Not Your Ordinary Wolf Girl (8 page)

Winded and thoroughly confused, I clambered to my feet, picked up my bags, and trudged home. I couldn't stop myself from checking around corners for lurking girls.

What guy did they want me to stay away from? Harris? Had Marie sent the world's weirdest girl gang to warn me off her man? Or could it be Marlon? And why were they wearing costumes? Were they really costumes? I had a sinking feeling again. That fur looked awfully real.

Back in my apartment, I locked the place up tight and heated up the oven. My hands were shaking as I fumbled with the raw, bloody piece of some poor
sheep's rib cage. I shoved it in the oven despite an almost irresistible desire to just put the thing in my mouth and suck on it. Ugh. I was grossing myself out. Since it would take an hour to cook, I tossed a package of sausages into a pan and fried those up, too. Six of them slid down my throat nice and smooth. The water was still turned off in the building, but I squeezed out enough to make a pitcher of sugary lemonade.

I considered going downstairs to confront the tenants, but didn't trust myself. I was about to pull out Janis for a practice session when my cell rang.

“Hello?” My caller was playing The Commodores in the background. Nice.

“Uh, hang on.” The music lowered. “Sam? It's Harris. Feeling better?”

“Sure,” I said, and realized I wasn't lying. Had all the meat helped?

“I was worried. You well enough to go out for a beer?”

An image of Marie gazing at him adoringly jabbed my conscience. Arrgh. What to do?

“Okay,” I said, after waiting too long. “You don't have plans with Marie?”

“I'm free.”

Free as in no plans, or no girlfriend? “What's Marie up to tonight?” I couldn't stop.

“Dunno. We're taking a break. From our relationship.”

“Wow.” When did that happen?

“Yeah.”

“You guys always seemed so happy.”

“Well, we weren't.”

Awkward silence …

“Wanna meet at the Cake Shop around seven?” he asked. “They've got new work by Jordan on the walls.”

Jordan Watanabe was the comic scene's current It Boy. He and Harris shared a studio. Going there tonight meant we'd run into their friends. My hanging out with Harris in public so soon after his breakup was probably not a good idea. I thought of those crazy girls. Scratch that. Definitely not a good idea.

“Sure,” I heard myself saying.

We hung up, and I played my bass until the rack of lamb was ready. If I was going to sit around the Cake Shop for a few hours and not fidget like a junkie, I should eat more. And so I did—more sausages, half the rack of ribs, and another piece of chicken for dessert.

It wasn't a date with Harris. Um. Right.

I wasn't exactly a mastermind of the flirting arts, but I knew I couldn't show up looking like a sweaty monster in sneakers and saggy yoga pants. I agonized for five minutes, then pulled on my favourite jeans and
a sexy green tasselled top that brought out my hazel eyes, and added mascara, black eyeliner, and lip gloss. A thin jacket would keep me warm enough these days. At the last second I tossed all the remaining lamb ribs and sausages in a plastic bag and stowed it in my purse. A girl never knew when she might need a little meat.

I pulled on a cap to hide my face and took the subway to the Lower East Side, then wandered a handful of blocks over to the Cake Shop. Two blocks away I noticed a weird bookstore nestled between an art supply shop and a clothing boutique. Words of Wonder. I knew that name—from the receipt in Marlon's glove box! Peering through the front window at stacks and stacks of new and used books, I could see that ancient tomes had been heaped carelessly on top of magazines and loose sheets of paper. The owner didn't seem to worry about making any sales. That always amazed me in this city, where rent was so high.

I yanked open the door, causing an old-fashioned bell to jingle above it. When I stepped inside I was barraged by Nas rapping about hip-hop being dead. The song was so loud and at odds with the store's ambiance that it threw me off, and I tripped over a pile of books on the floor.

As I bent to straighten them I could feel the young guy behind the counter watching. When I glanced at
him, he jutted his chin in a greeting. He looked a few years older than me. Quirky cute face, in a Gael García Bernal kind of way. He wore an oversized red T-shirt with a Fight the Power fist on it that brought out the golden tones in his skin. He tilted his head and let his eyes sweep from my feet all the way up to my face. Then his nose twitched and he squinted, as if he was surprised by something.

As I stood, I caught a glimpse of his laptop screen and saw that he was designing a website for the bookstore.

“Can I help you?” he asked. His voice had a certain lilt to it—South American, maybe? His irises were dark brown and abnormally large.

“Just browsing,” I said. “A friend recommended your store.”

He came out from behind the counter and stood close to me—too close, frankly. The guy was very tall and wide: a bit of a linebacker. He sucked in a deep breath and exhaled hard enough to make my hair move. His nose twitched again. I tried to take a step back, but the aisle was too cramped.

“Dude, did you just smell me?” I snapped.

“Of course not.” His tone and his slow grin told me he was making fun of me. “The meat in your purse, on the other hand …”

“Excuse me?”

His eyes scanned my body again. Either he was flirting very badly or looking for a tail. I almost bolted right then.

“You
do
smell fantastic, though,” he said. “Musky and powerful and healthy. Too many girls cover up their natural scent with perfume. I'm glad you don't. And you look quite normal. Interesting … So you want a book on shape-shifters?”

“No. I mean … Yes. Shape-shifters. How did you—”

“Follow me. I know every book in this place.”

He started down an aisle. How could he guess exactly the book I wanted when I wasn't sure myself? And how could anyone possibly make sense of this mess? Shelves climbed up to the ceiling and appeared to have been randomly filled. Books overflowed into piles on the floor. Some shelves were two books deep. Handwritten signs identified roughly how things were sorted. By the time I made it over to him I'd seen a few intriguing categories: mythological creatures, hexes and charms, gods and idols …

He pulled out
Guide to Shifters,
carried it over to the counter, and punched the cover price into the register without bothering to show it to me. I spotted
How to
Pick a Mate: Survival Tips for the Hairy and Fabulous
and couldn't resist, so I handed that over as well.

“Are these books for real?” I asked.

He didn't respond, just shook his head as if I was being an idiot.

“Okay, Chatty Chris. You own this store?”

“Nah. My
abuelita
does, but I fill in for her sometimes. That'll be thirty-four nineteen. Ten percent discount, since you're a Mary.”

He obviously meant the infamous virgin. I refused to acknowledge the quip and pulled out two twenties. He already had my change in his hand, as well as a stiff off-white business card that had only an email address and the words
Daniel Rojas, Knowledge Keeper, Words of
Wonder.
I accepted both, then turned to leave. Daniel's casual “Looking forward to the next time, sugar” sounded like a promise.

SEVEN

A
t five after seven, I entered the Cake Shop. It was packed. Jordan's comics-inspired panels dominated all the walls. Harris was at a corner table, talking to some guy and already nursing a half-finished pint of beer. Right above their heads was Jordan's painting of Homer Simpson wearing one of Marge's dresses and a tall blue wig.

I passed the counter where they sold old vinyl and CDs by local bands. Someone had hung a Cream Puffs poster advertising our monthly jam in the basement space—which was happening tomorrow. It was the poster with Jules hanging her tongue out Kiss-style, Malika bouncing so her skirt flipped up and showed a flash of white lace, and me playing and glancing shyly
down at my bass. It felt like a huge neon sign pointing right at me. A half-dozen heads turned to gawk as I slipped into the seat across from Harris. A fangirl tried to wave me down, but I flashed her a distant smile and turned away. Harris's friend realized he might be intruding, said hello to me, then disappeared.

Pretending not to notice when Harris leaned across the table for a hello hug, I tossed my bag between our feet and made a big show of craning my neck to take in a painting of Spider-Man and the Green Hornet making out.

“Jordan's pretty twisted,” I said. “In a good way.”

Harris looked disappointed, but he turned his gaze to the walls. “We met in high school—hung out at lunch drawing superheroes. Used to be roommates, too.”

I nodded, because I already knew both of those things through the grapevine. “Before you moved in with Marie?”

“Right.” He drained the last of his pint. “And now that we've split, I'm back at Jordan's place, crashing on the couch.”

“Ahh.” So they broke up last night?

“Want a beer?”

“Uh, okay.” Except that they wouldn't serve me, because they knew I was underage.

He nodded, but didn't stand up. Instead he rested his forearms on the table and bent over his own glass, bringing our faces very close. His breath smelled like beer. I could have leaned over and kissed the tip of his nose. It was hard not to stare at the curve of his full lips, which quirked upward slightly, and the way his soft brown curls moved whenever he did. He looked especially delicious tonight, in his distressed cotton T-shirt with a picture of Hopey and Maggie from
Love and Rockets
on it. I'm such a comic nerd, and Hopey's one of my idols—the original tough girl, flawed and real.

“Feeling okay?” he asked.

“I'm fine,” I said, slumping backward as much as possible. It was warm in the Cake Shop, which wasn't helping me any. A raunch-heavy track from a few years ago came on—the one where Peaches does a nasty duet with old Iggy Pop. I could've used something to help me cool down, not get me more worked up.

“You were really out of it yesterday,” said Harris.

“Ugh. It was pretty awful.”

He nodded sympathetically. I wondered if Jules and Malika would accept my excuses that easily when I eventually got around to calling them. Doubtful.

“I'm actually super thirsty,” I said, not wanting to talk about it. I could hardly believe he was still interested in me after that disaster.

He jumped up. “Oh, sorry. I'll go order.”

Then he strode off, forgetting to ask what kind I wanted. I hated most beer. I was all about rum and Coke, if I was going to drink at all. Which was, like, never. Oh, well. If he'd asked, I would have preferred iced tea and one of their cupcakes. I'd noticed a red velvet with hot-pink icing and cream cheese filling on the way in. Maybe Harris was used to having a girlfriend whose favourite food was common knowledge. Or maybe he'd done his research and would surprise me.

Up at the bar, he ordered from a bleach-blond Ke$ha wannabe wearing a pink baby-doll dress. They talked as she poured two pints of beer. Gross. After he'd moved away, she saw where he was headed and her smile faded. I couldn't tell whether she was upset because I was underage or because I wasn't Marie. It was a relief when Harris blocked her view.

He'd brought me a light ale, which meant he had no clue what I drank. I picked up a list of bands that would be playing in the basement and fiddled with it.

He gestured with a thumb toward the bar. “Tanis and I are old friends.”

“You probably can't go anywhere downtown without bumping into someone who knows your work.”

His smirk acknowledged the truth of my statement. “I guess it's the same for you?”

I whistled. “Oh, yeah.”

He picked up his beer and drained it all at once. Either the guy could handle his alcohol—or he was on a crash course. If I finished this pint I'd be halfway under the table. I had a well-honed technique to avoid getting drunk, which was to wet my lips for hours on end. I took a healthy swallow to get it started and made sure I didn't grimace at the taste. The beer tasted especially bitter.

“Tanis knows Marie?” I guessed.

“Yes.”

So the evening wasn't off to a roaring start, thanks to my big mouth and overactive conscience. And this gross beer … I shoved it away.

“We were fighting a lot,” he said. “Marie and me.”

I leaned forward. “That sucks.”

He nodded. His eyes dropped to my mouth and he moved closer. Was he going to kiss me right here, in front of all these people? I wanted him to, maybe. No, I didn't. Tanis would start a riot. I sipped my beer, just to create a barrier between our lips.

“You barely know me,” I whispered around the glass.

“I know you, Sam. We've worked together.”

“But you just—”

He reached over and touched the back of my left hand, which currently had a death grip on the edge of the table. It let go. He began to rub my palm with his thumb, which was pleasantly cool against my feverish skin. I sat there, enjoying the sensation and looking down at our hands. My fingers had thick calluses from the strings, and his were long and thin—an artist's fingers. My heart was pounding like it wanted to break through my ribs. He was single. Marie wasn't in the picture. It really did change everything.

I yanked my hand away from Harris's and brought my beer in for another sip, only to discover it was empty. Oh, no. Where did all that beer go?

“We've got an audience,” I said, flicking my gaze toward Tanis, who was still throwing eye darts at me between filling orders.

Harris gritted his teeth. “She's not the only one. Bad place to meet. It's crawling with people who know Marie.”