Raised by Wolves

Chapter 39

CHAPTER 39

AFTER SCHOOL, HOLO and I walk into town and find a booth at the diner. Lacey hustles out of the kitchen to greet us. She cooks, waits tables, and seems to basically run the place by herself.

“Fries and Cokes?” she asks, wiping her hands on a stained white apron. “In celebration of your incredible test scores? Chester called me right away. I’m so proud of you!”

I really can’t understand what the big deal is. “Fries, yes please. Cokes, no,” I say. After a lifetime of drinking only water, I can’t get used to Coke’s fizzy sweetness.

“But I want a Coke,” Holo whines as Lacey hurries off to get our fries.

I try to ruffle my brother’s hair, but he dodges my hand. “You don’t want to turn into a regular, normal human, do you?” I ask. My tone’s light, but my question’s dead serious: How much do you really want to be just like everyone else?

“I don’t know,” he mumbles grumpily.

The booth behind me creaks. “And what, exactly, does it mean to be a so-called regular, normal human?”

When I twist around in my seat, I’m completely not surprised to see Waylon Eugene Meloy there, grinning and looking pleased with himself. He seems to enjoy sneaking up on me. And he’s better at it than I’d like to admit.

My cheeks get hot. What do I know about what being normal means?

“Well, if I think about the kids at school,” I say, “it means eating junk food all the time and being obsessed with video games and cell phones. And taking self-portraits constantly, and watching nonstop Knock Knock videos—”

Waylon bursts out laughing. “Let me stop you before you say anything else ridiculous. For one thing, they’re called selfies and TikTok. Also, plenty of regular people do other things with their time. Me, I specialize in restoring motorcycles, ignoring speed limits, and being both charming and dangerous.”

His teasing grin is infectious. I can’t help smiling back.

“I don’t really think you’re regular, though,” I tell him. “I think you’re weird, too.”

He slides into the booth next to me as Lacey sets our fries down. He helps himself to the first handful. “I never said I wasn’t,” he says, shoving about twenty fries into his mouth at once. Then he holds up a hand for my brother to hit. “Freak high five,” he says.

Holo slaps his palm, giggling.

“Here,” Waylon says, digging into his pocket and handing my brother a five-dollar bill. “Go play some good songs on the jukebox.”

“On the what?” Holo says. He has no idea what Waylon’s talking about. Honestly, I don’t really, either.

“That machine with the blinky lights over there. You’ll figure it out.”

Holo stares at him for a second. Then he snatches the money and disappears.

Waylon turns to me and says, “So what are you doing tomorrow night?”

I think about this for a second. “I’m probably going to sit in the chief’s living room, staring out the window and wondering what I’m doing living in the house of the man who put me in jail.”

“Sounds like fun,” Waylon says.

I shrug. “I’ve had worse nights.” Like the time Holo and I got trapped in a snowstorm halfway down the mountain and had to spend the night in a snow cave—

“Well, I’ve got a great idea,” Waylon says. “I think you should come to the school dance with me.” He shrugs. “It’s stupid and lame, but everyone goes to it anyway.”

“If it’s stupid and lame, why do people go?” I ask. Meanwhile my mind is going: A gorgeous juvenile delinquent just asked me to a dance!

Waylon contemplatively gnaws on a fry. “Sometimes you just feel like you’re supposed to do something, even if you don’t really know why. Like maybe you do it because you know you’re supposed to have certain regular, normal human experiences.”

It’s annoying that he’s throwing my words back at me, but I ignore it. “What happens at a dance?”

Waylon brushes his hair off his forehead; it flops back down immediately. “Well, they play music, and people hang around and talk to their friends, and every once in a while they dance with each other.”

“I don’t know how to dance.” Also I don’t really have any friends.

“That makes two of us,” Waylon says. “Actually that makes the whole high school gym full of us. Those kids have no rhythm; you should see them.”

And then he gets up from the booth and starts jumping around, kicking out his legs and swinging his arms. It looks like he’s being stung by a swarm of bees.

“Is that what it’s supposed to look like, or are you just really bad?” I ask when he stops.

He looks offended. “Let’s see you try it.”

“No thank you.”

“OK,” he says. “Let’s try it together.”

I look around the diner. “Here?”

“It’s as good a place as any. Hang on.” He walks over to the jukebox, exchanges a few words with Holo, and then presses a few buttons. The diner fills with the sound of a piano, then a smooth, smoky voice.

Waylon returns and holds out his arms. “Alicia Keys, ‘If I Ain’t Got You,’” he says. “Classic slow-dance song.”

I don’t know what to do. Why are his arms out like that? Is he trying to hug me?

“Step closer,” he says. “Okay, good, now put your hands on my shoulders.”

When I do, I feel his warm skin through his T-shirt, and the strong, shifting muscles beneath. He puts his hands on my waist. I give a tiny, involuntary shiver.

“Now we do this,” he says, his voice husky. He starts sort of rocking back and forth, side to side, and I mirror him.

It feels awkward.

And also—amazing.

As we hold each other and sway, I feel pulled magnetically toward him. Our bodies move closer together, until there’s barely an inch between his chest and mine. By now my pulse is racing.

Do I dare?

I take that last step toward him. I press myself against his long, lean torso, and I tighten my arms around his neck. I feel his muscles tense and then relax. His steady breath ruffles my hair.

All the years I was so lonely—why did I wait so long to find someone to hold me?

I close my eyes. I press my face into his chest and nuzzle him, hard. And suddenly he steps back.

“What are you doing?” he blurts.

I’m horrified. I was acting like a wolf .

I drop my arms to my sides. “Um, my nose itched and I, um, scratched it on your shirt. I’m sorry.”

He looks at me quizzically for a moment, and then he laughs. “Sure, that’s a totally regular, normal thing to do,” he says lightly.

My cheeks are hot with shame. “Isn’t it obvious that I don’t know anything about what’s regular and normal?” I practically yell.

“Hey,” he says, “it’s no big deal. Come on, the song’s not over.” He looks at me pleadingly, his arms held wide. “Let’s keep dancing.”

I shake my head and sink back down into the booth. If I could make myself disappear, I would. “Thanks,” I say. “But I’m done. So you’d better find someone else to take to the dance.”