The Hundred Lies of Lizzie Lovett(19)

Instead, she turned to me. “That was very insensitive.”

“What?”

“I know you don’t understand why Rush is upset about Lizzie. But that doesn’t mean it’s OK to make jokes.”

“How do you know I was joking?”

“Hawthorn.”

“She could be a werewolf. You don’t know.”

“You have more imagination than is good for you,” my dad said.

“And we love your imagination,” my mom added. “But you need to learn boundaries.”

Boundaries. She meant I had to say and do what was expected of me. Keep any weird thoughts to myself. Not rock the boat. I bet her mom told her the same thing when she was my age. I bet she got some pretty weird looks when she changed her name to Sparrow and painted peace signs on her face.

For someone who called herself a hippie, my mom had become quite the conformist.

? ? ?

I couldn’t sleep again. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the disgust on Rush’s face when I brought up werewolves. It was the same tone I’d heard in Emily’s voice. Which made me angry. I had to let it make me angry, because otherwise, I would just feel sad.

Couldn’t they have humored me? I wasn’t asking them to launch a werewolf investigation. Why was everyone so desperate to be logical all the time anyway? As if growing up meant you couldn’t even talk about something unless you thought it was real.

Who were Emily and Rush to say what was real or not anyway? It’s not like either of them knew all the secrets of the world.

Legends exist for a reason after all. Those stories are based on some truth.

I thought about what my dad had said, how hundreds of years ago, people believed serial killers were half-beast because it was easier than admitting what horrors men were capable of. But couldn’t it be the other way around? Maybe it was present-day people who couldn’t accept the truth. Maybe a man turning into an animal was too magical for a society that values logic and reason. Maybe those medieval villagers with their werewolf lore were the ones who had it right.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.

Werewolves could be real.

They probably weren’t.

But they could be.

All I’d wanted was to talk about the possibility.

I felt very alone. I lived in a world with practical people, like Emily and Rush and my parents, people who had stopped believing in the impossible a long time ago. Where were the other people like me? Locked up probably. Getting called crazy and delusional.

Sometimes, the crazy people turn out to be right though.

I shut my eyes and pushed my brother’s disapproving face out of my mind. Instead, I pictured a world where there was magic, a world where Lizzie Lovett really was a werewolf, and I was the one who found her and proved it.

The night before, I’d laughed myself to sleep thinking about werewolves, but my theory wasn’t funny anymore.

It felt possible. Inevitable.

Why shouldn’t werewolves exist?

And if werewolves were real, what other creatures might be out there?

Anything.

Everything.

I just needed to find Lizzie. I could start my own investigation—talk to the people who knew her, search the woods myself. And yeah, maybe Lizzie had simply run away, but at least I’d have some fun until the case was solved.

That night, I came up with my own version of counting sheep. Over and over again, I thought, Lizzie is a werewolf, and I am going to find her. Lizzie is a werewolf, and I am going to find her. Lizzie is a werewolf, and…

I fell asleep in no time.





Chapter 8


A Brief History of Griffin Mills

I was pretty sure I’d get my history paper back with a big F written on it, maybe a D if I was lucky. Instead, something totally weird happened. Mr. Romano wanted me to read my paper to the class.

I froze.

Mr. Romano handed my essay to me. It was only a page long, which was three pages shorter than it was supposed to be. “Hawthorn had a very interesting take on the assignment, and I’d like you all to hear it.”

“Are you being sarcastic?” I asked. Some kids laughed, and they weren’t laughing with me.

Even Mr. Romano seemed amused when he told me that no, he was not being sarcastic. I felt like I was the only one not in on the joke.

Reluctantly, I walked to the front of the classroom and took my report from him. Everyone was staring at me, including Emily, who had her jaw clenched really tight. It was probably the first time my schoolwork had been singled out before hers.

I cleared my throat and looked down at the paper.

“Go on, Hawthorn,” Mr. Romano said.

The skater kid who sat in the back of the room shouted, “Yeah, we don’t have all day.” The class laughed, even though it wasn’t funny.

When it was silent again, I figured I’d better start, or I’d just be prolonging my agony. I cleared my throat again.

“Every town has a story. And every story has a beginning and an end. For Griffin Mills, the beginning was around the turn of the century when Samuel Griffin came to the Ohio River Valley.”

I figured everyone’s essay started with Samuel Griffin. But I was probably the only one who skipped over the glory days of Griffin Mills and the advances that were made in the mining and milling industries. Instead, I focused on the Griffin Mansion, the big abandoned house on the hill, where kids tried to catch a glimpse of Samuel Griffin’s ghost.