Not Your Ordinary Wolf Girl (16 page)

He shook his head and glanced at me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I think we're fine over here. Thanks, though.”

He crossed back to the store, muttering about having only a five-minute break and wasting it on refereeing a cat fight.

More like a dog fight, but close enough.

The wolf girl couldn't have been more than sixteen. Despite my irritation, I felt sorry for her.

“What's going on?” I asked, touching her arm.

She jerked away. “I haven't seen her since early this morning, when she ran off to your place. Tell me what you did to her.”

“Me? She's the one who left that threat.”

“Threat?” The girl shrugged.

“She owes me a new table.”

“I don't care about that! Where is she?”

My car rounded the corner. I waved at the driver. “It hasn't been that long. She'll show up.”

“No, something's wrong. We stay together during the day. It's safer. Sue and I are like family. I'm all she's got now.”

The driver pulled up to the curb. The girl yanked the strings on her hood tighter.

“I'm
so
screwed,” she whimpered. “Sue's taken off. I'm hideous. I have no one.”

“What's your name?” I asked, reluctant to let her go.

“Queenie,” she said as she turned away from me.

“What do you know about Owen Lebrun?” I asked her.

I signalled the driver to wait and looked back at her. But she was gone.

THIRTEEN

M
alika's shoebox one-bedroom near Central Park had cost her almost as much as my dilapidated pickle factory in Brooklyn. Her uniformed doorman always made me feel totally awkward by ushering me in with a hammy grin and a flourish of his cap. But he'd help keep out unwanted visitors, so I wasn't about to complain.

The elevator up to the fifteenth floor was a smooth ride, unlike my own rusty clunker. Malika poked her head out of her apartment as the doors opened. The doorman had called up to announce my arrival.

“It sucks that you're afraid to be alone in your apartment,” she said.

“Yeah,” I replied, at my most eloquent.

“Why do these guys feel entitled to invade your private sanctuary?”

“I have no idea.”

“Curse all the guys out there who make us feel unsafe!”

“Ha, yeah. The girls, too. Maybe
after
I take that nap,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

She smiled, stepped forward with arms raised, and waited for me to stumble into the hug. Her warmth and scent enveloped me: jasmine oil and soap and coffee. While I was being hugged by Malika, everything felt okay.

She pulled back and waited, expecting me to start talking. I wished I could tell her everything, but I just sighed and bit my lip. When she realized I wasn't going to confide in her, she welcomed me into the apartment without a word—another reason I loved her.

“I'm dead tired,” I said.

“Scoot, scoot—go sleep.” She waved me toward her bedroom. “I'm making pancakes and tofu bacon for brunch. It'll be on the table when you wake up.”

“You rock,” I said, shutting the bedroom door. I stripped down to tank top and tights, and slid beneath the cool sheets. Nothing bad could happen to me here. Giving into exhaustion felt right. My dreams didn't even turn into nightmares.

Malika woke me by popping her head into the room. “Jules and Vinnie are on their way over.”

“Huh?” I shot upright, and the change bubbled beneath my skin. My cheeks prickled. Hair was sprouting in front of Malika! I clapped a pillow to my face. My claws pierced the linen. I flopped back down and whipped the comforter over my head.

“Are you okay?” she asked, coming closer.

“Just need a moment.”

I lay still, breathing loudly, trying to convince my body that my best friend was standing there— not my enemy. There was no reason to get hairy. But my body wouldn't believe me. I tried meditating: “Ommmmmmmmm.”

“Are you humming under there?” asked Malika, standing right next to me.

“You scared me!” I yelped, pulling the comforter tighter.

“You're hiding?”

“Maybe.”

“You're acting so weird these days. I hate that stalker guys have gotten under your skin.”

Under my skin
was right. “Don't worry about me. I'll
be good once I eat some of your incredible pancakes.
Just … let me wake up on my own, okay?”

“Okay … Well, heat 'em up in the micro first,
because you've been asleep for hours. They're stone cold. But the pot of coffee in the kitchen is fresh.”

When she was gone, I swung my legs over the side of the bed. They looked normal. My hands still had claws, but they returned to fingertips after a few deep breaths. Thank god. I was eager to get caffeine into my system. I walked out of the bedroom, sniffing the air.

“You're the best friend a girl could have!” I called out to her.

Malika yelled back from the living room, “If genius songwriter Sam Lee says so, then it must be true!”

The beat of her drums drifted into the bathroom while I washed my face and worked a little gel into my hair. She was practising “Cry Little Soldiers” as quietly as possible. Her apartment was soundproof, like mine, so we could play here occasionally without the neighbours getting pissed.

In the kitchen, I picked out the biggest mug in the cabinet—it qualified as a bucket. There were dancing cows on the side with the message “Sometimes you just have to wake up and smell the shit.” I began to caffeinate. The stack of pancakes and tofu bacon would've been much better fresh, but was still edible. She'd made that bacon for my sake. Maybe she thought the sandwiches at the video shoot were a slip? And the chicken photo?

Pouring a second cup of coffee drained her pot, so I started another one, then accompanied her on the bass while she played the drums until the doorman called up to announce Jules's arrival. My sense of calm evaporated. Jules could always get to me.

Today she looked like a willowy wood nymph in green tights, a brown dress, and half a dozen scarves. Her hair was streaked with emerald dye, which drew attention to her dark eyes. Their stormy gaze told me everything I needed to know about her state of mind. I wished I'd called her back. She opened her portable keyboard and pressed a key. B flat rang out like a warning.

“Got over your hissy fit yet?” asked Jules.

“Hello to you, too,” I said. “I've been going through … something rough. I've been sick. Food poisoning.”

“Sam's also got some really determined stalkers,” chipped in Malika, earning herself a glare from Jules. “That friend of Harris's who hung out backstage for a while after the last show and his brother. They've been breaking into her place.”

“He seemed normal enough to me,” said Jules, sitting down on the couch.

“He's not,” I snapped.

“Whatevs. Let's get this meeting started. Where's Vinnie?”

“You can't even get off your throne long enough to be worried about me, can you?” I demanded.

“Don't make this about me.
You're
the issue,” said Jules, running a finger up and down the keys. “We gotta walk on eggshells because of you. You're the only reason our band exists. You're the talented one. You're the one Wanda Kalamata worships. You, you, you. You can even act like a total witch and ruin our video shoot and not call anyone for forty-eight hours, because no one else has the balls to tell you off. How do you expect us to react?”

Is that what they really thought of me? Stricken, I glanced at Malika.

“Leave me out of this,” said Malika, shaking her head. Her phone rang with the doorman's special tone, and she went into the kitchen to answer it.

“At least now I know you don't give two shits about me,” I said to Jules. “Just how things affect you.”

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. The three of us waited in silence until Vinnie came in wearing his favourite purple track suit. He had more hair on his stubbly chin than his head, which he kept shaved down to a quarter-inch to disguise the fact that it was thinning.

“How're my ladies?” he asked, holding out his arms for a group hug. He didn't let anyone opt out. I cringed
the whole time. My inner wolf had turned my boundaries into barbed-wire fences.

“Malika, it's your turn to chair,” said Jules, ending the hug. “So get on with it.”

“Don't talk to her like that,” I said. “You're not her boss.”

Vinnie's eyebrows rose. He wasn't used to having
two
divas in the room.

“I wrote down a list of issues that have come up recently,” said Malika. She pulled a sheet of paper from under Jules's keyboard case. “First, we need to reschedule the video shoot.”

“Pronto. The post-production studio has back-to-back projects lined up,” said Vinnie. “If they don't get the raw footage soon, we'll have to find someone else to cut the damn thing.”

“That's really a Sam problem,” said Jules.

“Sam seems fine,” said Vinnie. “Can we resched for Thursday?”

That was only four days from now. I took a gulp of coffee to stop myself from protesting. I was a big girl. I'd have to get over my issues with heat and lights, because they were part of my life. I could practise at the gig tonight.

“Sure,” I said, clenching my mug and burying my face in it.

Malika jotted down “Thursday” next to that agenda item. “We've had a bunch of requests to play festivals next summer, and Vinnie's been booking us all over the place.” She passed around printouts with calendars on them. Mali was always the organized one. “There's a conflict, see? Phoenix and Miami are on the same weekend. Anyone have a preference?”

“Sam?” said Jules. “You're the one who dictates everything.”

“Shut up,” I spat, then shocked myself by whipping my mug at her.

She ducked in time. It smashed against the wall and coffee dripped down into a puddle on the floor. For a moment, we all sat there gaping at the broken ceramic. I couldn't believe I'd just done that!

Someone's cellphone rang. Oh, mine. I rummaged in the bottom of my bag. No one ever called me, other than the people who were in that room. And my mom.

It was my home number on the display screen.

“Who's this?”

“Me,” said Marlon. “I'm waiting for you to get home.”

“How'd you get in?”

“Window. We need to talk. About the note carved into your table. Also, your boyfriend called a minute ago. I was forced to listen to him gush all over your
voicemail about how sorry he was for drinking too much.”

I moved into the kitchen, away from the others. “Harris isn't my boyfr— How did you get my password? Uhn! You make me crazy. Do you know some girl named Sue?”

“Everyone knows someone named Sue. Why?”

“She was with your brother at The Puffs concert. She and her furry friend, Queenie, jumped me and told me to stay away from him. Then Queenie accosted me this morning, demanding to know what happened to Sue.”

“What happened to Sue?”

“I don't know. But I think both girls are mutant wolves. Have you seen Owen?”

“No. Come over here now. You're not safe.”

“And I'll be safe with you? Leave my apartment or I'll find your precious car and do some damage.”

“Don't be stupid.”

“Stupid?” I sputtered, but he'd already hung up.

I returned to the living room, carrying a damp dish cloth, broom, and dustpan. Vinnie was on the phone. Jules didn't seem angry. Had Malika said something to her? Or had she overheard my bizarre conversation and realized what a mess my life was and decided to go easier on me?

“Sorry,” Jules said. “I've been a royal B.”

“You have. But I still shouldn't have thrown that mug.”

“Who was that?” asked Malika.

“My Number One Fan,” I said. “He's at my place.”

“Call the cops!”

“That'll attract the media. I can't handle more attention right now. Eventually, he'll get bored and go away.”

Mali shook her head. “I don't think you should just ignore it!”

I shrugged. What else could I say to them? My bandmates glanced at each other in confusion. I was too exhausted to lie anymore, so I focused on cleaning up the chunks of Mali's broken mug instead.

“Where can I buy you another one of these?” I asked.

She waved a hand. “Already forgotten.”

Her forgiveness made tears spring to my eyes. I dropped the shards in the garbage and returned to the living room. To my surprise, Jules jumped up and hugged me. I remembered why I loved both of these girls so much.

Vinnie hung up his phone and told us to get back to business. We decided to go for the festival in Miami rather than Phoenix—it was closer to the shows on either side—then dealt with the remaining business
items, which mostly involved scheduling media interviews and the next few rehearsals.

When we finished, Vinnie pulled me aside to ask if I could meet up for media prep before the Wanda interview tomorrow. I brushed him off, saying I was fine. He wasn't happy about that, but didn't push it, just reminded me to be early and to wear something hot. I stuck out my tongue and said my plan was to wear a potato sack.

After he left, we spent half an hour working through the changes to “Cry Little Soldiers.” Then it was time to pack up and head down to the Cake Shop for our concert.

When our cab got there I headed for the dressing room—a glorified closet—determined to prepare myself for the hot lights. The stage manager agreed to turn on the a/c, position a strong fan on me onstage, and bring me five bottles of cold water, a bowl of ice, a dozen of those cold packs that athletes use when they get injured, and a double order of chicken fingers (hold the fries) from the bar down the street. He was used to “the talent” requesting strange things, so he didn't ask questions, just went off to get the supplies.