This Is Not a Werewolf Story by Sandra Evans Page B

fort because he didn’t want his mom to get in trouble. I think he was just sitting in the Blackout Tunnel feeling sad and trying to imagine accidents that would match the bruises his mom gave him.
    Now his grandma picks him up for the weekend, and he never has bruises anymore.
    So I take special care of Sparrow. I should have told the dean what I saw that day at the fort—even though I didn’t understand it. It took another month beforethe dean figured it out. How many more times did Sparrow’s mom hit him in that month?
    Dean Swift says we have to forgive ourselves when we make mistakes. He has a funny reason for it too. He says if you don’t forgive yourself for making a mistake, then you get so that you never want to admit that you made one.
    I’m still chewing on that one.

    Today Vincent is coming fishing with us, even though he’s not one of the little kids. It was the dean’s idea—to give the new kid a chance to have some fun.
    â€œIf he has a great day today, it will make it easier for him to return on Sunday night,” he said.
    Here’s the thing about Dean Swift. He lies, sure, but only because sometimes it’s easier than explaining everything. He’s disorganized, but that’s because he’s always thinking. Studying the natural light phenomena of the island is a big job.
    But the main thing is, he’s kind. And that’s all that matters, isn’t it? To us, anyway, to the ones who got left on the edge of an island with nothing but a suitcase full of clothes and a head full of trouble.
    No kid here is lucky, but we’re all lucky to be here.
    When it’s Vincent’s turn for equipment, I hold up a fishing pole in one hand and a slingshot in the other. Then I shrug a little so he knows he can choose one orthe other. Some kids think fishing’s boring. But everyone loves a slingshot.
    Twenty times I’ve been hit so hard with a rock in the back of the shin or the private parts that I almost fainted.
    Vincent looks from one to the other. “Can I just hang out and watch?” he asks.
    I nod. Vincent’s not a little kid, but I’ve seen lots of little kids act like this. As far as I can tell it’s just that they’re afraid of messing up. So when Vincent says he wants to sit and watch us all have fun, I make sure he sees that I’m packing the slingshot. In case once we’re out there in the woods, he changes his mind and decides to try something new.
    The dean opens the door for us and hands me the walkie-talkie to use in case of emergency. To him a scraped knee is an emergency.
    That man has no idea what happens in those woods.

    We walk single file in the weeds along the roadside. Bobo leads the way. No traffic on this road, since it only leads from Highway 20 to the school. The lake is ten minutes away, halfway between the highway and the school.
    While we walk, I think about my problem. The counselor says I have “trust issues.” He says it’s because the people I relied on most—my mom and dad—havenot been able to take care of me. He says that’s why I don’t like to talk very much.
    Wrong , is what I want to say to him—but not enough to say it. The reason I don’t talk is because I can tell nobody is really listening. What I have to say doesn’t really matter.
    The things that matter happen in the woods. The things that matter don’t need words.
    Today is Friday. So tonight matters.

    Once we step off the road and into the woods, we all breathe in deep to smell the trees and dirt.
    Bobo runs off on a scent. There’s nothing I’d like more than to drop to all fours and follow her.
    I point up into the fork of an old oak tree.
    Vincent follows my finger. “A bike! How did that get there?”
    It’s a rusted red ten-speed. In five places, where the branches of the oak have grown around it, the bike has become part of the tree. It’ll be there