On the night Kayla was bitten, she and Billy were at the beach, spread eagled in the wild sea grass. Clouds drifted across the pale sad eye of the moon. There was a bluish-grey sheen on the water. Kestrels soared overhead, singing klee killy killy. It was a Friday. Kayla remembered because she had a chemistry test to study for over the weekend. Billy’s kisses tasted like spearmint gum and Budweiser. They made her body throb in a good way. Billy moaned, worming his hand under her shirt. I really like you, he whispered. A stupid thing to say because of course he liked her. They were friends. They’d known each other forever. She kissed him more forcefully, felt something stab her neck. Put her hand on the spot that hurt, which was hot and sticky. Bolted upright. Stared into his hungry grey pupils, fringed with dark lashes. What did you do? she asked, not wanting to know the answer.
At school, Billy and his teammates roam the halls. A wolf pack. The girls point and giggle, eyeing them longingly. He’s an offensive quarterback on varsity. An attackman, it’s called. After each win, he waves his fists in the air, searches for Kayla in the stands. Blows her kisses. Shouts her name. She sits on her hands, which are hairier now, her fingernails curling into claws.
Her parents don’t notice. Although how could they not? Her lips are crimson, her teeth pointy as a dog’s. Hair on her thighs and stomach, rambling down her forearms. Hey, she wants to scream. Something’s changed. But it wouldn’t matter. They’re so used to looking at her they don’t see her anymore.
Alone in her room, she studies herself in the mirror. Yellow incisors. Flared nostrils. Greedy blue eyes. Were-girl, she says aloud, running her hands over her new skin, caressing the rounded, furry places.
You’re a lycanthrope, Billy tells her. Kayla has never heard the word and is surprised Billy knows it because she scored better in the Reading and Writing section of the SATs. When she googled the definition, she got mad. You think I’m delusional??? she texts him. WTF
In her journal, she has two columns. One is labeled MYTHS. Under it, she writes full moon, silver objects, incredible speed. The other is called SUPERPOWERS. Here’s what she can do – shapeshift at will, read people’s minds. The other day, in the bathroom, she looked at Monica Quadrino and knew her friend was thinking, how did that ugly bitch get Billy to like her?
Each day after school, she goes over to Billy’s house when his parents are at work and they get undressed and do things to each other’s bodies. Fucking. She says it out loud because she can and the sun doesn’t melt in the sky. God doesn’t peek out from behind the sycamore tree in Billy’s front yard to say, do you really think you should, hon? Is this a wise decision?
In the cafeteria line, guys look at her differently. Like she’s a meatball slider and they have a coupon for the all-you-can-eat buffet. Their eyes ramble up her body, assessing. She starts reading their minds, forces herself to stop. It’s too dirty for words when all she wants is a tuna sandwich and a carton of milk. She could slice their throats open with one paw if she wanted to.
One Friday night, she goes to the beach by herself. Wades into the ocean, which is tepid as bathwater. Floating. She’s not lonely exactly. Just numb. She told her parents she had a date with Billy, told him she was with Monica. She counts backward in her head to the before time – fuzzy slippers and French braids, Girl Scouts, Barbie dolls, hopscotch, The Wind in the Willows, Buzz Lightyear, pajama parties, pinatas, unicorns, cupcakes with sprinkles. A panic of werewolves arrives just as moonlight mops the waves back into the ocean. She drags herself onto the sand, watches their flame-hot eyes, mulling her options. She can’t go back, won’t go forward. The werewolves rub their paws together, their ears flattening against their skulls. Billy isn’t with them. It wouldn’t matter if he was. She sprints toward the pack, arms flung open. When they flee, she gives chase, tongue flapping, skin bristling, howling at the stars.
Author: Beth Sherman’s writing has been published in more than 100 literary magazines, including Portland Review, Tiny Molecules, 100 Word Story, Fictive Dream, and Bending Genres. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024. She’s also a Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, and multiple Best of the Net nominee.
So good!!
This was wonderful!