“I can see that you own several comic strip anthologies, but only from the more ‘adult’ strips, such as Calvin and Hobbes and The Far Side, which shows me that your appreciation for comics goes beyond the slapstick humor and recycled gags of the funny pages. Similarly, the other comics I see are not beat-‘em-up superhero comics, but rather graphic novels. The presence of Alan Moore is most impressive on the bookshelf of someone our age.”
As Rachel spoke, Patrick felt the seed of admiration that had been planted in him germinate and begin to grow. He had always known that she was very smart, but now she was in his room and dipping into a personal part of his life in a way that was almost eerie, yet immensely impressive. Until he met Rachel he hadn’t known that a girl could share such a deep respect for comics and fantasy novels (or Nerdism as a whole, as she called it). This, coupled with her strong observational skills was nothing short of amazing. He watched her face closely, saw the way her eyes darted around, the brain behind them working swiftly.
“And up top there,” she continued, “I can see several paranormal thriller novels, as written by both Stephen King and Dean Koontz. While I can’t say I share in this particular taste, it shows that you have an interest not only in fantasy, but the entire realm of the supernatural. This also says something about your higher-than-usual reading level, and about the type of material your parents will allow you to read, which gives us a glimpse into your family philosophy as a whole.
“Lastly, from what I can see, all or most of these books are very slightly worn, which tells me that you have indeed read them all and not just amassed them from school book fairs, and also that you find it important to keep them in good condition. That, in itself, can say something pretty deep about your personality.”
She finished as one might finish a lecture, and turned to Patrick.
He was completely taken aback, and after a good amount of fumbling silently with words could only manage to say, “Wow.”
Rachel laughed. “So that’s why I was so excited to see your room! Now I know absolutely everything there is to know about you!”
Despite her charming grin and her cocked head, that remark struck him once more with unease, but again it only lasted for a moment. Then he was smiling back at her.
“I guess you do, huh?”
*****
Dinner went better than Patrick could have ever imagined.
Patrick’s father had had the sudden realization that the weather would soon be changing, and so decided that he should take every opportunity possible to make his most favorite of meals. As Patrick and Rachel walked down the stairs the smell of the burgers wafting in from the open back door came up to greet them. The meat smelled heavenly, but Patrick’s stomach felt too bunched up to be hungry.
“I forgot to have Patrick ask if meat was okay,” his mother said from the kitchen as they sat down at the table. She was cutting veggies on the wooden cutting board that pulled out from the counter.
“Oh, meat’s fine,” Rachel said. “I think my dad loves beef way too much for vegetarianism to ever be an option in my house.”
“Me too,” Patrick said, gesturing to the back door, where they could see his father hovering over the grill in a way that reminded him of a mother cat watching over her kittens. One of the patties either wandered just a little too far from its siblings or became flustered and confused, because he scooped it up with his spatula and a good deal of assertive care, then plopped it back down in the middle of the grill. The patty mewed a satisfied hiss and his father was content once more, yet remained watchful.
Patrick was very relieved to hear that their patio furniture was still buried in the garage under a few tons of boxes and assorted junk, and that at least for tonight’s barbecue they would be eating at the dinner table. He wouldn’t be able to stand having to sit under the watching eyes of the woods, reminded constantly of his own cowardice. Not tonight.
Ten minutes later, Patrick, Rachel, his mother and his sister were sitting at the table. His father brought in a plate stacked with patties, the top of which were covered in cheddar cheese, and plopped it down on the table.
“Here you go, guys,” he said, then sat down. As he scooted in his chair he shot a glare at Rachel and said, “One bun per burger.” Then he grabbed for the mayo.
“Don’t worry, I don’t have any pockets,” she said with a grin.
“So Rachel,” Patrick’s mother started in before the buns had even been distributed, “tell us a little about yourself.”
“Well, I live with my dad, right up the street,” Rachel said.
She was a little red in the cheeks, and Patrick realized that she was probably much more nervous than he had been around her father, who had only been a single person. Poor Rachel had a whole pack of Reeds to deal with… But again, maybe he was just projecting.
“I’m sixteen; my favorite color is burnt sienna, but I really like any fall or earthy colors; I’m in the process of deciding what I’d like to do for a career, but I’m leaning toward being a veterinarian; and…” She paused, hunting for one more thing. “I’ve never broken a bone or been stung by a bee.”
“Wow, never?” his mother asked, clearly impressed.
“Even Patrick’s broken his arm,” his father chimed.
Patrick recalled with disdain the very brief yet embarrassing period of his life when he thought it would be a good idea to pick up skateboarding. He had fallen backward while attempting a shove-it and broken his arm, immediately realizing (though unfortunately just a half-second too late) that he didn’t like skateboarding that much at all. The memory of that summer he had spent in a cast was a very sour one.
“Nope,” Rachel assured them with confidence. “Although maybe that just means I need to get out more.”
Patrick’s father chuckled from behind his burger.
“So you said you might be interested in being a veterinarian,” his mother said, spreading mayonnaise slowly and absentmindedly on her bun. “Why’s that?”
“Well, I think the medical field is pretty interesting, and I love science. And I really like animals, too.”
“So I bet you have a lot of pets then, huh?”
“No, I haven’t actually had any pets for a while. I had a dog a long time ago, but she bit my mom’s hand pretty bad and we had to get rid of her. My dad’s been nervous around dogs ever since. And I had a leopard gecko named Slick once, but he died about a year ago, and I guess I haven’t gotten around to getting another pet since then.”
“I feel like we’ve had about a million cats, but we don’t seem to be so lucky with them,” his father said.
“Between the busy street and the neighbors’ dogs, it was hard to keep a cat at our old house.” His mother had finally assembled her burger and was now holding it, though it seemed to have left her mind amidst the conversation.
“Tigger Three got hit by the school bus while I was on it.” Lizzy hadn’t forgotten her burger; she had cut it into four quarters with a big bread knife and was now attempting to cut each piece into an eighth, with messy results. The failed slices were quickly stabbed with a fork and gobbled up.
“Right when it pulled up to our house,” his mother said with good-humored sympathy. “She was so sad that day… But at least there’s never a shortage of kittens around, I’ve come to learn.”
“And Sunshine lasted us a whopping six months,” his father said with a half-full mouth of burger.
Patrick turned to Rachel.
“As you can tell, Lizzy was always the one in charge of names.”
Lizzy broke her gaze on her project and looked proudly at Rachel.
“My favorite was Monsieur Bellowitz McLubbykins Junior.”
Rachel laughed and so did the rest of the table, Lizzy included. The rest of the evening was filled with laughter and for most of it Patrick felt a great deal like he was floating. He had expected to be a nervous wreck the entire evening, being embarrassed by his family members on
e after the other, but instead he found himself growing more and more comfortable in the situation. Rachel fit in with his family remarkably well, and by the end of the night it was as though she had been coming to dinner for years. And perhaps most importantly, there wasn’t a single mention or thought of the odd thing Patrick did several nights ago. He was happy, his family was happy, and above all, Rachel was happy.
After dinner they sat in the living room and watched Dragonheart, all the while Patrick’s father going on about how mind blowing a computer-animated dragon Draco had been when the film was first released. After it was over, Rachel said goodnight and his father drove her home. Patrick had sent her with some reading material: a book called Watchers by Dean Koontz that he thought she would enjoy, and a stack of graphic novels.
Before bed Patrick pushed open the door of the bathroom and grabbed his toothbrush. As she often was, Lizzy was already brushing her own teeth and staring blankly at herself in the mirror with half-lidded eyes. Patrick, feeling as though it must have all been a wonderful dream, slowly took the cap off of the toothpaste and spread some on his brush.
Before he could put it into his mouth, Lizzy spoke.
“So do you like her now?” she asked offhandedly, her words slurred by the toothbrush.
His hand halfway to his mouth, Patrick paused long enough for his sister to spit, rinse, and start swishing a capful of Listerine in her mouth. He didn’t look at her—only at the toothbrush.
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I do.”
Lizzy swished for a moment longer, then spat the mouthwash into the sink and walked casually from the bathroom.
Patrick stood in front of the mirror, staring at his toothbrush.
Chapter 16
He never slept deeply. He never had any dreams. And that was fine with him.
Dean sat up in bed. Other than the slight fuzz in his eyes and the stiffness of his legs, he felt like he hadn’t even slept. That was good—just how he wanted it. He rose without effort from the bare bed and looked out the window.
The sky was dark, but the clear moon hung in a crescent just above the roof of the neighbors’ house. Dean grabbed a smoke and a lighter from the little dresser beside his bed and for a split second the room was splashed with yellow light as he struck the starter. The flash gave way to the mellow, dull glow of the flame, and then the only light in the room was the orange point sticking from his mouth and the blue spotlight streaming from his window, spilling over the left side of his face and shoulders as he took a deep drag.
He pulled on the only pair of jeans he owned and a dirty white t-shirt, wading through trash, CD’s, and torn-up magazines as he made his way across the room. He stepped out into the hallway and walked through the house to the front door. He didn’t make any effort to soften his footfalls or open and close the door slowly; his mom and her boyfriend didn’t care if he went out at night, even in light of the constant “wolf attacks”. The next day they might yell at him for waking them up, but he couldn’t care less.
Dean stepped out into the front yard and breathed deeply. The air was fresh and invigorating; so different than it was during the day. It was always so stuffy and rank in this idiotic town, and he wondered how no one else ever seemed to notice. At night however, the air was different. It was cool, and not mucked up by all the cars and gabbing faces.
At night, the air was his.
He took a final drag from his cigarette and tossed it into the dirt where no doubt thousands more rested. He walked out into the street and soon was standing on four legs. In an instant he felt that rush of power that he had come to love more than any other sensation this life could offer. His strength doubled and his teeth grew sharp, and suddenly he could smell and hear the entire world around him.
Just as he had every night for the last several months, Dean became a monster. And it couldn’t possibly feel any better.
He slipped into the shadows and moved down the street with the smooth gait that came so naturally to him now. He jogged to the end of the cul-de-sac and through the trees, listening gladly to the familiar sounds of bats and crickets, breathing deep the air that was now impossibly fresh, the air that filled him with life.
After a minute or so he found himself in the little shopping center by the hardware store. Every window in the surrounding storefronts was dark, the only light spilling onto the pavement that of the single streetlamp next to Hillward Burgers and Shakes (a disgusting burger shack where Dean had more than once found quite the impressive hair coiled up on his patty) and the dirty yellow bulb sticking from the side of the Park-N-Grab (where he had lifted more than a few bottles of beer in his days). There were no cars in sight but for a single blue truck sitting in the middle of the lot, the streetlamp glinting off its rusty top and pooling black shadow around it like a puddle of tar. Inside the cab was a bulky man who stared blankly out the windshield like a mental patient. There was undoubtedly a rifle sitting on the seat next to him, but in his boredom and lack of sleep it was doubtful that he would be able to ready it very quickly.
Dean decided to give him a little test.
He barked as loudly as he could, and immediately the man in the truck jumped. He fumbled around, grabbing at the door and the wheel and then the gun on the seat, all the while confounding himself by swinging his head around, searching frantically for the source of the noise. Dean backed up further into the shadow and behind a large bush, poking his head out and watching with utter amusement as the guy tried desperately to ready his gun. He finally pointed it the right way and turned off the safety with shaking fingers, then stuck it out the window, jamming the barrel in every direction as though he were surrounded by a hundred wolves.
He couldn’t laugh physically, but what Dean felt in his mind must have hardly been a step below glee. Reveling in the image of what was quite possibly the funniest thing he had ever seen, he slipped into the trees again, wondering how long that big guy sat there with his gun hanging out the window, expecting a monster to leap at him from any angle and at any moment.
Dean wandered the town for several hours. He never planned his route—it was always more fun when he traveled around aimlessly. He sniffed at any random thing he could find and marked his territory whenever he picked up the scent of some smaller domestic dog. (He wondered how the little mutts reacted when they came to their favorite fencepost to find that it had been claimed by something so wild and powerful. From what he could tell, it didn’t look like they ever made any attempt to reclaim these spots.) At one point he happily chased down and killed an opossum that was attempting to cross the road. On occasion he would hear the sound of an approaching car and would be forced to hide behind a tree as a cop car came drifting along, but instead of frustrating him it only reminded him how stupid and dim-witted the residents of the town were—even the officials who were responsible for the town’s well-being.
They’re doing a great job, aren’t they now?
Dean was wandering down the street, thinking about how he might turn in soon, when he heard a voice up ahead. He stopped and strained his ears toward the sound. From within the shadow of overhanging trees, he could hear someone walking this way. It was a man, and though it sounded as if he were speaking to someone, there was only one set of footsteps.
Dean ran to the side of the road and lay down in the grass, poking his nose out just enough to see. After a minute or so a man came lumbering out of the shadows and into the light of the streetlamp. He had shaggy hair and wore grimy clothes, his shoes hanging in broken flaps as he walked. He was mumbling a stream of incoherent babble to himself, and was clearly insane. The man must have been homeless, for the putrid stink of him hit Dean’s nose before he had even passed. When the man rambled by and down the road several yards, Dean stood up and walked over to the painted divider line. He waited until the smelly man was a good thirty feet away before barking.
The homeless guy’s string of nonsense never stopped or slowed—
only grew quiet. He looked left and right as though he were being bothered by a pesky fly, then turned around. His mumble turned into an agitated shout as he saw the wolf lurking toward him with its head bowed low and its teeth bared. The man backed away and almost stumbled, then wheeled around and began running away comically with his arms flailing.
Dean had no problem at all catching up to him, and when he grabbed onto a grimy pant leg it was all too easy to bring the man down. The hobo fell with a grunt and turned onto his back as Dean bit him in the leg. He screamed curses and aimed kicks, but his words were still incoherent and his foot glanced feebly off of Dean’s shoulders.
He tore through fabric and bit into flesh, feeling that primeval power surge through him. This man deserved it, he thought, for walking around so late at night when there was a monster on the loose. The monster owned this town, and its insufferable little inhabitants should know that by now. He laughed madly in his mind, the tearing flesh so much more satisfying than that of a stupid opossum.
When the screams grew tiresome and his mouth was adequately caked with blood, Dean broke off and let the man pull himself up and limp away, babbling like he belonged in a straightjacket. Dean felt the warm, coppery liquid drip from his mouth, and he thought there could be nothing more satisfying.
Chapter 17
Fortunately for Patrick, accepting one’s cowardice and relinquishing all responsibility to make a difference in the world was easy to do when you had enough stuff on your mind. And his mind, it seemed, couldn’t be turned off.
He had lay awake for the majority of the night thinking about Rachel, and it hadn’t stopped by the time he was walking to school the next day.
It was true, he thought. Lizzy’s teasing and his parents’ shared little smirks and suggestions… They had been right all along. Patrick had never before fallen victim to the mighty Crush, but it seemed that now he was in its grasp.
He liked Rachel.
Not like a friend.
Really liked her.