A cafe, east Dallas. A nondescript place with weird modern furniture, oddly orange lighting, and size classifications in three different languages. The fare is typical: mocha frappuccino, vanilla bean frappuccino, croissant, mocha lite frappuccino, Paul McCartney album, rainbow essence of dried soul frappuccino.
But something about the scene is atypical.
"I've never done this before," says the man - nay, boy - across from me, idly moving his cup from hand to hand. "I've never told anyone about my... condition."
"It's okay," I say, and I smile. "Just talk to me. About anything."
He looks up, but he's not looking at me. Then he sighs, sets down the cup.
"All right."
----
Above all, this is a story about random chance.
"I guess you could say everything started with a walk in the park," he says, and then stops. "Wait a minute, this is anonymous, right?"
"Yes," I reply.
"Kay. Just... give me a nickname. Something cool and nonsexual. Like... Deep Throat!"
"Taken."
"Aw damn. Never mind, just call me Moony."
"Taken by a fictional character."
My source scowls. "Then call me... the Wolf."
I shrug and click my pen. He never claimed to be original.
"I guess you could say it started with a walk in the park. I was just a kid, about eight years old, when I was bitten. It happened one night near White Rock. I was just walking along, minding my own business at 4 A.M., not dealing crack or anything like that, when all of a sudden this big monster pops out at me. A wolf." The Wolf sighs, steadies himself. "Really hairy, bad breath. He was probably a Bryan Adams graduate. Anyway, he attacks me, and he bites me. Right on the neck."
He shows me the wound. It's pretty nasty.
"Why didn't he kill you?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "Didn't make for a good story, I guess. Beats me."
Four weeks later, the Wolf began getting stomach cramps. Like anyone, he assumed that the cramps were from eating three Chipotle burritos in one night. But it wasn't so, at least not on this occasion.
Two nights later he had his first transformation.
"It was... horrible. I remember the full moon. The hair bursting out of my arms. My canine teeth expanding, my nose becoming a snout. Luckily I was locked inside a basement... um, not due to a drug deal gone bad or anything... but anyway, I was locked in a basement and couldn't do any harm. There was some [expletive] in the next house over playing 'Thriller' on repeat, though, and I really didn't appreciate that. It was pretty offensive and hurtful."
But the transformations kept coming. Sometimes the Wolf couldn't control himself. Sometimes he wasn't locked in a basement because of a drug deal gone bad, and on those occasions, things got nasty. Murder, destruction, bloodlust. All applied. Some nights he'd return home and realize he'd killed 18 people. Some nights he'd return home and realize he'd wasted money on a Rangers ticket. His crimes sickened him.[Editor's note: You might want to cut this part out. This is a fluff piece: we don't want to include any negative information in here about our source. Think of it as "objective creative license." Keep up the good work, kid.]
But the transformations kept coming. For six long years, the Wolf thought he was alone. But then he entered Hillcrest, and his perception changed.
"You should know," he says, "that there are werewolves at Hillcrest."
The Wolf refused to name names, but a preliminary investigation pulled up several suspects.
"There were several patterns I noticed," said mathmetician/nerd Mattia Flabiano. "I studied moon charts and student/faculty absences, and determined several possible lycans."
First on the list: comm app teacher Mr. Hennig, who is conspicuously absent on every full moon and makes his students watch random movies during his absences, leaving an oblivious sub to wonder aloud every day "what this movie is about," and no one in the class answering his question.
"I am certainly not involved in any of this wacky old foolishness y'all are bringing up," said Mr. Hennig when asked for comment.
Seems inconspicuous, but look at his comment more closely:
"I am certainly not involved in any of this wearisome wacky old foolishness y'all are bringing up."
His secret message: "I am certainly a werewolf."
It is obvious that Mr. Hennig is trying to reach out to us, as many lycans are. But it's not easy.
Just look at Edgar Arroyo. Flabiano has determined from absence sheets that Arroyo could also be a werewolf, but Arroyo fervently denies any claims, probably afraid of ostracization.
"No," he said, "I just don't go to class."
It has been speculated that Cyclone member Kevin Latta could be a lycan judging by his numerous soccer absences, but the Cyclone has no comment at this time on the matter.
And there is reason to be afraid. Lycans are a controversial topic, and the official school newspaper,
The Hurricane, has been banned from writing about the issue, among other things.
"Werewolves are evil," said National Rifle Association member Gantt Lairsey. "That's why I keep two rifles on me at all times, one with normal bullets and one with silver bullets. With the first one I shoot deer and the second one I shoot werewolves."
In addition, there has been
conflict between the lycan faction and the vampire faction at Hillcrest, led by Mr. Baldridge. Officials are worried that the Scots, led by Mr. Wright, could join in the action.
"Scots burn people and put stakes through people's hearts," said Mr. Baldridge, baring his teeth. "They're crazy."
------
But this isn't just about a story. This is about a person.
"There's not many good role models out there," the Wolf sighs. "Remus Lupin, maybe, but he was killed off without even a proper goodbye. American Werewolf in London? Yeah right! So discriminatory. And I don't care, Michael J. Fox is NOT a real werewolf. But whatever."
The Wolf throws his coffee cup away, turns at me, and offers a weak smile.
"That's all there is to say, I guess," he states. "I hope I cleared some things up for you."
I assure him that he did.
"Good."
He puts his hood over his head and waves, disappearing out the door without a goodbye. I should've expected that.
But he didn't need a goodbye. I realize, as I'm getting in my car to leave and a raindrop hits the windshield, that we all look up at the same full moon at night. Some of us are dreaming. Some of us are killing people and biting their jugulars. But we're all the same.
The thought makes me smile.
text books, and his pale, deathlike skin that at times is transparent. Recently, however, he has shooed away students and staff alike, leading some to believe that serious plots are afoot.