Not Your Ordinary Wolf Girl by Emily Pohl-Weary Page A

extra meat—caught a cab back to Brooklyn, and limped up to my loft. The red light on my home phone was flashing, but I ignored it as I ate my meat and drank a jug of water.
    Temporarily sated, I opened my laptop and looked up the phone number that went with the address in Marlon’s car. The listed name was P. Lebrun. I grabbed the phone before I could convince myself it was a bad idea.
    A woman answered. “Hello?”
    â€œUm, hi, Ms. Lebrun?”
    â€œFrançoise.”
    â€œFrom NYU?”
    â€œYes, of course. May I help you?”
    So Marlon hadn’t been lying about that, either. I didn’t know what to say.
    â€œIf you’re a telemarketer, dear, please don’t waste any more of your time.”
    â€œNo, no … I’m not a … I know your son. Marlon. Kind of.”
    â€œThat’s good, because telemarketers are paid peanuts. Horrible job. I always try to convince them to unionize. It’s the only way to get respect in the workforce, you know.”
    â€œYeah, I guess.” I took a deep breath. “Uh, Françoise, I wanted to let Marlon know I left his El Camino in the lot—”
    â€œMarlon? He’s just coming in the door. Hang on, I’ll get him for you.”
    â€œNo! Please don’t do that. Can I give you a message? I have to run.”
    â€œOh, certainly. What is it, dear?”
    I told her where the car was. “It’s paid up until tomorrow night. The keys are with the guard.”
    â€œMarlon loaned you his car?” asked Françoise.
    â€œUh, yeah.”
    â€œHe never lets anyone drive it.”
    â€œWell, he let me,” I said, then hung up. At least now he couldn’t charge me with grand theft auto. I plodded into the kitchen. My numbers were blocked and unlisted, so he wouldn’t be calling back.
    I took out Janis, climbed into bed, and played through the rough patches in a new song called “Cry Little Soldiers” until my eyes shut.
    My dreams melded together into one long, vivid horror-movie reel. I ran through dark streets. Terrified people screamed at me in pig Latin. Cars honked and sped up when they saw me coming. Drivers tossed garbage out their windows at me. Strong smells—half-eaten, rotting food, exhaust fumes, cheap perfume—were dizzying. Several times I felt compelled to stop and root out the source of a particular scent. The city was a cesspool. Stink compressed my lungs.
    While I was sniffing a refreshing tree in a park, I almost got lynched by four toy poodles, who barked and lunged for my throat. All I wanted was to be left alone—unless someone had food. Almost no one did, not the kind I wanted. The scent of fear seeping from people’s pores confused me. My nose and perspective were closer to the ground than they should’ve been, making the streets and sidewalks and buildings a series of close-ups and bizarre angles. Then the sky cracked and rain pounded down, surrounding me in a cool, wet cocoon. The streets cleared of people. I raced home.
    As I passed the third floor of my building, something made me stop. A terrier waited on the other side of the door. I could hear her snuffling at the crack underneath. Hoping to scare her, I lunged at the door and went nuts, scraping at the wood. She whimperedand backed away. I howled in victory and ran up to my place, slipped inside, and nudged the door shut. I ignored the agitated pounding of humans on the other side and crawled into bed.
    Sometime after my absurdly realistic dream ended, a low rumbling noise woke me. Still half asleep, I assumed it was the downstairs neighbours, getting back at me with some new and unusual torture. Or maybe it was the wolf from Central Park, hunting down its prey …
    My eyes shot open. I peered into the darkness at the foot of my platform bed, but couldn’t see much. The ladder had fallen off and the bedding beneath me felt oddly lumpy. It looked like I’d been sleeping on