Read This Is Not a Werewolf Story for Free Online

that snake to get whacked,” Mean Jack says, and he looks sad, like he means it.
    â€œLook,” Mary Anne whispers in my ear. “Even mobsters experience remorse.”
    I smile like a fool.
    Mary Anne and the girls gather in the hall while the boys pile into the bathroom. We make a circle around the mess on the floor. It doesn’t look like dead snake tome. I’m not going to write what I think it is because I don’t want this book to be banned.
    I touch Sparrow’s arm and shake my head.
    It’s not enough. The tears stream down. I hug him.
    â€œIt’s not her,” I whisper. “I promise.”
    Here’s the thing. When you don’t talk much, sometimes your words really matter. Sparrow wipes the backs of his hands over his eyes.
    â€œLittle John,” he says in a scolding voice, “that does not smell like snake guts.”
    Everyone backs away slowly.
    Whack. Another one down. It’s Whack-A-Mole at school today. One creepy smiling critter of a problem after another.
    But my feet have little puffs of air under them. Mary Anne noticed me. She likes my scary eyes. She laughed at my joke. She wants me to talk.
    I’m a fool for Mary Anne. I grin like one until I get to my first class.
    My first class is PE, so I stop grinning pretty quick. This could be bad. Mr. Tuffman and I have already spent a lot of time together this morning. And he did not enjoy my company.
    The new kid is sitting on the bottom bench of the bleachers. He has a brochure about the school in his hand. The dean must have dumped him here while his mom fills out paperwork.
    I gotta question the Dean’s judgment here. First row seats to the Tuffman Torture Hour are not going to make this kid any happier about living here. Just further proof that when it comes to Tuffman, the dean only sees the word “Olympian.” Not “soulless psychopath,” like the rest of us.
    First Tuffman makes us run lines until half the class throws up. There’s actually a trough under the bleachers for that.
    His bad mood seems worse when he’s near me. He runs next to me, calling me a wuss and a wimp. Those are his usual insults, and I don’t like it, but it’s not personal.
    â€œSneak,” he hisses at me when I touch the half court line.
    Sneak? Now that’s personal. I don’t understand it, but I know it’s personal.
    I look back at the bleachers. I catch the new kid looking away. He must have been watching me and Tuffman.
    â€œYou takin’ heat from some crumb, Coach?” Mean Jack asks all of a sudden in his big voice.
    Tuffman cocks his head. We all stop running and stand there, gasping for breath, grateful for Mean Jack’s special skill at distracting teachers.
    â€œYou got some serious injuries there on your neck, sir. Want me to settle the score?” Mean Jack punches his fist into his palm.
    Tuffman rubs his neck. When he pulls his hand away, I see what Mean Jack saw. Huge puncture wounds barely scabbed over. They look like what would happen if a wolf decided to see how good you’d taste for lunch.
    My neck juts forward. I can’t look away from those bite marks. I feel weird—like those injuries have something to do with me. I can’t explain it. But I feel like I’m involved. Woods magic. I try to push the feeling down. It just gets me in trouble.
    I am staring too hard. Tuffman senses it.
    â€œGet a good enough look, weirdo?” he asks.
    I stare back at him longer than I should. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because of what he said about my mom in front of Mary Anne and Mean Jack. Maybe it’s because he made Sparrow cry. Maybe it’s because he ran at Gollum with a knife.
    Whatever it is, I’m in that kind of mood. The kind of mood where I don’t look away.
    He turns away first and I get a little surge of energy, like I won some secret game.
    Then he pulls down the wrestling mats.
    He calls me over. That