The Hundred Lies of Lizzie Lovett

“Where’d you hear that?”


“Is it true?” Her expression said that she really, really wanted it to be true, because then she could make fun of me forever.

School had been bad enough since I’d read my Griffin Mills essay. For years, I’d been mostly ignored for being weird and nerdy. The essay made it different. People started actively making fun of me. It was hard to walk into school every day knowing I was going to be mocked. I didn’t get why everyone was treating what I wrote like it was a huge insult. I didn’t think I was the only one who wished she’d grown up somewhere else.

“Didn’t your parents ever tell you there’s no such thing as werewolves?” Mychelle asked.

“Didn’t your parents ever tell you opinions should be left to people with brains?”

For a second, I thought Mychelle might hit me. It would have been an extremely unexpected addition to my day and slightly fascinating, because I’d never been in a fistfight. But she backed off.

“Watch yourself, Hawthorn Creely.”

I burst out laughing. “Seriously? Watch myself? Are we in the remake of Mean Girls?”

Mychelle gave me one last unamused look and went on her way. The good thing was I didn’t have any classes with her for the rest of the day. The bad thing was Griffin Mills High School was pretty small, and there were plenty of other people I had to avoid.

? ? ?

“If you didn’t want people making fun of you for thinking Lizzie’s a werewolf, then you shouldn’t have told anyone you think Lizzie’s a werewolf,” Emily said at lunch.

She had a point.

Though I’d only told four people, and I couldn’t imagine Emily or my parents running around town spreading gossip. Rush had really outdone himself.

“I wish you’d just entertain the possibility that I’m right,” I told Emily.

“Hawthorn, you can’t will werewolves into existence because you’re bored.”

I took a bite of my sandwich, which was some sort of avocado concoction I wouldn’t have chosen to eat.

“I wonder if Enzo will come back to the diner.”

“Why?” Emily asked. “Because he’s so desperate to see you? You’re lucky he hasn’t.”

“He’s not a killer.”

“Maybe not. But he’s damaged.”

I was pretty sick of everyone acting like they knew what I needed when no one really knew me at all. I was about to tell that to Emily when the gym door opened and a guy walked out.

“Sorry. I didn’t think anyone came out here,” he said when he saw us. I’d noticed him around school because he wore skinny jeans and had all sorts of piercings, which was not the usual style in the Mills.

“Well, we do,” I said.

“Mind if I smoke? There’s nowhere else to go on campus.”

I shrugged, and he lit a cigarette. Then he nodded at Emily.

“Hey, you’re in my guitar class, right?”

“Yeah,” Emily said. “Sixth period.”

“You’re really good.”

Emily blushed, and I felt embarrassed for her.

“I’m OK. Piano is my instrument. I just took guitar for fun.”

“Maybe you should think about switching instruments. I’m Logan, by the way.”

He held out his hand. They shook. Emily told him her name. I wasn’t addressed at all. I focused on my sandwich as if I was choosing not to be a part of their conversation.

“You’ve been playing guitar for a long time, haven’t you?” Emily asked.

“I got my first guitar before I could walk.”

I rolled my eyes. Emily smiled at him.

“It shows.”

“I’m actually in a band,” Logan said. “Strength in Numbers? You might have heard of us.”

I couldn’t believe he actually uttered that clichéd line. I looked at Emily to see if she was equally amused, but she was gazing at Logan like he was the first boy she’d ever seen.

“Yeah, I’ve heard some kids mention you guys,” Emily said. “I’ve never heard you play though.”

“You should come to one of our shows. It’s pretty intense. We do this sort of metal-bluegrass fusion. I think you’ll like it.”

I snorted.

“Let me know when you have your next gig,” Emily said.

“Sure thing.” He threw down the cigarette and crushed it with the heel of his Doc Marten. “See you in sixth.”

I gaped at Emily as soon as the door shut. “Metal-bluegrass fusion? What does that even mean? Does he scream obscenities while strumming a banjo?”

“Don’t be so judgmental.”

“Seriously? That guy is clearly inviting judgment on himself.”

“Sort of like someone who believes in werewolves?”

I scowled.

“Besides,” Emily went on, “I’ve heard that his band is actually really good.”

“Heard that from who?”

“People.”

“What people?” I pressed.

“Friends, Hawthorn. My friends. You’re not the only person I talk to.”

I wasn’t?

“Are you going to see his band play?” I asked.

“Maybe. Do you want to come?”

“Maybe.”

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