Page 61 of Such Sharp Teeth

I watch myself growl. Teeth bared. Face desiccated. Hateful.

I’m transfixed. Horrified.

And I’m alone now. Just me. Growling. Alone.

“This is bullshit,” I snap.

I get it. I understand. The wolf will always be there in the mirror. The wolf is me. My second face.

I turn away from my reflection and step into the shower. I turn the water all the way hot, then all the way cold. I wait for my fists to unclench, for my spine to unwind. I wait to calm down.

I don’t think it’s going to happen for me. It’s one of those days. My mood has been ordained. I’m a wretch.

I towel off and blow-dry my hair. It doesn’t take long. It’s thick and shiny and perfect. My lashes dark and curled, no mascara required. Lycanthropy is good for something, I guess.

I clip my nails, which has now become a daily requirement; otherwise it’s like I’ve got on stiletto acrylics. There have been several unfortunate incidents including accidental scratches and a severe eye poke. Also makes it challenging to masturbate.

After carefully considering everything in my closet, I select a fitted navy dress with a cowl neck and long sleeves. I put my white satin blazer on over it and pair it with my rose gold heels.

I feel like myself again, like the person I was before I left the city. The person who woke up at four thirty a.m. for prework Pilates and wore high heels and jewelry and perfume, who drank green juice. A person who didn’t sleep all day and hoard bags of beef jerky in their nightstand drawer.

I find some gold jewelry in my case. A pair of chunky hoops and a delicate necklace with, ironically, a moon charm. Fuck it. Why not?

I put it on.

All dressed up for . . . Party City.

I sneak out of the house before Scarlett can see me and ask me why I look nice. It’s sad that my looking nice is now cause for suspicion, but I suppose I’ve earned it, since lately I’ve been couch fuzz incarnate.

It’s too early to pick up the balloons, so I drive around for a while, listening to the band that Ian recommended. I’ve been doing my best not to think about him, but my best isn’t good enough. I want to hate this band, but I don’t. I really love them. Upbeat indie rock, a raspy-voiced singer, solid lyrics.

Ian knows my taste. We used to make each other playlists back in high school. I still listen to some of them.

I sit in the parking lot of Party City with my head on the steering wheel, stewing in my bad mood. I decide this is all Matty’s fault. If he’d never left, I wouldn’t have had to come here, and I wouldn’t have been bitten. I hope he never comes back around. If I ever see him again, I might kill him.

I could.

It’s an astonishing thought. It should scare me, but it doesn’t. I catch myself smiling in the side-view mirror.

A feeling floods me like smoke through a burning building. My grip around a living thing, the easy squeeze, the swift crack of its neck. The red glaze of blood on my fur, shimmering in the moonlight. My rough tongue sweeping across the jagged edges of my teeth. So sharp. And my nails. So sharp. Lethal.

My eyes close, and it’s here. The transcendent knowledge that nothing can touch me. That I’m not in danger, because I am danger.

I take a deep, gasping breath and accidentally graze the horn. It gives a short, startling beep that snaps me out of it. Brings me back into reality.

I throw myself out of the car and into the soberingly cold morning. I go get the fucking balloons.

—

I don’t so much help Ashley decorate as I watch her decorate while eating breakfast sausages like they’re potato chips. Luca is with her in-laws, and though I do find him exceptionally entertaining, it’s nice to have a reprieve from his tyranny.

Ash made multiple quiches and a fruit tart, and set up an impressive mimosa bar. She also bought a cake shaped like a rattle, which I think looks vaguely phallic, an observation I choose to keep to myself.

“You think she’ll like it?” Ash asks. “I incorporated as much black as possible.”

She went for a bumblebee theme, pale yellow and black. There are adorable little bumblebees all around. The balloons I picked up are yellow and black, with some helium bees mixed in.

“It’s different,” I say. “I think she’ll like it.”