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They’re obviously here just to get their extracurricular cards stamped.
    When Alana wins the 100-meter butterfly by two-and-a-half body lengths, Gunther and his guys go wild.
    One of the referees taps the microphone, setting off a squeal that reverberates through the pool house. “Once again, the winner is Carpathia’s Alana Gibson.”
    Gunther and his buddies whoop and whistle over the referee’s announcement of the names of the vamp girl who finished second and the human girl who finished third.
    The wulf kids cheer and shout, too, but there’s a different tone to it.
    â€œWhy don’t you mutts shut the hell up?” Gunther shouts at them.
    One of them, a kid named Charlie Hogan, grins at Gunther. “Hey, man. We’re just cheering for our girl.”
    â€œShe’s not your girl,” Gunther calls. “Notice that she walks upright.”
    Alana Gibson pulls herself up out of the pool. Her slick red bathing suit hugs every curve, and water streams down her long legs.
    I turn to Claire, who’s staring at her.
    â€œEasy, now,” I say.
    â€œYeah, same to you.”
    Alana has to pass right in front of the wulf kids to get back to the swimmers’ bench. They watch her, all of them grinning as she comes close. She slips her thumbs under the straps on her shoulders and pulls the bathing suit up a bit.
    The wulf kids yell, “Hey, Alana!” and “Nice strokes!” when she passes by. I’m watching her face as the guys call out to her. She rolls her eyes, but there’s definitely a hint of a smile.
    â€œHey, can’t you do something about that smell?” Alex Fourier calls to the wulves. “The whole place stinks like wet dog.”
    â€œGo chase cars or something,” Gunther yells.
    The wulf kids shout back at them, mostly curses. Since wulves don’t have the same bleeding problems that vamps have, they don’t worry much about avoiding fights.
    The assistant swim coach, Mr. Wentworth, walks over to the wulf kids. “If you boys can’t act civilized—”
    â€œTry housebroken!” Gunther yells.
    A bunch of people around us laugh, but I don’t. Claire doesn’t, either.
    â€œYou’re going to be removed,” Mr. Wentworth finishes.
    â€œ We’re going to be removed?” Charlie Hogan says, his eyes wide. “What about what they said?” He points his thumb over his shoulder at Gunther’s crew.
    â€œI didn’t hear anything from them.” Wentworth raises his voice, loud enough for a lot of people to hear. “You, boy, on the other hand, were rude, obnoxious, and disgusting. Any more trouble from you, and you’re all suspended.”
    Gunther claps his hands. “Yeah, suspend him,” he says cheerily. “By his neck , from a lamp post!”
    Hogan gets to his feet, yanks off his varsity wrestling jacket, and glares at Gunther, but John Fusco elbows him and shakes his head. Hogan sits back down.
    â€œWe’re just showing school spirit,” Fusco says to the assistant coach. “Go, Carpathia. Rah-rah.” His voice is monotone.
    Mr. Wentworth walks away. The swimmers for the next race are standing on the starting blocks, watching the show. The starter is also watching, the whistle dead between her lips.
    â€œI’m so glad we didn’t get thrown out,” Hogan says loudly. Then, even louder, he shouts, “Because we’re really pumped to watch this intense sport.”
    â€œIt’s way cooler than mixed martial arts. Or football,” Fusco says. “All the action of…watching. Grass. Grow.”
    â€œThat’s because you mongrels can’t swim,” Gunther calls back.
    â€œYeah, they can,” Taylor Lattimore says. “They can doggie-paddle.”
    Gunther’s boys laugh.
    â€œYou roasters aren’t athletes,” Hogan shouts. “You can’t wrestle or play football, because one little boo-boo