Liar. Part 29

"Can you turn me back?" he asks. "I'd like to be a wolf again."

I squeeze my fists tighter. I won't hit him again. "What part did you like best?" I can't help asking him. "Killing my boyfriend? Or eating him?"

He ducks his head. Doesn't answer.

If I take him to Mom and Dad they'll know what to do. They'll see that I didn't kill Zach. They'll let me stay. They'll stop looking at me like I'm more beast than human.

The white boy's so beaten, so desperate, he'll do whatever I tell him.

"I'm going to take you somewhere," I tell him.

"No," the boy says firmly. "You're mad at me."

"It's somewhere safe," I tell him.

"Where?" He looks at me warily.

"Upstate. Where you'll turn into a wolf once a month."

"Promise?"

I nod. "There are other wolves there. My relatives. You'll like it."

"Wolfs like you?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"Alright," he says, standing up. "I liked being a wolf. It's better."

Death is better than what he's got.

AFTER.

It's dawn when I push the white boy into our apartment and slam the door behind us. I shove him past the shoes and coats and into the kitchen. He falls bonelessly to the floor, glaring up at me.

"This isn't-," the boy begins.

"Micah?" Dad calls out from the bedroom, before joining us in the kitchen. Mom behind him. "Where have you been? Who's he?"

"This is him," I say. "Zach's killer."

"Didn't mean to," the boy says.

"Mon dieu," Mom says, covering her nose.

There's no getting past the boy in such a tiny kitchen. He's sprawled and sullen, reeking even worse inside than he does outside, with no breeze to mitigate the smell. The three us are crowded into the hallway not wanting to get too close. I wonder if I reek from being so near him the last few hours. My hand hurts and I need a shower.

"Why'd you bring him here?" Dad puts his hand over his nose.

"Because you didn't believe me. Well, here he is: the boy who killed Zach."

All three of us stare at the boy, who pulls his knees to himself. "Was me," he agrees.

"He is a wolf?" Mom asks.

"Only once," the boy says. "I liked it. She says I can be a wolf again. Once a month."

Mom and Dad exchange looks. There's no doubt they believe me now. Maybe they'll let me stay.

"He's disgusting," Dad says. "I'm running a bath."

Our bathtub is barely a half tub. The whole bathroom is tiny. Skinny as the boy is it'll be a tight squeeze.

"Not was.h.i.+ng. Don't like water."

"No kidding," I say.

"Come on," Dad says. "I'm cleaning you up. Putting you in fresh clothes."

"Don't like water." He doesn't move.

"I can see that," Dad says. "But wash, you will."

"If you don't go with Dad, we won't take you up to the farm."

"The wolf farm?"

"Yes, the wolf farm. But you have to be clean. Wolves are clean animals."

"Alright," he says, standing, slowly. Mom and I move toward the front door to avoid touching him, trying not to get tangled up in the coats hanging there.

"This way," Dad says, as if there were another way. The boy follows him.

"Should I help?" Mom asks.

Dad shakes his head, leads the boy into the bathroom, closes the door behind him. There's a few seconds of silence, then the boy starts screaming, but it's too loud and angry for me to pick words out. It sounds like water is going everywhere.

"Will Isaiah be alright?" Mom asks. "He won't hurt him, will he?"

I press my ear to the door. Dad's talking soft, trying to soothe the boy, coax him. "Dad's okay." The boy's unhappy but not murderous. "It'll be okay."

"He killed your Zach?" Mom asks. "You are sure?"

I nod.

"He's not slow? He understands?"

"He's slow but he understands. He's like me. You should see him run. No style at all. Totally spastic, but he runs as fast as I do."

"Oh," Mom says.

"Yeah. There's no doubt." I walk the length of the hallway, twisting to get past Mom. It's not very long. I walk from the front door past the coats, the kitchen, the bathroom, my parents' room, mine. Fifteen not-very-big paces. Then back again. Water is trickling out from under the bathroom door. But the yelling's died down. Mom grabs a tea towel and shoves it under the door.

"Where did you find him?"

"He found me. I didn't know, Mom. I didn't know he was like this. A street kid! He had no idea what happened to him. Didn't know he was a wolf."

Mom looks distressed. She puts her hand on my shoulder. It's the first time she's touched me since last night. I am so relieved I almost cry.

"He doesn't have any family to tell him what he is, Mom. He's homeless. I don't think he's had much education. Or food for that matter. Did you see how skinny he is?"

"Yes. He is a wretch. It will be good for him upstate," Mom says. "The Wilkins will help him." She goes into the kitchen. Opens the windows. Then gets out the mop and cleans the floor.

I pace. Now's not the time to tell her what the Greats plan to do with him. Each time I pa.s.s the bathroom door, it smells a little less bad. Dad is probably was.h.i.+ng away evidence. Zach's blood and DNA from under the boy's fingernails. Not that it matters, because we won't be turning him over to the police. But still. It bothers me.

I am imagining how Zach's blood and DNA got there. A surge of hate sweeps through me.

I can't wait till he's up on the farm meeting the Greats. I can't wait till they tear him apart limb by limb. I hope they let me join in. Werewolves punis.h.i.+ng their own. I wonder if there's a special ritual for it. I doubt it. It's not like the Greats have much of a ritual for anything. Stuff just happens the way it's always happened.

I want to make a fuss. I want to celebrate killing the white boy. Let off fireworks. Not that they allow fireworks on the farm. Makes the horses skittish and freaks out my kin. We wolves don't hold much with fire or loud noises. Too often it's gunshots and a bullet in our side.

But he knew it was Zach. Your boy, he said.

Dad opens the door, nods grimly at me, then closes it behind him before I can peek. "His name is Pete," Dad says, before disappearing into his bedroom.

Pete? It hasn't occurred to me to ask the boy's name. Hasn't occurred to me that he'd have one. Dad comes back out with some clothes and a towel, then returns to the bathroom.

If I didn't know better, I'd say Dad was enjoying himself.

I'm not. Nor is Mom, in the kitchen, cleaning.

I wonder what the white boy-what Pete-thinks of all of this.

AFTER.

Clean, the white boy still looks bad. He's got scabs and scars all over him, and the black eye I gave him is already a lurid mess of greens, blues, and purples. He smiles at me, which only renders him more hideous and makes my heart contract with guilt. How could I have punched someone so beaten down? So pathetic?

Dad inventories Pete's injuries, old and new. His ribs are bandaged as well as Dad could manage. "I think at least one of them is broken," Dad says, and I try not to cringe. "Pete's had a rough time."

No kidding. When we take him upstate it's going to get rougher. But half of me wants him to die. I want my life back. I'm willing for Pete to give his in exchange. He killed Zach; he deserves what the Greats give him.

Dad is on the phone, trying to borrow a car. Mom hands the boy a cold pack. I slouch against the fridge, watching.

"Cold," he says, dropping the pack.

She picks it up. "It's for your eye," she tells him.

"My eye?" he asks. He's sitting at the table under the bikes, where he's eaten practically all the food we have, including four bowls of cereal. He tore into the food worse than I ever have, pulled each plateful close, and hunched over in case we change our minds and s.n.a.t.c.h it from him. I can't help thinking that this may be his last meal.

He looks at me for confirmation.

"Yes," I tell him. "It's to stop the swelling."

He lets Mom put the pack on his eye.

" 'S there more food?" the boy asks.

Mom pours him another bowl of cereal with the last dribble of milk. He plows into it. One hand holding the pack to his eye, the other spooning cereal into his mouth.

The boy's skinnier than I thought. Dad's clothes hang off him like he's made of string and air. He's younger, too. Looks more twelve than fourteen. That might account for how stupid he is. Or it could be all the beatings he's had. Or the lack of food. Brain damage or malnutrition or both. Mom asks him how long since he last ate. He shrugs.

She shakes her head and tuts, sounding for a second like Grandmother. I don't tell her so.

"You are sure you killed Zachary?" she asks, sitting opposite him at the table and giving him her warmest smile.

The boy pauses briefly in his eating, nods. "Was me," he says almost cheerfully. A little bit of cereal flies out of his mouth.

Mom discreetly wipes the fleck of cereal from her cheek. I can see she's struggling to comprehend. "Where were you born, Pete?"

"Dunno."

"Where are your parents from?"

"Dunno."

"What happened to them?"

He shrugs.

Mom sighs. "Why are you not in an orphanage? With a foster family?"

"Dunno."

"You live on the streets?"

"Parks, too. Benches. Stoops. Slept in sewers. I can sleep anywhere." He sounds proud of his sleeping skills.

"Mon dieu. Does anyone know how you live?"

He looks up. The cereal's all gone. "How'd you mean?"

"Do you have any friends? Anyone who looks after you?"

"Nope. Just me." He's not sad or upset. It's how things are, that's all.

"I cannot believe you live like this!" Mom says, her voice rising. She's plenty upset on the boy's behalf. "With no help or support? Pete, it is so wrong."

The boy shrugs.