Kat Lupin: Wolf Girl

“Kat Lupin! Get your butt out here!”

My mom’s voice echoes through the whole house, which is a big deal since our place is kinda long. Mom once called it a “ranch-style” house. That never made sense to me. Lots of neighbors have houses like ours and none of them have any cows or goats or anything. Our place is blue with a white roof, slanted to keep snow from piling up. It’s not as big as Sarah’s home which has two stories and a pool. But Emily and me both get our own bedroom, which is all that matters to me.

I’m enjoying my bedroom’s privacy when mom’s voice booms again. “Kat, now!”

I curl up in my bed, hugging my kangaroo stuffie. “Five more minutes?” I beg.

“N-O-W!”

Uh oh. She’s spelling it out. That means she’s serious.

I rub my sleepy eyes and stumble out of bed with an Ugggg. I won’t lie. My room makes a swap look clean. I’ve got stuffed animals and manga books scattered all over the rug. My laundry basket overflows with dirty T-shirts and socks. And I’m pretty sure there’s a three-day-old ice cream dish hiding under the piles of manga books. But don’t blame me. Can’t really clean my room with this hurt arm, can I?

It has been a week since my trip to the hospital. Every morning, I still peek out my bedroom window, searching the trees. Searching for him.

We live in a Silver Rush. It’s a sleepy little town in the Northern Arizona. No cactus up here. It’s all pine trees and mountains. If you’re into nature, and scenery, and blah, blah, blah you’d slobber all over this place. But to me, it’s a boring place to live. At least it used to be.

Outside, the woods crowd all the way to the back fence of my yard. I keep expecting to see that dark-haired teen step out of those trees and creep towards the house. Since our place is only one story, he’d be able to slink right up to my bedroom window. Just thinking about him out there, peeking in through the gap in my curtains, sends a cold tremor up my arms. Luckily, that hasn’t happened… Yet.

I think about him as I scratch the edges of my bandage. My wound is almost gone. In fact, my doctor is a bit freaked out how fast it’s healing. The wolf teeth left some little scars, but my arm doesn’t hurt anymore. Still itches like crazy though.

“Get a move on, sleepy head” says Mom. She zips past my room, getting ready for work. She deals in real estate which is a fancy way of saying she finds houses for people to buy.

“I’m moving.” I shout back at her. Then I drag on a pair of black jeans and dig out my favorite Demon Slayer T-shirt. That’s about as fashionable as I get. I’m not one of the clothes-and-makeup girls. And forget about the flowery sandals. Give me some converse sneakers any day. Mom says that might change one day real soon. Maybe. But I don’t think I want it to.

Once dressed, I zombie-shamble towards the bathroom. Too bad Emily is already in there. She gazes at her reflection in the mirror, brushing her hair. She does one hundred strokes… EVERY FRIGGIN’ MORNING! Emily is dressed and ready to go.

“You’re a little early, aren’t you?” I ask.

Emily doesn’t even glance my way. She keeps brushing. “I wouldn’t want to be late for my first day.”

“Yeah, well hurry up,” I tell her. “I need to go.”

“You can’t rush perfection,” says Emily as she shuts the door on me.

Yaarrrggg! I hate that.

I storm off and use my parents’ bathroom instead. When I’m finished, I amble over to the kitchen and take a seat at the table. A bowl of oatmeal waits for me. It’s cold. Emily’s dish is already rinsed and sitting in the sink. She must’ve eaten before doing her hundred strokes with the hair brush. She thinks life is a race or something.

“Good morning pumpkin,” says Dad. He leans against the kitchen counter, reading something on his cell phone. He wears a uniform with a tie and the kind of shoes that you need to polish. Oh yeah, did I forget to mention his gun? He’s been County Sheriff for years and says he’s only had to pull it out of his holster while on duty twice. Dad’s proud of that.

“Morning,” I say. I catch myself staring at him. Not at him exactly, but at what he’s eating—a thick, greasy slice of bacon.

Wow, that looks so…GOOD! I haven’t eaten meat since I was five years old. But now, gazing at the bacon, my mouth begins to water.

What’s going on?

Drop it, says a voice. Please, please, please, drop it.

At my side, Bizbee sits up straight and alert, eyeing my dad. The dog doesn’t blink. She licks her lips.

Come on, says the dog, like she’s mumbling to herself, although I don’t see her lips move. Drop the meat.

I whirl backwards, falling out of my chair. The shock sends me crashing to the kitchen floor. My chair clatters against the tile next to me.

“Kat?” says my dad. “Are you okay?”

I ignore his question and gawk at Bizbee. The dog has forgotten all about bacon and stares back at me, confused.

“Katrina?” This time, my dad shouts. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say, getting up off the floor. “Nothing’s wrong.”

But I’m lying because a whole lot of wrong just happened. I must be going crazy.

Did I just hear my dog talk?