This Is Not a Werewolf Story by Sandra Evans Page A

follow me out of the dining hall and line up in front of the equipment room so I can hand out their poles.
    If the dean only knew how Fishing Friday normally goes down, he wouldn’t waste his breath warning me about a coyote.
    Six times Jane has hooked me, not a fish. Four times Tim has eaten deer poop. Now, the little turds do look like berries, but after the first three times you’d think he’d make a mental note of it. Three times I lost one of them for more than an hour, and we all had to fan out in a long line and form a search party. Twice Little John was sure he saw a witch and got so scared he wet his pants. I keep telling him that yes, there is magic in those woods, but no witches.
    Before we leave, I line them up and hand out the equipment—poles, hooks, and bait.
    Sixty times someone’s pole has floated away to the middle of the lake.
    When it’s Sparrow’s turn, I hold his brand-new pole out to him and then jerk it back a little as he grabs for it.
    He laughs. “I won’t bust it up, I promise,” he says.
    I hand it to him and squeeze the back of his neck lightly. His hair is soft and wispy.
    He flips the pole over in his hand and then looks up at me with his face really still. I can tell he’s too happy for words when he gets that look. He traces a finger along the design I carved. It’s of two wolves, and they’re running around the bottom, tail to mouth. It’s the best carving I’ve ever done. And he gets what it means, he knows what I’m saying to him. I’m saying, Hey, Sparrow, you’re no cub, you’re no weak runt, you’re a wolf. You’re in my pack.
    Five times Sparrow has slipped his hand in mine while we walk back to school from the lake.
    You know what Sparrow’s problem is? It’s so bad it’s hard for me to tell it. When he first came here he always had a couple of bruises on his cheek or his arm. Over the week they would fade and turn into yellow smears. Then Friday night he’d go home with his mom.
    When he came back on Sundays he’d run to his room, open the door, and chuck in his duffel bag. Then, quick like a bunny, he’d head down to Fort Casey all by himself. But every single time, Sparrow would come back with more bruises. He’d tell the dean that he’d fallen on the stairs at the fort, or that he’d stood up under the cannon and gotten a lump on his head.
    I had a bad feeling about it. How can one kid get hurt so much and so bad?
    So one Sunday afternoon after his mom dropped him off, I decided to find out. First, he ran to his room and put his bag away. He came back out wearing a too-big baseball cap, and I followed him over to Fort Casey. You know where he went. To the Blackout Tunnel.
    Before he stepped into the tunnel he looked back, like he wanted to make sure nobody was watching. He lifted his head up, and for the first time I saw what the baseball hat hid. A huge bruise under his eye.
    He stayed in the tunnel for a while and then came out. When he got back to the school he ran up to thedean and said, “Dean Swift, a little boy playing on the field at the fort hit a baseball right into my eye.”
    Dean Swift clucked a few times, put an arm around him, and took him to the nurse.
    I was confused. Nothing had hit him at the fort.
    My gut told me that Sparrow shouldn’t go home on the weekends. But I kept my mouth shut, because I didn’t know who to tell or even really what to say. It was just a feeling, that’s all.
    It turned out Sparrow’s mom was hitting him—not because he was bad but because she was. I heard the dean telling Cook Patsy one day when they forgot I was in the kitchen. I couldn’t see his face, since I was chopping up onions and had to keep wiping my eyes, but I’ve never heard his voice so furious. Those were the worst onions I’ve ever chopped.
    The dean had found out that Sparrow was lying about getting hurt at the