Waindale

“Hey, Kid.”

Glancing up from the nest of blankets and pillows and clothes that I’ve made myself on my bed, I see my mother walk into my shadowy room. She comes to my depressed, laying figure, urges me to scoot over, then sits beside me.

“Grandma told me that you aren’t feeling good today. That’s okay. Missing one day of school here and there; it won’t hurt,” she says and brushes the top of my head with her fingers. “I just wanted to check-in. Grandma said she’ll make you something to eat if you’re hungry.”

I shake my head.

“Maybe later then. You know, this reminds me of when you were younger. Before bed, I used to read you stories and we’d be sat like this. I would read and play with your hair and you’d be out in minutes. Remember? Well, it was pretty cute. I know it hurts, Wren. God does it hurt. I remember when I was your age, and I had my heart broken in this godforsaken town.”

I shift a little—curious.

“It was one of the hardest weeks of my life. You know what, let me just tell you. I was a senior in high school and I had this boyfriend that grandma actually showed you in my yearbook. John Aymon. We were picturesque, you know? He was on the football team and all the girls loved him. I wasn’t a cheerleader or anything like that—you know me—but I had some friends and people knew my name. Probably not for the best reasons, but I caught John’s attention and suddenly we’d been dating for a few months. He was my first boyfriend, and boy was I in love.

“We did everything together. I would go to his football games, he would take me to the movies and to the park. There used to be an ice rink—we’d go there a lot too. Obviously Tali was my best friend so she would hang out with us too. One time, she wanted to meet up with some students that she knew from the Academy. Little did I know what she really is—back then I had no clue. Anyway, John, Tali, and I met up with this group of students and in them was this guy named Jack. Like the teenage girl I was, I thought Jack was the hottest guy ever. Bless my poor soul, but suddenly I was over John and willing to do anything to get Jack’s attention. Tali and I started hanging out with these Academy students and I wouldn’t tell John where I was or who I was actually with. I was a terrible girl, Wren. Really. Eventually, after all my efforts, Jack started giving me the light of day. We hung out a few times by ourselves. There was something about him—even to this day, I’ve never met anyone like him. He had this effect on me.

“Jack and I got close. I was so convinced that we were going to be together that I broke things off with John. It hurt him a lot. He stayed clear of me at school. He put all of his energy into football, and we actually made it pretty far in that state championship stuff. Back to Jack, we had been seeing each other for a month or two and I wanted to make things official. I wanted Jack to be my one and only—that’s how smitten I was. Completely entranced. He could do no wrong in my eyes. But, when I gave him my all, when I asked him to be mine, he broke my heart. He said that I wasn’t the one for him, even though I knew he was the one for me. I couldn’t understand. We had done a lot together, you get me? I wasn’t just going to let him slip through my fingertips.

“That led to him turning me down the hard way. Saying horrible things. Really rubbing it in that I wasn’t good enough for him. It did the job, though. I understood that we weren’t going to be together and I gave up trying. I laid in bed for days. Grandma couldn’t get me up even to shower. In the darkest of moments, I thought about throwing my life away—drinking, drugs, anything to feel better. Thank god Tali Smith was there for me. She saved me from a lot of trouble.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking, Kid. What about John Aymon? Well, we graduated. I left Waindale and he went on with his life. Five years later, I was in Seattle living, trying to get published while working as a receptionist. I went to this bar at a hotel one night with some friends and he was there staying at the hotel. He looked the same; he looked good. We talked. I apologize for how terrible I was to him and the conversation just flew by. A few drinks later and we went to his hotel room.”

I nudge her then, not wanting to hear the details of what happened in the hotel room.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But, Wren, listen. I-I know I should have told you this a while ago, maybe. That night, the hotel room—I got pregnant. That’s how it happened. John Aymon is your biological father.”

My heart stops.

“I know. Out of the blue. Sorry, but I just thought it was time you at least knew his name. Now, if you want, you can do with that information what you must. You’re eighteen.”

Later that night, I sneak out of my bedroom when everyone is fast asleep. I take the yearbook and get back under my covers. My hands search frantically for the page with that tiny photo grandma showed me before. It doesn’t take long to find Aymon, John. My fingertip runs over the image and my lips murmur, “Dad.”

I stare at the tiny picture of the honey-haired, blue-eyed, teenage boy for a while. I try to imagine what he looks like now—maybe the same if he’s lucky. A football player. I wonder what he does now. I wonder if he has a family, what job he has, where he lives. He doesn’t know about me. My mom told me that some time ago; “Your Dad, he doesn’t know about you. Is that okay?” It was a casual conversation on a Sunday morning while we ate our newest sugary cereal and watched bad television. I didn’t care whether he knew about me or not. Is it weird that I still don’t? John Aymon is my dad, and that’s nice to know, but I like the way things are right now concerning the parents in my life. I’m sure he has his own thing going on anyway.

I hope he has a family. A wife, and some kids maybe—that would settle me. I have my mom and grandma, so I would hope he has good people in his life too. Having a Dad, it’s not something I need right now. Sure, when I was eight or nine, having a Dad would have been great, but not now. The last thing I want is to explain my situation with Adam to another important figure in my life. And from what I’ve seen on T.V., Dads don’t take such information well.

Closing the yearbook, I place it on my bedside table and curl up in my blankets. At least I have someone else to think about now.

I wake up for school the next morning with what feels like a ton of bricks on my chest. My face is washed, teeth brushed, hair combed, clothes changed, deodorant rubbed, food force-fed, shoes tied, jacket zipped, backpack strapped, and music playing. The music puts a new kind of noise in my head, one that isn’t a clutter of nervous thoughts about Adam. Three days. A new record.

December in Waindale is unforgiving. I have only been here or one or two Christmas’, yet spending an entire winter here brings an entirely new sort of cold. It’s a cold that tricks you by feeling warm, but soon you realize that your fingernails and lips are blue and that your eyelashes have a thin layer of ice forming on them. When I visited for the week, it was just cold weather. Now, it’s home. Only home could trick you into loving something that hurts you.

I walk up the side steps of Waindale Academy and enter through the side door by the tennis courts where no one should be waiting for me. Since I missed school yesterday, I head straight for my first-period classroom to talk over what I may have missed with my teacher.

Promptly, I notice the looks from fellow students. Then, after walking further into the school, the emptiness in my core that I had gotten used to these past three days seems to fill. More bricks are added to the load weighing on my chest, and some to my feet. I stop halfway down the hall and cling to the lockers, leaning against them as I contemplate missing another day of school. The feeling intensifies, so I start walking the opposite way, back down the hall and out the side doors. I walk through the tennis courts and around to the parking lot which eventually takes me to the main entrance. I hesitantly climb the steps and enter the school once more. The feeling has cooled down a bit, and Vivianne or Imogen are nowhere in sight, so I try again to make it to my classroom.

More students look at me as if they’re saying, “Your mate is here. The Alpha is here.” Don’t worry, I’m well aware. It only feels like a rock has been surgically placed inside my stomach.

When the feeling grows again like magic beans in my body, I turn down a random hallway before the beanstalk rips through my chest. I pass a group of students as they pin up flyers on a corkboard regarding the winter formal. It’s decorated with sparkly snowflakes and I think about how excited Vivianne is for it. I remember telling her that I would probably be busy with Adam that night; I would probably be spending the night with him because it’s on a Saturday and that’s one of my days living with him. Oh, how I was so excited to be staying with him; how I packed my suitcase on the exact same day that I found out I could pack one at all.

The feeling grows. I find another exit and suddenly I’m caught playing an endless game of cat and mouse. The only way to escape is to leave the playing field, to leave school and miss another day. Would I rather put my education at risk than handle running into Adam?

I walk around the building in the direction of the parking lot yet again. This time, I don’t plan on sneaking in, though. I’ll walk to the diner and force-feed myself pancakes, or maybe I’ll visit the library and give back that book that I never returned.

“Wrenley!”

My eyes widen as if I’ve been shot from behind. My hand springs to my chest, and I look at my palm for blood.

Peering back, I see Adam hurrying down the front steps. He called my name like thunder from above. I won’t be surprised if lightning strikes me dead right here and now.

Not wanting to return to my gloomy nest of a bedroom, I pick up my pace and head for the street. I know if I talk to him, I’ll break down. I’ve been laying in bed, helpless, for the past three days, and I don’t want to go back there. It’s a dark place and sometimes I’m scared that I won’t make it out. So, all to keep together this taped-up, super-glued version of myself, I book it across the street and into the trees where I can try to mask my scent with all the woods has to offer.

I’ve lasted three days without him. I know I can make this one four. And then, as long as I keep force-feeding myself, and as long as I don’t throw up, and as long as I get at least three hours of sleep a night, maybe I can make it more than four. More than five. Who knows, six days gives me hope that I can last forever.

Walking aimlessly from tree to tree, I bury myself.

The feeling in my core is unwavering. It has been.

“You know, I’ve been eating. Yeah. And I sleep some too,” I call out into the forest. “I’m stronger than you think. Strong enough to leave Waindale; strong enough to leave you. Y-You can’t keep me here. You can’t keep me. You’re right, I’m not suited for your life. I’m a human. I’m not supposed to know all the scary things in the world.”

My voice fills my head and the air around me. I know he can hear me. I know he’s here.

“If you just let me go, I think I can make it. We can do it. We can stay far away from each other and wear down the bond. I can live my human life, and you can live as Alpha and you know, do what you have to do to keep the bloodline going.”

I steady myself against a tree trunk, my fingers gripping at the icy bark. The ground doesn’t sink under my feet as it did—it feels hard, frozen.

“Come on,” I murmur, “just let me try at least.”

He appears then, like I knew he would. My face scrunches up a little, my nose tingling and eyes pricking with tears.

“Oh, I guess not. Does this break my record? I think we’re too close now.”

Adam nears me like it’s his job to do so. To collect me when I’m running off track and set me back on the right path. He comes right up to me and he takes my arm. His brow furrows and he leans close as if to kiss me. “Have you been drinking?” He questions, serious.

My face was washed, teeth brushed, hair combed, clothes changed, deodorant rubbed—this is when I snuck a hefty sip from a bottle grandma keeps under the counter in a corner cabinet of random things—food force-fed, shoes tied, jacket zipped, backpack strapped, and music playing. My mother mentioned her coping methods to me. Three days of force-feeding, vomiting, and staying up all night drives people to do reckless things.

“I haven’t been drinking. I just did a little.”

Adam takes me out of the forest and walks me to his truck. He puts me in the front seat before getting in himself. My eyes jump from student to student as a few enter and leave through the doors. Before I realize it, tears are streaming down my cheeks because I know I would die without him.

I face him with my wet eyes and blood-filled lips. He stops suddenly while starting the truck.

“The sad thing is,” I say softly, “is that you can treat me like dirt, and I’m sure I’ll still want you. Y-You could hurt me, really hurt me, and I would still end up like this without you. You told my mother that you don’t want me to feel trapped because I am trapped, right?”

He says nothing.

Adam starts the truck and it hums.