirty look. "Jesus, Larry. You know there's only one girl for me."
He thinks a moment, then gives an outraged squawk and slaps your arm. "God, you're a bitch!"
* * * * *
It's fifth period study-hall, and you're in the library, relaxing and letting your mind drift back to the pack. One of your wolves is standing on a crest and looking down on the military compound. In the excitement of the day you'd forgotten about Fort Suffolk. Diana Lord's father works on the base—he's a colonel or something. Through her you could get into him and snoop around a little. You're also curious to know what kind of questions got put to Caleb; it would be a clue as to what the military guys know or suspect.
But there's also school to consider. You can't spread yourself too thin, but you could stand to add yourself a small pack of possessees there as well. You are skittish, though, about who to put yourself into: David's misfortune in catching you makes you cautious. Patrick is a safe and useful conquest. Dana is safe, but useless, unless you want to turn her into the school tramp, and there are better choices there. You will probably pull out of her. Almost everyone you spent time with at school today would make a good addition.
Derek Linwood is reasonably popular and unattached; you could ride in him and fuck a lot of girls. For that matter, you could ride in Kyle and run the big school clique while having Jenny on your arm. But you're not really interested in running a clique, or you'd have one of your own already.
Zach Vanderburg would make an interesting alter ego. He's a bully, and known for his bullying, and through him you could indulge a lot the hatred and contempt you feel for everyone at the school. As Lawrence Farmer you could stir up a lot of amusing intrigue.
Then there are the people you could just fuck with. You could explore James, and maybe have some fun with whatever demons are inside his head. And whatever games you can play with Darcy from the outside are as nothing compared to what you could do to her from the inside. | Members who added to this interactive story also contributed to these: |
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