Aisha didn’t formally learn about heat and claiming until she was in her mandatory sixth-grade sex ed class, but like most of her peers, there wasn’t much she didn’t already know. As soon as the lines between childhood and adulthood began to blur, every month saw one or two of her peers begin behaving oddly, staring intently at their peers and then glancing away just as quickly, usually flushing hard. The teachers always caught on within a moment or two and ushered the blusher away to the school nurse, and that was that. Not to mention the whispered hallway gossip about what were blood really meant when the kids who carried it came of age, that they wanted to…do…the things that Aisha’s peers snuck surreptitious glances at on the internet when their parents weren’t around. That the girls had to take drugs every month to keep them from throwing themselves at any boy within reach. Amber-colored contacts cycled between making an attractive girl the queen of the social scene and kicking her right back down to pariah status at least once a semester.
So, yes. Aisha knew all about weres even if her own parents hadn’t sat her down and had a serious talk with her (Dad standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and looking as if he would rather be undergoing dental surgery without anesthesia rather than being part of this conversation) the same day she got her first training bra. She carved a daisy into the plastic of her desk and tried not to look too bored while the teacher stood at the front of the glass and twisted her fingers together. Ms. Romanova had bright eyes and a round, docile face. Aisha doubted there had been were blood in her family for several generations, if ever. She cleared her throat several times as the first slide of the PowerPoint presentation glowed to life on the screen behind her.
“All right, class,” she said. “Has everyone turned in their permission slips?” Ms. Romanova continued to twist her fingers around each other as Aisha’s classmates nodded one by one. Her eyes lingered on the children with obvious were lineage until they answered in the affirmative. Cultural sensitivity had come a long way over the past few decades, but teaching about the were wars of one hundred years before was still rumored to cause an argument at every school board meeting. Several teachers in other districts had been fired after non-were parents became offended. Aisha’s was one of the first classes in which the differences between were and non-were sexuality was even being addressed.
Ms. Romanova exhaled upon getting a response from each student, though it didn’t seem to relax her much from where Aisha sat . “Good,” she said. “You’re all reaching the age where your body is beginning to change from that of a child into that of an adult. You may already be struggling with feelings that you cannot explain, or the sense that your body doesn’t quite belong to you any longer. Don’t worry, this is a perfectly normal and beautiful part of growing up. Rather than being frightened of these changes or dreading them, you should look at yourselves as caterpillars making the transition into your beautiful butterfly selves.”
Aisha made a face at the pitted surface of her desk. Behind her, someone snickered. “From puppies into hounds, you mean.” Several members of the class tittered.
“Clayton!” Ms. Romanova exclaimed, her voice cracking with genuine anger. “We do not allow intolerance in this classroom. To Principal Parks’ office, now. Take your books with you.” She pointed towards the classroom door and glared until Clayton scooped up his things and made his way out, grumbling all the while. Ms. Romanova stood with her back held as straight as the edge of her desk until the door clicked shut behind him before turning back to the class at large.
“Yes, as Clayton alluded to, there are some of you in this classroom
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