The Hundred Lies of Lizzie Lovett(37)

There was so much to think about. There was so much to learn. I read about King Lycaon, who Zeus punished by turning into a wolf. I read about wolfsbane and the lunar effect and the werewolf’s connection to demons and vampires and witches and a million other things. Humanity had spent hundreds of years gathering information about werewolves and making up their own stories. I didn’t know how to separate the truth from the fiction.

Then I had a thought that made my hands tingle and my vision get super focused, like a jolt of electricity was running through my body. How many people had actually encountered a werewolf? Out of everyone who’d researched and studied and written about werewolves, how many people had firsthand experience? A handful? Possibly none?

If werewolves were real and Lizzie was a werewolf, I could be one of the only living people to ever spend time with one. Well, me and Enzo.

What would it be like to experience something that no one else had? It would be special—I would be special. And not in the way that kids at school, like Mychelle, called me special. Special like important. I’d never felt that way before.

Maybe, if I showed the world that werewolves existed, people would stop asking me about my plans for the future. No one would care about the future, because I would have already proven myself, accomplished something great.

“Vernon, do you think that pioneers know they’re about to make a great discovery right before they make it?”

Vernon didn’t look up from his puzzle. He’d already said his piece for the night.





Chapter 16


The Painting

Emily didn’t want to talk about anything besides Logan and how awesome he was. I pretty much stopped listening to her, because it was getting really boring. Instead, I concentrated on my lunch and on my strategy for finding Lizzie.

After a few minutes, I realized Emily had stopped talking and was staring at me.

“What?”

“I asked if you wanted to go with me.”

“Where?”

“You’re not listening at all.”

“I am. I just got distracted for a second.”

“Strength in Numbers is playing at the Barn this weekend. Do you want to go?”

There wasn’t even a tiny part of me that wanted to find out what metal-bluegrass fusion meant. I was sort of intrigued by the location though. The Barn was an abandoned farm on the edge of town. Kids had been going there to have parties for forever, and even though it was right off the highway, cops turned a blind eye. The farmhouse was gone except for the chimney, but the barn itself was in good shape, and local bands played there. The plot of land was backed by woods, which meant it was easy for kids to sneak off and hook up. Or so I’d heard. I’d never been to a party there. I’d never really been to a party at all.

“Since when do you go to parties?”

“It’s important to Logan.”

“Well, I’ll see if I’m free.”

“Hawthorn, you’re always free.”

“I might have to work,” I said. “Or I might be doing something with Enzo.”

Emily made a face to let me know she thought as much of Enzo as I did of Logan.

“I don’t think you should be hanging out with Enzo,” she said.

“You haven’t even met him.”

“He’s old.”

“He’s twenty-five. That’s not old.”

“It’s too old for you.”

“I’m not dating him.”

“What are you doing then?”

I wasn’t in the mood to get into the werewolf debate again. I took too big a bite of my sandwich and responded with my mouth full, which Emily hated. “What about you and Logan? Is this supposed to be your rebellious phase?”

Emily narrowed her eyes at me. “Maybe you shouldn’t come to the party after all.”

“Fine.”

I wished Emily and Logan would knock their teeth together every time they tried to kiss. I wished Strength in Numbers would spontaneously only be able to write lyrics in Greek. I wished the Barn would get torn apart in a freak storm.

I wished Emily and Logan had never met.

? ? ?

In English composition, Mrs. Doyle was explaining how to write a persuasive essay, which was the next paper we had due. Sophie Walker, who was probably going to be homecoming queen in a few weeks, raised her hand.

“And we can write on any topic?”

“This isn’t creative writing, but I still want you to be creative,” Mrs. Doyle reassured her.

“So if I wanted to write about, say, how I think werewolves are real, that would be OK?”

Pretty much everyone in the class snickered. Mrs. Doyle looked a little confused but told Sophie that would be fine. I could feel my face go red.

From the back of the classroom, Mike Jacobs asked, “What if I wrote about the benefits of living in a tent and not showering and stuff? Would that be cool?”

“I suppose so.”

Everyone stared at me, waiting for me to respond so they could make even more jokes at my expense. It was like all the things I most dreaded about high school were actually happening. There was an entire roomful of people mocking me. I glanced around to see if I had a single ally but only saw smirks. I wanted to disappear.

“What if someone tried to persuade the reader they’re normal and not a total pathetic loser, even if everyone knows otherwise?” Sophie asked.