“No more school, No more books, No more teachers’ dirty looks …”
For a two-hundred-twenty-pound werewolf, Macbeth Macalister had a wicked falsetto. Leaning back in his chair with casual grace, he shot a mischievous look around our lunch table. “Everyone sing along!”
As the leader of our little group—not to mention the alpha of Macbeth’s pack and his best friend since kindergarten—the responsibility for shutting down his boy-band tendencies fell to me. “It’s Thanksgiving break, Mac, not summer vacation, and technically, it hasn’t even started yet.”
My words fell on deaf ears. The smile on Macbeth’s face widened, making him look—to my eyes, at least—more puppy than wolf. To my left, River, whose history with Macbeth’s flare for the dramatic stretched back almost as far as mine did, rolled
