Page 56 of Such Sharp Teeth

After a dinner of baked salmon and mashed potatoes and asparagus—which of course I don’t eat—I wash dishes while Mom dries. Scarlett works on an illustration in the living room.

“She seems fine,” Mom whispers. “Happy.”

“She’s in a good mood tonight,” I say.

As much as I’d rather not acknowledge it, the truth is, it is kind of nice to be together. The three of us. Just us. No Guy. No Matty. It’s been a long time. It’s the nostalgia factor, I suspect.

“I was thinking about a shower,” she says.

“Okay, I can finish up.”

“No, for Scarlett. A baby shower.”

“Oh,” I say. “Absolutely not. She’d hate it.”

“She needs things. She doesn’t have a crib. A stroller. A changing table. She needs these things. I already spoke to Ashley. She put together a registry.”

“You talked to Ash?”

“Shh! She’ll hear you.”

“This is a bad idea,” I say, aggressively scrubbing a plate.

“She hasn’t had the opportunity to be excited,” she says. “This is the perfect occasion for her to celebrate with her friends and family.”

“She doesn’t like attention,” I say. “I like attention, and even to me a shower sounds harrowing.”

“See? So dramatic,” she says, literally throwing in the towel. “It’s Friday. I hope you’ll consider helping me.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll consider it.”

She squeezes my arm and joins Scarlett over on the couch.

I finish the dishes by myself, then take the bottle of wine and Mom’s cigarettes out onto the back patio. It’s cloudy. There’s no moon, so I’m at peace. As much peace as possible after what happened last night. What was confirmed.

Not so much peace as just not agony.

I drink the wine and chain-smoke the cigarettes, lighting them with matches. I let the flame burn down to my fingers. It doesn’t hurt when it reaches my skin. It leaves a mark, but it fades fast.

These things, they won’t go unnoticed forever.

I realize I actually can’t go back to the city. I can’t be like this there.

It’d be a logistical nightmare. I couldn’t transform in my apartment; it’s not exactly a discreet process. It’s violent and loud; my neighbors would most definitely call the cops out of concern or to complain. Also, I don’t trust that a door or window would stop me from attacking one or more of the millions of people wandering around. So I’d need to leave, to go somewhere else. But I can’t take off multiple days from work every month for the full moon. Having a car in Manhattan is both insanely expensive and inconvenient, though I doubt I could take the train with the necessary equipment. And what about traffic, delays? And where would I even go? It’d take hours to get somewhere remote enough, and I’d need to somehow acquire, store, and transport a sturdier cage. . . .

Yeah. My life as I know it is over.

I down the rest of the bottle, hoping that maybe if I drink it quickly, I’ll feel something. A relaxing buzz. But all I feel is nauseous. I burp, and out comes . . . something. I feel a kernel traveling up my throat, across my tongue. I spit it into my palm.

It’s a small yellowy mystery tooth.

I shake it from my hand.

It would sure be nice if I could get a break for a fucking second. My body won’t allow it. I feel like a dog wearing a retractable leash.

I heave again, and it’s followed by a small acidic burp, my body asserting itself, always asserting itself with blood and sweat and aches and pain and gas and bile. A reluctance to process dairy.

“I get it,” I whisper into my skin. “You win. I’m at your mercy.”