~Chapter 6 - Not Weak~
1755 Words
~Louise~
Maybe Mum had been right—school was not my best idea. I couldn’t concentrate on a damn thing. My mind was a whirlwind of diagnosis, surgery, and Joseph’s eyes. Wolf-black, arrogant eyes that burned into me, stirring a heat I hadn’t known I possessed until his arrogance grated on every nerve and sparked my anger.
We were in the final lesson before lunch, and I was desperate to escape. The encounter with Joseph had drained me more than I cared to admit. And now I had a bruise on my skinny ass to deal with, courtesy of the future Alpha. Delightful.
Since I’d spilled the beans about the cancer and the surgery, Raine, and Jo had become my personal security detail. They watched every move, cringing when I coughed, sighed, or even shifted in my seat. Jo had shoved so many boiled ginger candies at me since homegroup that all I could taste and smell was ginger. I had no idea where she was storing them, but they were always there when I looked like I was about to lose it.
They’re worried about me! I exhaled as I leaned back against my seat, grateful the teachers hadn’t called on me all day.
“Will you still train?” Jo whispered from my right. She was shading the trunk of a detailed cherry blossom tree on her notebook when she tilted her head towards me. Realism art was one of her many talents. She could write entrancing short stories, her mathematics was above perfect, and her medical knowledge was surprisingly sharp, but art, in every sense, was what drove Jo forward. “I know you don’t want to discuss it, but I’m curious… Can you still train? One of Mama’s medical books states that you should do gentle stretches and breathing exercises… But don’t strain yourself. Especially since our kind don’t train lightly, and you haven’t trained for a while now…”
“I may be sick, but I’m not weak,” I said softly, repeating Mum’s comforting mantra. I closed my eyes slowly and then opened them again, trying to quell the rising tide of nausea. “And I refuse to give up training. I’m a fighter, and I want to do it.”
“Do you need another ginger candy?” Jo asked, reaching for a pocket in her blazer.
I shook my head, running my tongue over my teeth, the ginger taste overwhelming. “I think I’m gingered out…”
“You should be resting, not training,” Raine added under her breath, her warm voice gentle. She finished writing a note about something the teacher had stated and then faced me. “For the surgery, you know.”
“I know,” I sighed, the weight of their concern pressing down on me. It was suffocating, this constant hovering, this palpable worry radiating from my two best friends.
But I couldn’t bring myself to tell them how much I needed this—the training, the physical exertion, the focus it demanded. It was a distraction, a way to escape the constant, gnawing fear that clawed at the edges of my mind. The fear wasn’t just about the cancer; it was about Joseph, and the simmering tension between us. He was so infuriating, arrogant, and rude. So why couldn’t I push him from my mind?
A long shadow fell over my face. Startled, I sat forward to see Mrs. Nightingale, our aging science teacher and, bless her heart, a human, standing before us. Late seventies, wispy slate-grey hair, bottle-top glasses perched precariously on her nose. Her face was sharp and severe, but her eyes were surprisingly gentle. I liked her. She put genuine effort into her lessons, and most students wanted her as their teacher.
“Sorry, Mrs Nightingale…” I said as I straightened in my chair. “We were just—”
“—I get it…” she interrupted hoarsely, gesturing at Jo’s artwork. “Science isn’t as exciting as art class.”
“No, it’s not that…” I defended.
She held up a hand to silence me. She observed my appearance, and her eyes softened. Leaning down, she whispered so only we could hear, “Louise, dear, you are as pale as a ghost. I think you might be coming down with the flu…”
As far as all the teachers knew, I’d been battling a particularly nasty flu on and off for weeks. The principal knew who was human and who was werewolf, but beyond that, he kept the knowledge to himself. None of the teachers knew about my real illness, human, or werewolf. When I returned to school after my diagnosis, Mum’s one condition was that I keep it a secret, especially from the Alpha and Luna. We had to be careful or face the possibility of exile—or worse.
Now the Alpha-to-be Joseph knows! The thought made my blood run cold. I shivered.
Mrs. Nightingale noted my reaction, misinterpreted it for sickness, and cleared her throat. “I think you should get some fresh air, dear… have an early lunch… get some sun on your face.”
“Thank you, Mrs Nightingale.” The three of us replied in unison.
“Oh, not you two,” she corrected, glancing from Jo to Raine. She pushed her glasses to the bridge of her nose and eyed them closely. “I will allow Louise to have an early lunch… I hope that will get some colour back into her… But you two,” she pointed a wrinkled, slender finger at them. “You will stay in and catch up on the last few minutes of the lesson you missed.”
Both of them groaned and pouted in protest.
“Sorry, guys,” I whispered as I gathered my belongings and stood out from the chair.
“I expect you to catch up on this assignment for homework tonight.” Mrs Nightingale insisted gently. “And have it on my desk by morning.”
I nodded back, trying to ignore the way my stomach churned and my vision swam. “Yes, Mrs. Nightingale… Thank you.”
The weight of everyone’s curious eyes fell on me as I hurried out of the room and breathed a sigh of relief, even though it was getting harder and harder to breathe at all.
The school hallway was deserted, the overhead lights casting long, eerie shadows. A painting of a wart-nosed witch with a bubbling cauldron caught my eye, followed by a particularly gruesome werewolf with bloodied fangs. I laughed, a short, bitter sound. The human world’s perception of werewolves was so skewed. Mindless beasts? Maybe in battle, protecting our packs. But mostly, we were… well, mostly we were just trying to live our lives. To blend in. To hide the wolf beneath the skin. We weren’t always successful.
Locking my bag away, I grabbed some money and headed for the student-run kiosk. Their giant salted pretzels were legendary. The salt somehow soothed my nausea, a minor victory in a body waging war on itself.
The common area was deserted. This meant the line for the kiosk was empty, which never happened. Faint greying clouds floated carefree through the sky above as I strode past the empty wooden benches and down a cobblestone path that encircled a round section of fake grass. The kiosk, a faded grey caravan, sat silently beneath a swaying canopy. Our Lady of Souls Kiosk was painted in a swirly font on the front. The aroma of hot pastries and chocolate hit me, and my stomach lurched. Focus, Louise. Focus on the salt.
I reached the kiosk, the scent of pretzels now a welcome distraction from the churning in my gut.
“Afternoon,” the lanky, curly-haired girl from behind the counter called over her shoulder.
“Afternoon,” I replied.
“What’ll you have today?” she asked as she dusted down the counter with a cloth.
She tossed the cloth over her shoulder, a practiced move, and faced me. Big brown eyes dominated her round face, making her look like a bobblehead doll. I stifled a laugh.
“We have a special on chocolate-coated pretzels today…” She waved a hand at the chalk-written sign above her. “It’s two for the price of one… And let me say, they will melt in your mouth.”
As tempting as that offer was, I needed the salt. “I’ll have one of your giant savoury pretzels, please…” My stomach growled in agreement. Maybe hunger was half of my problem… “With extra salt…”
“Great choice,” the bobblehead woman nodded. I laughed inwardly, unable to control it. Bobblehead doll… “They are one of our most popular… And I’ve been told they can cure headaches, hunger pains, and mood swings and have many other medicinal properties.” She winked at me. “I tell you, having one of those will bring colour back into your cheeks!”
“That sounds good…” I smiled back at her. “I’ll take one.”
“Great,” she tapped at the tiny cash register, the beeps echoing through the small area. A hiss of steam filled the air, smelling faintly of yeast. “That comes to three dollars, thanks.” She met my gaze. “Will that be cash or card?”
I dug into the pocket of my blazer, feeling for my change. “Oh, that’s with—”
“—cash,” replied a deep voice behind me in a familiar tone that grated against my nerves.
No! Please no!
“I’ll pay. It’s the least I can do…” A large hand reached over my shoulder and handed the woman the money, more than what was needed. The warmth of the muscled, unbandaged arm flushed my cheeks despite the clammy sweat clinging to my skin.
No, no, no… Not him!
“Thank you,” with a cheerful smile, the student cashier took it.
She reached under the counter, her movements surprisingly swift and efficient despite her seemingly haphazard demeanour. Knowing who was behind me, the rhythmic thud of her retrieving the pretzel from a warming tray did little to settle my nerves. If anything, it made me shiver.
She emerged with a behemoth of a pretzel, glistening with coarse salt crystals. It was almost comically large, easily dwarfing her small hands. The unwanted warmth behind me was matched with the warmth of the pretzel. “Careful it’s hot…”
- Writer
