Page 35

CHAPTER 34

SOMEHOW I MAKE it through the school day. I do what they tell me to do. I don’t growl. And Holo doesn’t fight.

But we still don’t fit in.

When the bell rings, I’m the first one out the door. I breathe deep, clearing the school’s chemical stench from my nose. I roll my shoulders and shake out my cramped legs. I’m not used to sitting for hours at a time.

And what did I learn today? How to say Odio la escuela .

It means I hate school .

A raven lands on a nearby trash can and starts pecking at a Cheetos bag, searching for crumbs.

“Shoo,” I say, waving my arms at it. “Get out of here!”

The bird seems to glare at me before it flaps its big black wings and takes off.

“Poor guy, why’d you chase him away?”

Startled, I turn. Waylon’s followed me outside. His motorcycle jacket’s slung over his shoulder, and his expression’s amused. The sun turns the bleached ends of his hair golden. They match the gold flecks in his eyes.

I try to act like he didn’t surprise me. Like my heart isn’t beating faster and being near him is just like being near anyone else. Still, I cross my arms over my chest like I need to protect myself. “That bird should be eating carrion, not Cheetos.”

“Okay, but that’s kind of gross.”

“Not to a raven. The way eating your mom’s regurgitated dinner isn’t gross if you’re a wolf pup.”

Waylon winces a little. “Baby wolves eat barf?”

“Yeah, when they’re too young to eat from a kill. They lick an adult wolf’s mouth, and the adult immediately coughs up part of its last meal.”

“‘Here, son, have some raw deer meat mixed with stomach acid!’” Waylon gags a little.

“It doesn’t even have to be the wolf’s actual son. Any adult wolf will do it for the pack’s pups.”

I don’t admit that the wolves used to bring my brother and me bits of their kill. That I’ve eaten raw deer meat, too. Waylon already thinks I’m strange enough.

The raven comes back, heading for the Cheetos bag again.

Another thing I don’t tell Waylon is that ravens sometimes imitate wolves, calling them to carcasses the birds can’t break open themselves. When the wolves finish eating, the raven gets the leftovers.

“Hey, bird, I saw some sweet roadkill on Route 20 this morning,” Waylon calls. “You should go check it out.” Then he turns to me, and his sudden, gorgeous smile is almost impossible for me to look at. He grabs one of my hands and holds it lightly between his. “All this talk about carrion and vomit is making me hungry,” he says. “How about we go get something to eat?”

Warmth floods my body, and all of my attention rushes to where his skin touches mine. He’s holding my hand , I think stupidly. Waylon Meloy is holding my hand. No one’s ever done that before.

“Well, what do you say?” Waylon nods over to his motorcycle, the one I’m technically not allowed to ride. “That right there is a 1975 Norton Commando, electric start,” he says. “You can’t find a more classic bike. It was the only thing I got from my dad when he died. I had to rewire it, though, because a lot of old British motorcycles have shit electrical systems. Next I’m probably going to swap out the Amal carbs for a Mikuni carburetor—” Then he stops. “Sorry, this doesn’t mean anything to you at all, does it?”

I shake my head. I understand raven language better than motorcycle terminology. But I can tell Waylon really loves his bike. And I also wonder what happened to his dad.

“Look, all you really need to know is that it’s a killer bike,” Waylon says, “and when the chief says you shouldn’t ride it, you should not listen to him.” He lets go of my hand, and my skin misses his warmth.

Touch me again , I think.

“So,” he says, “are you going to get on or what?”

I shouldn’t do it. The chief would kill me.

I can’t bring myself to say yes.

But I can manage a nod.

“Great,” he says happily. “Let’s go.”

Excitement and fear take turns flooding through me as I put on my helmet. Waylon slings his right leg over the seat. Awkwardly I slide on behind him. The seat’s hot from the sun. The bike smells like gas and leather.

“You’re going to have to hold on,” Waylon tells me.

I feel around the side of the seat for grips or handles. There aren’t any. “To what?” I ask, confused.

I can hear the smile in his voice when he answers. “To me ,” he says.