The Last Werewolf

I was going through my books by the locker when a shoulder bumped into mine. My head snapped around but he was already walking away, and all I could see was his back. A gangly boy with drooping shoulders sauntered by, his stride awkward and unsteady. “Hey.” I wasn’t up for a quarrel, but something about him made me want to make this moment last. He twirled around, his weary eyes glowing in a hue of warm ember. That was the first thing I noticed: his eyes. They were like two unpolished shards of gold. They were dazzling. His charcoal-black fringes fell to his forehead and brushed his eyebrows. His quivering lips were the shade of icing coral and was rather feminine, much like a woman’s. Not gorgeous, not ugly. But he had an attractively mischievous and strange charm that I couldn’t place. He was ethereal, as if he didn’t belong to this world. I didn’t know it then, but he was lost and stranded in this world that wanted him dead. “Yes?” His voice was weak, feeble. I suddenly forgot what to say. “Hi.” Prolonged silence. I stammered. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before, uh, are you new?” He shook his head slowly. Of course he wasn’t new. It was late November, halfway into the school year. He was the kind of person who floats around like ghosts. He’s in your class for a lifetime but during graduation you stare at his photo and say “who’s this guy?”. I pinched my thighs, regretting my words. But he wasn’t offended. Instead, it was as if a part of his spirit had returned. “What’s… your name?” That, a question as simple as asking your name, sounded as if he was revealing the greatest secret in this universe. “Sophia. Sophia Forster.” More silence. “And you?” “You can call me Mike.” I felt stupid for telling him my full name. I could have just said “you can call me Sophie,” which is what my friends call me. That would have sounded more casual, not as if I’m signing up for a business contract or something like— “I like your name.” That’s what he said. And one more thing: he smiled. Wait, two more things: and my heart seemed to lose a beat. When people smile, it’s usually the ear-to-ear grin that spreads on your face. But a smile as beautiful as his, they pour out of his eyes and every bone and organ of his body. The motion of his chest lifting to the rhythm of his breathing, or the way his parched lips parted, literally everything fit perfectly. Before he turned away, he murmured, “my name is Michael Anderson.” “I…I like your name too.” I called back, but he was already gone. He left without a goodbye. And a part of me believed that meant we’re meeting again. I saw him during geometry, at the library, the cafeteria, and a bunch of other places where he had always been, but I never noticed. But we didn’t talk again. To make myself clear, he didn’t talk to me, and I was too freakin’ nervous to approach him first. So I watched. I watched as he always knew the answers but never raised his hand to solve the questions. I watched as he read books standing by the geography corner where nobody looked. I watched as he always sat by the furthest desk, the last in line. He was never in a crowd, in a group of hippie boys, or stuck in a wave of gossip. He was alone, so utterly alone. For the majority of the time his eyes were blank and devoid of emotions. I couldn’t tell if he was lonely or enjoying the solitude. What I didn’t know was that he knew that he was being watched. Knew it all along. And that he’d been watching me just the same. On that evening I was feeding street kittens when I spotted him at the Dumpster. I held my breath and watched as he quickly filled his backpack with bruised apples, bananas with too many spots, sprouted potatoes. Just as he zipped them up, he seemed to notice me. He froze in his place. He stared back. I felt like I had witnessed something I shouldn’t have, but I didn’t understand. Before I could stop myself, my words were out, tentative, unfurling down the alley to him. “Mike,” I said. “Hey. Hi.” That seemed to break the spell of silence. He turned and ran down the alley, into the unknown and away from me. I didn’t see him at school the next day. Or the next. I was growing more and more certain that I had done something terribly wrong. Everyday I walked into the homeroom hoping that he would be there but praying that he wouldn’t. On the third day he was back. His eyes were hollow as if he’d been awake all night long and he looked shabbier, thinner than I had last seen him. During lunch I watched him hunched over an empty table, his plain white T-shirt doing little to cover his bony figure. He didn’t buy any food, instead ate something from a plastic bag. I couldn’t see what it was, but I could guess that it wasn’t the kind of mommy’s made-with-love homemade lunchbox. I felt ashamed for not noticing him before. But then I scanned around the cafeteria and realized nobody else noticed him even now. I couldn’t really blame them. After lunch I couldn’t find him in any of my classes. Even during the after-school activities he was absent. Later when everyone huddled by the entrance since it began to pour, Mike was nowhere to be seen. Riley came to pick me up in his red lamborghini. He was a senior and the richest guy in school, as anyone would expect. His hair was dyed flaring red and he was the kind of guy who wore striped trousers instead of jeans and Oxford shoes instead of sneakers. He didn’t participate in any after-schools but always appeared wherever I was, ready to drive me home. We didn’t even live nearby. He never confessed to me, and I was never his official girlfriend. But I rode his car home, sniffed the flowers he mailed, and ate the chocolates he offered, so maybe I was his girlfriend after all. Riley was handsome, brawny and heavily built. He could flirt with a wink of an eye or a snap of his fingers. But on that rainy day, I didn’t wait for him by the entrance. Instead I slipped back into the school, my umbrella bouncing behind me. Because I think I knew. I think I knew where Mike had been all along. The very next moment, I was running up the stairs to the school rooftop. The door was already opened. I stopped when I saw him. Rain was pouring on us heavily. He had his back towards me, already over the railings, his feet perched on the very edge of the roof. At that moment I learned that he had no family, no home, nobody in his life. There was nothing to hold him back. Nothing except a girl he met three days ago. The girl who told him her full name. The girl who loved his smile. And that girl flung herself to him and desperately grasped his arm. She made him twirl around and fall, but not to death below, but fall back onto the wet rooftop. Together.