Free This Is Not a Werewolf Story by Sandra Evans

dresser drawers creak open and shut, the zippers and Velcro on overnight bags zip and rip, tennis shoes squeak up and down the stairs as kids remember stuff they almost forgot. Then motors chug up the driveway, with Pretty Lady’s Harley roaring above them all. Hugs and kisses and moms asking in worried chirpy voices, How are you? Did you have a good week? and dads crabby from the long drive, grumbling, It’s time to get on the road, Let’s try to beat some of that ferry traffic, and We’re going to hit Seattle at exactly the wrong time.
    Vincent jumps from the bottom step into his mother’s arms. She’s crying. That’s how happy she is to see him, and they’ve only been apart one day.
    It only makes me a little sad before I remember to be happy for him.
    â€œLook!” Mary Anne is next to me, pointing at the sky.
    The crows are wheeling and tumbling, blackeningthe sky with their wings, swooping over the Harley. The hair on my arms stands straight up.
    â€œHis name is Vincent, isn’t it?” she asks.
    I nod.
    â€œWhat an amazing coincidence!” she says. “St. Vincent of Saragossa, renowned for his eloquence, is the patron saint of ravens. After he was martyred by Roman soldiers, ravens guarded his body from marauding animals. To this day the site of his tomb is famous for the multitude of ravens that flock there. And here we have these crows, such close relatives of the raven, offering a fitting farewell to our own Vincent.”
    Vincent and his mom roar away.
    My mouth is dry. The coincidence isn’t amazing—it’s magical. Mary Anne’s story happened a really long time ago. But White Deer called Vincent “raven” just a few hours ago. Is the woods magic everywhere and in all times?
    She pats my arm to get my attention. “Your name means ‘wolf’ in Old Norse. Did you know that?”
    I shake my head. My stomach wobbles like a rock rolling down a hill. No, I didn’t know names were part of the woods magic. Do our names call the animal? Or are we named for the animal we call?
    â€œI guess we don’t really want a pack of wolves escorting you off school grounds, though, do we?” she says.
    I grin. She’s funnier than she thinks. Running offwith a pack of wolves for the weekend isn’t as bad as it sounds.
    Mary Anne’s parents pull up in the circle driveway and honk their horn. She gives me a little wave and runs down the steps. I watch her leave. The trunk pops open. She sets her bag in and slams the trunk.
    Her parents drive away.
    I’m serious. They go almost all the way around the circle before they jam on their brakes so hard the back of the car rocks up. Mary Anne walks very, very slowly to the car. Even from the window I can see that her face is bright pink. You shouldn’t be embarrassed, I want to shout. They should be.
    Mean Jack brushes by me. “See you later, weirdo,” he says.
    I just grin. Because as he walks away I see something black and shiny, long and reptilian, wiggling out of the half-closed zipper of his bulging overnight bag.
    That’s gonna be a real fun car ride, isn’t it?
    One by one all the kids get picked up. And then it’s me and Dean Swift standing in the room we call the parlor, looking at the empty driveway.
    â€œCan I drop you off at the bottom of the hill?” The dean asks me the same question he asks me every Friday afternoon.
    I shake my head. I don’t want Dean Swift anywhere around when my dad picks me up, because my dadstopped coming to pick me up a year ago and nobody knows it but me and him.
    Here’s how it happened, or like they say in the cop shows, here’s how it went down.
    At first my dad came every weekend for a long time. We took the Mukilteo ferry and drove to his apartment in Seattle. Saturday mornings we had breakfast at the Sound View Café in the Pike Place Market. He had an omelet and I had a bagel with cream cheese