Page 94 of Such Sharp Teeth

“No, that’s not information I received or cared to receive, but thanks.”

“I never see her as getting older,” she says. “She kept referring to herself as a grandma and it made me—”

She shudders.

I watch her walk down this street where she’s lived for the past five years, in the town where she’s lived her whole life, and I realize maybe it’s not that she’s content to be where she’s always been. Maybe she’s just terrified of change.

“Matty told me he bought a ring,” I say, tripping over some uneven sidewalk.

“Mm,” she says.

“No comment on that?”

“No comment.” She’s suddenly out of breath. “Let’s turn around here.”

The sky has gone gray and gloomy, the wind bitter.

“I’m dealing with it, you know?” I tell her. “The werewolf stuff, I’m handling it. I don’t need your help. I just want to be able to talk about it with you. I want you to believe me.”

She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak for a few minutes.

“I wouldn’t say anything about this to anyone,” she says finally. “I know you’ve seen Ian. I wouldn’t say anything about this to him. Not until you talk to the therapist, at least.”

It’s a hurt that makes me yearn for a transformation. For physical pain. Something obvious. The piercing of a sharp tooth through tender gums. The shattering of a bone. The give of skin. That hurt is easy to identify. It’s simple.

This hurt, it’s enigmatic. The sting of my sister’s doubt and how it makes me doubt myself.

When we get back, she goes upstairs to nap, and I cancel the appointment with the therapist.

The full moon will be here soon enough. If she needs more proof, I’ll get her more proof.

X

I order a new pair of handcuffs, since I left my old ones at the distillery, and luckily, they arrive just in time. It’s the morning of the full moon.

I don’t have the crate anymore, but it wasn’t particularly effective, so I’m not sure it matters. Besides, I’m trying to control myself through the transformation.

I read that exhaustion is a possible remedy, which seems like a stretch, but I figured it couldn’t hurt. I got up early and drove to the bike trail, ran until my legs felt like noodles. After, I went grocery shopping and bought a family-sized portion of pulled pork, roast beef, and multiple rotisserie chickens. Werewolf snacks. If I have meat in front of me, maybe I won’t hunt. Then maybe tomorrow I won’t have to vomit up rat teeth. Wouldn’t that be nice?

I put the groceries away and take a quick shower. I dress in one of Ian’s shirts. I wore it home earlier this week after he “accidentally” ripped the buttons off my blouse. It fits like a tent and smells like him.

I’m hoping it stays on when it happens.

Handcuffs plus exhaustion plus meat plus the comfort of Ian’s smell. And I’ve been going through breathing exercises, practicing mental tricks. The 3-3-3 rule. Also, if I could restrain myself from biting my mother’s head off, I think I’ve generally leveled up in the self-control department.

I’m optimistic that I’m not going to be quite such a terror this time around. I’ve done it once before. I have the advantage of experience. I know what to expect. I’m prepared.

Though, even if I can control myself as the wolf, I still have no choice in becoming the wolf. I’ve been successful at staving off the dread of the transformation until today. I keep getting phantom sensations, little hints of what it was like last time, what it will be like tonight. Almost like growing pains. Like if electric shocks and growing pains and stabbing and burning all joined forces.

Fun times.

“You’re going out tonight?” Scarlett asks me over a late lunch of ham-and-cheese sandwiches.

“Yep.”

“I’m worried about you,” she says. “I think you should stay home.”

“Ah, no.”