Free The Game of Boys and Monsters by Rachel M. Wilson Page B

let it all go. It helps if you think about what they would be like in bed.”
    â€œOkay, Ronald Hamm,” I said, because it was impossible to picture Ronald in bed. Ronald wasn’t a vampire or a werewolf. Ronald, if anything, was a goblin, at best a hobbit.
    â€œVampire,” Evy said, like I was stupid for even asking.
    â€œOkay, now I really don’t get it.” If I’d had to pick, I would have put Ronald as werewolf because he was hairy: fuzz on his upper lip, a furry mole on his cheek, a thick carpet of arm hair.
    â€œThink about how he watches people,” Evy said, “like he’s stalking them. How he hangs back. And he’s such a cold fish. A werewolf has some heat to him. Remember, vampires are technically dead.”
    â€œVampires are like fish,” I said, picturing Ronald flopping around on the deck of a boat.
    â€œNot all of them, but that’s the kind of vamp that Ronald is.”
    I was getting it.
    â€œDevon Washington,” she said.
    â€œVamp.”
    â€œThat’s right. Tytus Ronin.”
    â€œWerewolf,” we both said together.
    Over the next few days, we went through all the guys in our class with few disagreements. One time I even convinced Evy she was wrong. Erik Strom, she agreed with me, seemed like a werewolf on the face of things, but it was all an act. Once he lured a girl in with his easygoing front, he would suck her dry.
    By the time school was back, we had “won” the game by coming to a decision on every guy in school. But then the Marsh boys came to town.
    The Marsh boys were brothers, one tall, one strong, and both of them handsome.
    Jack Marsh, the tall one, wore cowboy boots under old jeans that actually fit him and button-down shirts. “He can dress,” Evy said.
    He could do a lot of things, it turned out.
    He could write—he shared a poem in English class that had Celie Vonn calling him “like the next Jack Kerchack.” We had to read On the Road over summer break, so I’m guessing she meant Kerouac.
    He could swim. “He’s like a goddamn red snapper,” Alec Wernick said when Jack joined the swimming team. “It’s like he doesn’t even have to breathe.”
    And Jack Marsh could charm the pants off anyone. He seemed quiet at first, but given the right opening, he’d come out with something surprising—sometimes shocking, sometimes hilarious, but always sharp.
    Kayla, the queen of lip gloss and charm bracelets, decided to make Jack her guy. She announced it the first day he showed up at school. And he was nice to her, too nice, probably, if he didn’t mean for it to go anywhere.
    Once, in the student lounge, Evy and I were talking with the Marsh boys—well, mostly Evy was talking, but I was there too—when Kayla came up, tugged at the flaps of Jack’s open vest, and said, “Jack, what does a girl have to do to get your attention?”
    â€œYou’ve got it,” he said, locking eyes with her in a way that made me nervous, but all the while disentangling himself from the creeping vines her arms had become. She tried to hang on, but he picked her up by the waist and set her down on the other side of our tight circle. The epitome of a mixed message.
    I wasn’t sure where Jack stood on Kayla, but as soon as she was gone, he started scratching himself and said, “Wait, was that a girl or a rash?”
    Evy laughed like a bell falling down stairs, and Jack smiled, but not with his lips. Those were parted, a promise.
    â€œJack Marsh,” she would tell me that night as we stirred up a potful of hot, gooey marshmallow crisps, “is a vampire.”
    Hap Marsh had the same straight nose as Jack, the same winking eyes, but his “vibe” was entirely different. While Jack stayed aloof, Hap would grapple and get in your face, push your buttons, and force you to dance. Jack stayed cool, watching his brother with amusement, while Hap