This Is Not a Werewolf Story by Sandra Evans

lighthouse. There’s a small growl that comes with a little nip that she only makes at the edge of the woods, and it means Go now and be the boy you are.
    Her tail drops. She’s sad to see me leave.
    But there’s more to it. White Wolf has regrets. I think she’s sorry that we have to meet the way we do.
    I lope toward the lighthouse.
    White Wolf settles down under a big cedar and rests her head on her paws. The bunny is next to her. She better eat it.
    My clothes are in the stove where I left them. As I put them on, I lose my wolf face and my wolf ways. When I walk out of the lighthouse, I’m no longer my second self, I’m no longer wolf me. I’m Raul, and the White Wolf who loves me is gone.
    I head back toward the school. The sky is gray. A mist creeps up over the cliff, spreading a wet and glaring light into the woods.
    The dean will be back by now, turning on the heat and the lights, making coffee and setting out cookiesfor the parents who take the time to come in. Some of the kids, like Mary Anne, just jump out of the car. Her parents don’t even turn the engine off. They hit a button that makes the trunk pop open so that she can pull out her bags.
    Dean Swift always runs down to help kids whose parents do this. He puts his arm around the boy or girl and takes the bag.
    Sometimes I see Dean Swift look after the parents’ car as it drives away, and his face looks like my insides feel—angry and sort of like he can’t believe it. What kind of grown-up is too busy to carry his kid’s suitcase up the stairs?
    Thinking of the dean makes me feel better about going back. It’ll be good to see Sparrow and hear about this weekend’s disgusting casserole. His grandma throws everything she didn’t eat that week into a pot for Sunday lunch—cottage cheese, refried beans, creamed spinach, spaghetti, fish sticks—if it’s in her fridge Sunday morning, it’s on Sparrow’s plate at noon. She calls it Dutch soup, but me and Sparrow and some of the other kids like to make up different names for it. I draw pictures until someone guesses the name. So far we have barf bowl (Sparrow’s), rat bath soup (mine), fungus ’n’ feces (mine), poo punch (Sparrow’s), dog drool dumplings (Dean Swift’s), calamity casserole (Mary Anne’s), and the newest one, stomach acid stew (Vincent’s).
    Maybe Mean Jack got to know Gollum. Do they pump your stomach for a mildly venomous snake bite? I’ll ask the dean.
    Maybe Vincent pranked his stepfather so good that he moved back out.
    And maybe at dinner tonight Mary Anne will sit next to me at the counter.
    I have a great idea. If I get there in time for drop-off, I can be the one to help her with her bag when her parents drive up. Dean Swift should be pretty easy to outrun.
    Then I do what I do every Sunday when I’m halfway to the lake. I sniff until I find the stinkiest stick on the forest floor. It’ll keep Bobo busy all week long.
    I can tell by where the sun is in the sky that I’m earlier than usual, so I head toward the lake. I’m laughing over two new ones I thought up—scab surprise and maggot meatloaf.
    But when the path opens out to the lake, I stop laughing pretty quick.
    Tuffman is standing in front of the straw man.
    â€œWas this your idea?”
    I look at him. I remember the crazy idea I had about him on Friday afternoon—that he was one of my kind. I must be losing my marbles, as my dad would say. I think White Deer calls to people who need a second self because their first self has lost something so big it’s not whole anymore.
    Tuffman isn’t the type who loses anything.
    â€œYou better talk to me, weirdo. I’m not playing games.” He yanks the straw man off the tree. The heavy-duty ropes I used to tie it to the trunk snap like old rubber bands.
    I can’t believe it. The kids call me freaky strong, but the only word for Tuffman-strong