? ? ?
Enzo didn’t talk for most of the ride to his apartment. When he did, he said, “You’re a weird kid, Hawthorn.”
“I’m not a kid.”
“It wasn’t an insult.”
Then we were silent again, except for when Enzo gave me directions.
I tried not to be disappointed but couldn’t help it. I had sort of thought Enzo was going to be an ally. Instead, after I’d spilled my whole werewolf theory, he sat quietly for a long time, then said it was an interesting explanation, then said he should probably get home.
I considered apologizing. Or trying to convince him I was right. Or telling him that we could hang out again, and I would keep my mouth shut about the supernatural. But I didn’t say any of that.
I pulled up in front of Enzo’s apartment complex. There were bars on the windows, and the other cars in the parking lot were worse off than mine. It made me feel even more depressed.
Enzo looked at me for a moment before he got out of the car. I didn’t look away, even though I wanted to.
“I wish I lived in your world, Hawthorn.”
I wish you did too, I thought.
I watched him walk into the building, watched until a light came on in one of the second floor apartments. It felt like something very important had slipped out of my grasp.
I got the urge to call Emily, to pour out details of my and Enzo’s conversation. But she’d just lecture me for hanging out with him in the first place. So instead, I sat in the parking lot with my car running until I realized how awkward it would be if Enzo looked outside and saw me still parked there.
Not that it mattered what he thought of me now. I doubted I’d ever see him again.
Chapter 12
Sundog and the Caravan
The thing about high school is that you have to pretend you don’t care what people think even though that’s all you care about. I was pretty sure that whether you’re a cheerleader or on the chess team, you spend a crazy amount of time wondering what people are saying about you or if they’re saying anything at all. It used to be that I thought it was worse to be forgotten, that even being made fun of was better than being invisible. Then there was my essay, and the rumors about me thinking Lizzie was a werewolf, and then the caravan arrived.
My dad and I peered through the living room window as it drove up the street. Some of our neighbors were on their porches, alerted by all the honking. They were acting like it was a parade. Being blatantly curious is OK when it’s not your life that’s about to be ruined.
“I’ll never be able to show my face at school again.”
Instead of comforting me, my dad grimly stared out the window. Which confirmed that our house was the caravan’s destination. Not that I’d had much doubt.
“Sparrow!” my dad shouted. “Come in here, please.”
“What is it?” my mom asked, coming down the stairs.
I gestured to the window.
My mom peered outside and instantly looked flustered. My dad’s mouth had turned into a very straight line. That’s when I figured it would be in my best interest to pack my bags and flee the county.
Rush came in the room and asked what was going on.
“Our lives are being ruined,” I said.
Then he joined us, and the whole Creely family watched the hippie caravan make its way up our quiet, suburban street.
The lead car wasn’t a car at all. It was an old school bus that was painted purple and had curtains hanging in the windows. It was also the vehicle playing the music, some jangly sounding rhythm, with lots of bells and maybe a fiddle. Emily would have known. Three cars followed the bus, two no-name sedans and a beat-up VW Bug that made me ashamed to be a Volkswagen owner. One of the sedans was painted like a psychedelic hippie car from the sixties, complete with peace signs and flowers and swirly lines. The other sedan would have passed for normal if it hadn’t been in the middle of such craziness.
I could have crawled faster than the procession was moving. They were taking their time, making sure every single person in the neighborhood had a chance to get outside to witness the Creely family’s shame.
“Sparrow,” my dad said. “What is this?”
I could tell from my dad’s voice that he was not even a little bit entertained, and I could tell from my mom’s face that she knew it too.
“I…well, it’s the group I used to go with.”
“What the hell are they doing here? Did you know about this?”
My mom shook her head, and I believed her, but I didn’t blame her any less. I wished she’d discover she was allergic to soy. I wished all her crystals would spontaneously shatter. I wished her yoga DVDs would get replaced with war movies.