Read This Is Not a Werewolf Story for Free Online Page B

puberty? Do I have facial hair? I rub my chin, but it’s smooth.
    I’m the same as I was when Tuffman got here. He showed up a year and a half ago, in the fall. It was just about the time my dad stopped coming to get me on the weekends and the woods magic started happening and I decided to stop talking. I was as much a weirdo then as I am now.
    Then a scary idea pops up. For a second the puzzle pieces start to make a picture.
    I blink at myself in the mirror above my dresser. Does he mean the other way I change?
    There is a window next to my mirror. I look out of it. On the far side of the ravine a deer and her fawn nibble on the short grass at the edge of the cliff. The cliff is red and brown and black, and tree roots stick out of it here and there. Every time it rains, chunks of it fall to the beach below, and the colors of the cliff change. The cliff changes every day and nobody notices.
    How could Tuffman know my secret? I’m like the cliff. Nobody notices me.
    I take a big breath. This calls for the scientific method. I organize the facts in my scientific journal. I use my most scientific handwriting.
    Phenomenon (that means unusual event): Tuffman is picking on me and it’s personal.
    Duration (that means for how long): Targeting began during animal care and increased during PE.
    Observations: How was today different than yesterday?
    Item 1: Tuffman chased new kid, toupee mashed
    Item 2: Tuffman made Sparrow hide in the Blackout Tunnel
    Item 3: Tuffman overheard my joke during breakfast
    It would make sense if he was trying to get back at me for the crack about his breath. But he didn’t mention that. All he talked about was territory and changing and sneaking. I stare at the page for a long time. Then I write down the most rational explanation.
    Theory: Tuffman is a jerk.
    It doesn’t make my arm throb any less or the embarrassed feeling go away, but it does make me smile. Maybe he’s just a jerk. Jerks don’t have to have good reasons for being jerks, that’s what my dad used to say.

Chapter 5
WHERE RAUL MAKES FRIENDS
    I decide to wait until the free period after lunch to go up to the new kid’s room. After the Trauma With Tuffman I need a little sustenance.
    â€œPizza cut in triangles,” Cook Patsy says when I walk up with my tray.
    My favorite. How did she know?
    I take two slices.
    Then she pulls my tray toward her and puts a little book on it. Crack Any Code! it says on the front.
    â€œWhat are the odds?” she asks. “Two prizes in one day.”
    â€œThank you,” I say. I pick it up and flip through it. On every page it tells you how to decipher a different kind of code. This is very useful. I can already see myself showing it to the new kid. An icebreaker, that’s what you’d call it.
    Cook Patsy holds on to the tray and looks at me for a second.
    â€œI heard Tuffman was pretty harsh on you in gymthis morning. I know you’re no snitch, Raul, but can I tell the dean about it? It seems like something he ought to know.”
    I shake my head. It’s strange, but the whole “don’t be a rat” rule applies to teachers, too. If a teacher is too mean, then the kids find a way to settle the score without getting the authorities involved. “Poetic justice” is a term we just learned about from Ms. Tern, but we’ve been doing it here forever. It means the punishment fits the crime. Take the last reading teacher—the one Ms. Tern replaced. He made Mark, the kid who wears the weighted vest, bend over and stand on his fingers in the corner for a whole class period. Yeah. Think about that. Now try it. Really, try it. How do your fingers feel?
    Next morning that teacher picked up his coffee mug and couldn’t let go of it again. Superglue. It was hard for him to pack up his desk with only one hand, but Mary Anne helped. She gave him lots of suggestions for ways he could make the most of a mug hand. It’ll be great