Raised by Wolves

Chapter 75

CHAPTER 75

WE JUMP INTO the convertible—leapfrogging over the doors instead of opening them—and peel out of the parking lot. The tires squeal as Waylon takes the turn way too fast.

“That dance sucked anyway,” I shout over the screaming engine.

Waylon throws back his head and laughs. “I know! Why’d we go?”

“Because you said we should!”

Waylon glances in the rearview mirror to make sure no one’s following us. When he doesn’t see any headlights, he downshifts. The engine stops sounding like it’s shrieking in pain.

“Everybody needs to go to a high school dance at least once,” he tells me. “It should be a requirement for graduation, like biology.”

“What’s so important about jumping around in the dark with a bunch of people you don’t like?” I rub my knuckles. They hurt where I smashed them into Mac’s nose.

“Well, I hope there was at least one person there you like,” Waylon says pointedly.

“Okay, yes, there was one.” I glance over at him. “I mean, I think Mr. Chive is an underrated teacher—”

Waylon laughs. “You’re the worst,” he says.

He turns down an unfamiliar road. Trees loom tall on either side of us.

“No, high school dances are the worst,” I say.

“Only when someone attacks you on the dance floor,” he says. “Normally the worst thing you can say about them is that they’re boring, or that the DJ sucked. But a high school dance is a rite of passage. Like learning to drive. Or drinking your first beer. Or having your first kiss.”

So far I have done none of these things. I wonder if he knows that. “How about killing your first deer?” I ask.

Waylon shoots me a sideways look. “I probably wouldn’t have put that on the list.”

“What about gutting your first fish? Giving yourself your first stitches with a needle and thread?”

“Your rites of passage involve too much blood!” Waylon shakes his head, laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“Well, when I first met you, I said I was probably too dangerous for you.”

“And now you’re ready to admit that you were wrong.”

“Considering the damage I’ve seen you do to people twice your size, uh, yeah.” He shrugs one shoulder. “But, you know, live and learn.”

After a little while he turns off the road and comes to a stop in front of a faded red building with bright neon signs hanging in the windows. B UDWEISER. C OORS L IGHT. BBQ. OPEN.

He holds out his hand to me. “Ready?” he says.

“For what?”

Waylon doesn’t answer. He just grins and pulls me inside.

The narrow room’s even dimmer than the high school dance. The air smells old, somehow, or maybe stale. Like wood and dust. Also like yeast and smoke and…

Waylon nudges me in the arm. “Stop wolf-sniffing,” he whispers. “It’s just the smell of a dive bar.”

I’m glad it’s too dark in here for him to see me blushing.

“What’ll you have?” he says. “Beer? Jack and Coke?”

I blink at him. “I have no idea.”

He playfully pats my cheek, like I’m a little kid. “Find us a seat. I’ll be right back.”

I sit down at a sticky wooden table in the corner. Waylon comes back with two tall beers in frosted glasses and sets one down in front of me. “Now, pick that up—yes, with the handle, just like that,” he says, “and now clink your glass against mine. Cheers!”

“Cheers,” I repeat. “Um, I know I’m not an expert on the human world, but aren’t there rules against drinking beer at our age?”

Waylon shrugs. “I try not to let the rules apply to me,” he says. “I find them constricting. So, how does that rite of passage taste?”

I take a sip and try not to make a face. But Waylon sips his slowly, like he actually enjoys it.

“First taste of beer: check,” I say gamely.

He keeps his eyes on me as he smiles that heartthrob smile of his. My stomach gives a queasy, thrilling lurch, and a shivery sensation zings up and down my spine. As he grabs my free hand with his and puts my fingers to his lips, I find myself hoping that there’s at least one more rite of passage we can check off tonight.