Not Your Ordinary Wolf Girl (2 page)

I rode or walked home whenever we played locally—it gave me a chance to go over the songs while they were fresh in my mind. I fine-tuned by obsessing over every sweet chord we hit and each fumble we made. We'd tried two new pieces tonight. One of them, “Dirty Street,” still needed tweaking. My fingers itched to play through the kinks in the melody.

My thoughts bounced back to Harris. We'd recently hired him to animate parts of a video for a song called “The Spectacle,” which meant we'd been working pretty closely together. I gave him concepts and went over his drawings. Collaboration only fed my massive crush. He genuinely cared about my inspirations and didn't seem threatened by The Puffs' success. As my amateur-philosopher mother loved to remind me, “An excess of good fortune is both a blessing and a curse.” One of those curses was that most guys my age were either too threatened or too awed by my lifestyle to just be themselves.

I couldn't let myself think about Harris in a serious way, though, because he and Marie had apparently been together since kindergarten. An evil voice in my head piped up that she hadn't been at the concert tonight. But I was a girl's girl, which meant my loyalty had to be with Marie. I'd never put the moves on a guy who was taken. I'd have to be content with friendship and reading new instalments of his comic
.

Sighing, I leaned into a steep hill and veered off the path. Riding on the grass was totally against the rules, but so much fun. My wheels bounced wildly on the uneven soil as I cut south across a field. The fog was thick. I could hardly see what lay ahead of me. Anticipating obstacles at top speed was like riding the
ancient Cyclone roller coaster on Coney Island, which always felt like it was about to unhinge and spin off into oblivion. I ducked under a particularly low-hanging branch and swerved around a bench.

Suddenly a drop loomed in front of me. The ground cut straight down. It was too late to use my brakes. I was about to hurl off a mini cliff covered with long grass and shrubs. My tires left solid ground. I jerked the handlebars upward, hoping to clear the foliage.

My back wheel snagged on a bush and stopped turning. The front tire slammed down, bounced to the right, and I got tossed face-first into the brush. Janis smashed into my spine. My hands tore through the grass as I desperately tried to grab anything that would stop me from sliding. A sharp something jabbed into my ribs. Searing pain shot through my chest. Then my head snapped forward and the world went black.

I opened my eyes. At first, I didn't remember where I was. Then I shook my head, winced at the throbbing in my temples, and realized the source of my pain was a tree stump. My bike lay nearby, gleaming in the light of the full moon, taunting me. The park was still dark and silent. I rolled onto my side, groaned, patted my arms and legs, then my face. Nothing seemed broken. But
my palms were scraped up pretty badly, and a goose egg had formed on my forehead.

I staggered to my feet. A wicked charley horse wobbled my left leg. Must have hit my thigh during the tumble. I checked my watch. I couldn't have been out for more than a few minutes.

Freeing the bike from the foliage with a vicious yank gave me small satisfaction. But it also hurt my scraped hands. Cursing at the top of my lungs, I limped down to the path and began to walk with my bike, hoping to work out some of the pain in my leg, and thankful no one was around to witness my humiliation. Photos of me passed out in a bush would be Gawker material.

A few moments ago I'd been one with the universe. Now I wanted to throw my bike into a dumpster and catch a cab home. I kept walking.

Something howled nearby, making the little hairs on the back of my neck jump to attention. Twigs crackled and snapped. Wet snarfling noises came from the shadows. I quickened my limp to an awkward jog. That was no lost Chihuahua. Maybe a rabid German shepherd?

A giant dog jumped out from between the trees, gnashing its big teeth. It had shaggy dark brown fur. I wondered if it really was rabid. There didn't seem to be any foam around its mouth. I'd heard on
This American
Life
—yes, I'm a closet podcast nerd—that infected animals were like zombies. They'll keep attacking until they're killed, because their pain receptors have turned to mush.

Pointy ears flattened against its head, and its tail curled down between its legs. Definite warning signs of aggression. I squinted at the scruff of its neck, but couldn't see any collar. The dog was huge. Maybe a husky. No, not a husky. Too big. Could it be half-wolf? What colour were wolves' eyes? This animal's eyes were brown.

My fight-or-flight instinct kicked in—late!—and I tried to detour around the thing. A terrifying rumble rose from its throat. It seemed to feel that
I
was the one who'd surprised
it,
not the other way around. Trying to recall anything else about animal behaviour from my hours watching the Discovery Channel, I avoided looking at it directly so that I wouldn't threaten its dominance. When I headed to the left, with the bike between us, it moved forward, blocking my path. The throaty growl upgraded to a mean bark.

Screw the charley horse! I swung my good leg over the bike's middle bar, but before I could even get my foot onto the pedal the animal bunched up its hind legs, sailed through the air, and slammed squarely into my chest. My guitar case hit the cement with a crack.
I landed on top, with a bike wheel pinning my leg and the heavy beast on top of me.

Despite my panicked squirming, the animal calmly leaned forward and stuck its wet snout in my neck. Frantically, I rocked from side to side on top of Janis. Its maw burrowed deeper into my neck, sniffing loudly. I screamed and swatted at the animal's head with my free hand. My other one was caught beneath its front legs.

A second snarling dog emerged from the trees and leapt at us, smashing into the first dog and sending it sprawling. I could breathe again. The two animals rolled and skidded across the path, then jumped up, facing each other. Lips curled back, fur bristled, tails lifted.

I lost track of which dog was which. One of them growled. I expected it to lunge at the other one's throat … but it didn't. The tension abruptly ended when the one closest to the treeline turned and loped away. The remaining dog howled in that direction.

It turned back toward me. Hesitated an instant. I was too scared to move. Then, with a twitch of its tail, the animal sprang forward and sank its teeth into my forearm. I felt the pain before my brain registered what had happened. Its jaws ripped downward, tearing a bloody gash from my elbow to my wrist.

I began to shake and cry. I was going to die.

But then it raised its head, licked its bloody chin, and bounded into the woods. Sounds of crashing and running faded as the two animals moved farther away.

The world was silent again. I let out a slow breath and lay there for a few seconds, wondering if I was still going to die from blood loss. Far above me, two stars managed to shine through New York's perpetual layer of smog. That was enough. They gave me the strength to push off my bike and drag myself to my feet.

TWO

A
howl reached my ears from somewhere in the trees. It seemed like a good plan to get away before those creatures decided to return and finish me off. How many people came through this park every day? How could two violent animals like that be running around?

Maybe I'd hit my head harder than I thought?

My arm was doing a pretty good imitation of ground beef. I reached down with my uninjured hand and yanked the bike upright, gulping down my rising panic. If I didn't stop the bleeding immediately, I'd pass out alone in the middle of the park.

I leaned the bike on a bench, pulled off my torn shirt, and tied it tightly around the wound using my teeth. The pain was hell, but I could still open and close
my fingers. A good sign. I just hoped it wouldn't affect my ability to play.

Using the bicycle like a crutch, I started down the path. After a few minutes I felt strong enough to sit on the seat and weave to the Plaza Hotel exit, then made my way over to the bike path by the East River. It felt like the ride took forever. I couldn't stop seeing those teeth tearing through my flesh.

As I crossed the Williamsburg Bridge, the wind picked up over the river and buffeted me around. I was so disoriented I didn't even think about calling someone for help until I was most of the way home. But the thought of facing curious fans was too much. And I didn't want to call my mom and try to explain everything at two in the morning. She'd freak out.

All I had on for a top was my black sports bra, which offered no protection whatsoever against the weather—or nosy fans. But by the time I made it to my neighbourhood, I was sweating like crazy. The only good news was that my charley horse had disappeared. I couldn't grip the handlebars with my right arm, but I was able to rest my fingers there and work up a little speed.

When I turned onto my street and stopped in front of my building, I felt a lot less foggy. As I headed inside I noticed my T-shirt tourniquet was caked with
dried blood. Grimacing, I wheeled my bike over to the elevator and listened to its outdated machinery thunder on the way down.

I probably should've gone to the hospital, but someone would recognize me, which meant questions and awkwardness. Besides, my arm didn't hurt that much anymore. When I got upstairs I'd take a look and call my own doctor if I needed to.

My apartment was on the fourth floor of an old pickle factory converted into separate loft units. Six months ago, knowing what a mess the music industry's in, I'd used my share of the advance for The Puffs' next album, plus some help from my mom, to put a down payment on the building and soundproof my space. The other three floors were divided into two rental units each, which covered the mortgage. My mother lived only a few blocks away and helped me manage the property. It was a dream arrangement in New York, and the software business and clothing boutique on the main floor were no trouble. But if there was any way around the city's strict tenancy laws, I'd have turfed out the couple who lived beneath me long ago.

A week after moving in, that couple caught a photographer poking around their apartment, hoping it was mine—I'd dated another musician for about a minute, which made the paparazzi even more determined—and
then my new tenants sued
me
for invasion of privacy. Like I invited the photographer inside! There was a reason I'd installed high-security locks. And
they
were the ones who'd had the brilliant idea to prop open the building's front door and leave their apartment unlocked while they took their annoying terrier to the dog run in the park. Luckily the judge dismissed their suit with a stern lecture about wasting the court's time. Ever since, they'd been seeking revenge in petty ways: forgetting to date or sign their rent cheques, piling their garbage
next to
the cans in the backyard, and running the hot water for hours.

The industrial elevator shuddered to a halt. Opening and shutting the rusty gate took effort with one hand, but I managed to get it so the thing could start its slow crawl upward. As we passed the third floor I banged my bike's front wheel against the wall, knowing it would annoy the evil tenants, who slept close to the elevator shaft. I was nowhere near as schooled in vengeance as they were, but I had a few tricks up my sleeve.

The elevator finally stopped on the top floor. Ditching my traitorous bike with a kick to remind it that all was not forgiven, I made a beeline for the bathroom, setting Janis down on the way. My mouth felt like it was filled with sand, every swallow hurt, and I was worried I'd cracked my bass, but all of that would have to wait.

I flicked on the overhead light and winced at the pain that stabbed my eyes. Were they more sensitive than usual? Was that a sign of … rabies? I searched through the medicine cabinet, grateful for my mother's neurotic streak. When I moved in she'd stocked it to overflowing with first-aid supplies. A few months ago, after reading about some superbug going around, she'd disinfected my entire apartment while I was on tour, and added more supplies. My place smelled like hand sanitizer for
weeks
.

Before I could decide what concoction to put on the wound, I'd need to take a look. Gingerly, I started to tear off the fabric, which was plastered to my skin. Oh, god, maybe my pain receptors were already mush. I pinched my upper arm as a test. Ouch. Obviously, I had some receptors left. Maybe the bite wasn't as bad as it first seemed. Or my forearm was partially paralyzed. Could you paralyze part of your arm and still be able to use your hand to pick strings? Doubtful.

When I saw my arm, I was shocked. Instead of looking like raw, oozing meat, it was almost healed. I held it under lukewarm water for a minute and watched the flow turn dark red, then clear. There didn't seem to be any fresh bleeding, just a long scab that looked days old—definitely not an hour. Puckered skin on either side was red and tender to the touch, but the intense
throbbing was gone. I felt better about my decision to come straight home, but what kind of wound closed up so quickly?

My palms were grimy. I scrubbed them gently with antibacterial soap, stopping partway through to gulp handfuls of water from the tap. My dry throat felt worse than my hands. The scrapes had already turned to spidery white lines. Even the goose egg on my forehead was gone. In its place was a purple bruise with yellowing edges. I slapped on a couple of different ointments that promised miracles and wrapped the arm loosely in gauze. I also slathered my hands with antibiotic cream to be safe.

In the kitchen, I grabbed a carton of orange juice from the fridge with greasy hands. One glass wasn't enough. I upended the container and stood there guzzling until I'd drained the entire thing. My throat stopped hollering for attention, and my stomach took centre stage. A hunk of veggie pâté, some water-cress, feta, and a cucumber went into a Jughead-sized sandwich. Afterward, I was still a bit peckish. So I made a second sandwich and devoured that, too.