Page 23 of Such Sharp Teeth

“You get used to it,” Mom said.

“I don’t want to get used to it!”

I thought it was so disgusting, I couldn’t get past it. It seemed so horrifically unfair, like a wicked curse.

I got mine two months later, and it was fine. I was shocked how fine it was, how quickly I was able to accept it and adapt.

I step into the shower and scrub myself clean. I thoroughly shampoo and condition my hair. After I dry off, I coat myself in scented lotion. Then I spritz perfume on my wrists, behind my knees, on my neck and ankles. I put on some fresh gauze and make sure to get it as flat as possible on my skin so it doesn’t show under my skimpy costume.

I put on my bra and underwear. They’re black, generic. I pause to contemplate the possibility of sex tonight.

I doubt there’s going to be anyone at the party I’d consider sleeping with aside from Ian, and I don’t really want to sleep with Ian just yet. Maybe a few drinks will change that, but this gauze isn’t sexy, and what’s underneath it definitely isn’t sexy. So unlikely anyone’s seeing my underwear tonight.

I get my blow-dryer and plug it into the outlet. I flip it on, and it purrs at my ear. I turn to face my reflection.

It’s behind me. The monster. It’s vast shadow hovering at my back.

Its long fingers prowl over my shoulder. I feel them. I can feel them.

I reach up, spinning around, ready to scream. But it isn’t there.

I whip back to the mirror. I’m alone in it.

I turn the blow-dryer to the cool setting and aim it at my face. I keep it there until I’ve calmed down, until I have the strength to grip the round brush.

“There’s nothing in this bathroom,” I tell myself as I blow out my hair. “No one. Just you.”

My hair turns out stupidly good. Maybe the magic product I’ve been missing all these years is distress? Or maybe it’s the water here. My hair has been extra glossy lately. Glossy and voluminous.

I open the door to the bathroom, and Reaper is there waiting for me. He goes beyond his usual growl, peppering in some vicious barks.

“Reap!” I hear Scarlett call from down the hall. “Reaper!”

“Fuck off,” I whisper to the dog, darting into my bedroom and locking the door behind me.

I check my phone, which I left charging on my nightstand. I have no new messages, no emails, no notifications, nothing. This leaves me a doomed opportunity to do the thing. I open Google and type in werewolf attack.

What comes up is a series of images and movie clips. I scroll through the images. Some of the renderings are eerily accurate.

I follow a link to the werewolf Wikipedia page.

I can’t believe I’m on the werewolf Wikipedia page. Is this really where I’m looking to get my information? Am I really doing this?

What else should I do? Go to the library? The only books they’ll have on werewolves are teen romances and horror novels.

I skim the page and my big takeaway is that apparently if you’re bitten by a werewolf and you survive, then you are now a werewolf.

This, unfortunately, might explain some things. My weird ooze. My meat cravings. My lustrous hair. My aggravating Reaper. My smell.

I guess I have no way of knowing for sure, not unless I sprout a fucking tail during the next full moon.

“Hey.”

Scarlett knocks on my door. I startle, and my phone flies out of my hands.

“Just a sec,” I say, recovering my phone and promptly deleting my search history. “I still have to get dressed.”

“Okay. Put on your costume and then come to my bathroom.”