Weregirl
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Acknowledgments
A Note on Fonts
About the Author
WEREGIRL and the Chooseco dragon are trademarks of Chooseco LLC and are registered in the United States and may be registered in jurisdictions internationally. Chooseco’s trademarks, service marks, and trade dress may not be used in connection with any product or service that is not affiliated with Chooseco LLC, or in any manner that is likely to cause confusion among customers, or in any manner that disparages or discredits Chooseco LLC.
Weregirl © 2016 Chooseco LLC
Waitsfield, Vermont. All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, and
incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales, businesses or persons, living or dead,
is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any other means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher and Chooseco LLC.
Book design: Stacey Boyd, Big Eyedea Visual Design
Cover design: Dot Greene, Greene Dot Design
For information regarding permission, write to:
P.O. Box 46
Waitsfield, Vermont 05673
www.weregirl.com
ISBN 10 1-937133-55-9
ISBN 13 978-1-937133-55-9
Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
Printed in the United States
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data
Names: Bell, C. D. (Cathleen Davitt).
Title: Weregirl : a novel / C. D. Bell.
Description: Waitsfield, Vermont: Chooseco, [2016] | Series: [Weregirl series]; [1] | Interest age level: 12 and up. | Summary: On a nighttime run, high school junior and cross-country runner Nessa Kurland is badly bitten by a trapped wolf that she tries to free. Nessa’s quick recovery is followed by improved running times and all her senses are
heightened. She has transformed into a werewolf.
Identifiers: ISBN 978-1-937133-55-9 | ISBN 978-1-937133-56-6 (ebook) |
ISBN 1-937133-56-7 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Teenage girls—Juvenile fiction. | Werewolves—Juvenile fiction. | Cross-country running—Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Teenage girls—Fiction. | Werewolves—Fiction. | Running—Fiction. | LCGFT: Thrillers (Fiction)
Classification: LCC PZ7.B38891526 We 2016 (print) | LCC PZ7.B38891526 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
To RK and RM
All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating,
that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel.
— Margaret Atwood,
The Blind Assassin
CHAPTER ONE
“Well, well,” Mr. Porter said. “It’s not often that I meet with a junior so early in the school year. I have seniors who wait until October before I pull them in here kicking and screaming.”
The guidance counselor held up his hands in mock surrender, as if Nessa were pointing a gun at him. “I tell them, ‘Hello! People! There is life after high school.’” He laughed. Nessa did not. He cleared his throat. “What can I do for you, Nessa Kurland?”
Nessa pulled at her straight, dark blonde hair. She tried crossing her legs, but her foot banged against Mr. Porter’s desk. She’d grown three inches in the past year, and she’d lost her gauge of distance from industrial furniture.
Mr. Porter’s office had the counterintuitive look of the place where dreams came to die, not be born. It had few if any signs of life—just a faded University of Michigan pennant and a matching Go Blue Wolverines poster. Everything on his desk seemed like he’d gotten it for free: a mug from Sandy O’s Window-Washers was filled with pens from local banks and insurance offices. Even his travel coffee mug was emblazoned with the spare but recognizable three-triangle logo of the research monolith Paravida. Their newest facility had sprung up in the town of Tether this time last year, taking over the old Dutch Chemical plant along with a bunch of the company’s patents.
“I need a full scholarship to go to college,” Nessa blurted. While Nessa’s sister, Delphine, was something of a poet, and her brother, Nate, could talk for hours, emitting streams of words over and over, Nessa was the ambitious and responsible one. She had the “gift” of being clear and direct.
She pulled out a crumpled sheet of notebook paper she’d had tacked to the wall above her bed all summer. She had planned to type the whole thing up to look very pro, but she ran out of time. Last night, someone had brought a dog in for Nessa’s mom, Vivian, to look at. This happened from time to time when the vet’s office where Vivian worked was closed, or a friend couldn’t afford to pay. After twenty years as a vet technician, Vivian could do pretty much anything the vet could. Dr. Morgan even looked the other way, offering her supplies and extra medicines because he knew she needed the money.
It was a dog last night who’d gone wandering and been attacked by a coyote or maybe even a bear.
“He managed to drag himself home only to collapse in the driveway,” the owner had said tearfully. “Do you think he can be saved?”
While Vivian patched him up in the garage, Nessa had finished cooking up the pasta. She’d called Delphine and Nate in to eat. Then, because her mom had looked so spent afterward, Nessa had volunteered to wash the dishes and get Nate to bed.
Now, Nessa pushed the paper toward the guidance counselor. “You can see I’ve got my 5K time down over the end of last season.” Mr. Porter shifted in his seat and glanced down at her paper. He pressed the space bar on his keyboard to wake up his computer and began clicking around with the mouse.
“I’m pulling up your grades,” he said, and then, sipping his coffee, he scanned what was up on his screen, making a few more clicks. “I see. Hmm, yes.” He clicked one more time. “Too bad about Bio, huh?”
“But aside from that, you’re a solid student, Nessa. I know you work weekends at the vet’s and help your mom out with your brother. He’s got Asperger’s?”
Nessa shrugged. Her brother was autistic, and the name of the condition didn’t much matter anyway. Nate was just Nate. He was different but so was each one of the Kurlands, really. In a town like Tether, being different was probably a good thing.
“Well, your mom doesn’t have it easy, with the three of you, and one like your brother. I know you’re a big help to her, and all told, I’m impressed.” Mr. Porter folded his hands. “But yes, a sports commitment will help.”
“But, do you think it might lead to a scholarship? I really don’t know how else I’ll be able to go to college. I was training all summer. I kept track of everything.”
Mr. Porter politely stifled a yawn and pulled the paper closer, put down his coffee cup, and scanned the scrawled lists of dates and times and split times and notes about weather and course conditions. “I was following a program,” Nessa explained. “I found it online. I was working too, so I ran in the mornings and cross-trained with free weights after work. My friend Bree helped by—” Nessa stopped.
Okay, Bree hadn’t really helped unless you call “helping” lying on a picnic blanket, giving herself a mani-pedi, and shouting motivational phrases like, “My grandma could run faster than you!”
“I’m running a 5K at a sub-18-minute pace,” Nessa said, swallowing a laugh as she thought of Bree.
“That’s good,” Mr. Porter said.
“Not every time,” Nessa rushed to explain. “But I know I can keep improving this fall. If I get below a 17:30, I can make a good showing at Regionals and maybe get to States.”
Mr. Porter pushed the paper back in her direction. “I like your ambition, Nessa,” he said. “I really do. But scholarships aren’t given for what you think you can do. And a lot of high school athletes are running sub-18s. Consistently running them.”
Nessa knew that. She’d been trolling the internet all summer, following write-ups on individual kids. She wondered if she’d ever get good enough to feel comfortable creating a professional athletic profile like some of the ones she’d found.
“I can get there,” she said. “I’m not there yet, but I’m still growing. Tell me what I should do. How can I get in front of recruiters?”
Mr. Porter sighed. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You know Cynthia Sinise is in contention for a track scholarship this year. Why don’t you see if she can give you some tips? You’re friends with her, right?”
“Friends with Cynthia?” Nessa said, hearing how hollow her voice sounded, but trying to be positive.
Cynthia was the quiet and intense captain of the girls’ team, but she rarely spoke to Nessa. Or anyone else on the team. She came to practice, ran what Coach Hoffman told her to, and went home. People in school respected her, but Cynthia wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy. Nessa wondered whether Cynthia had ever even noticed Nessa was there.
“That’s settled then,” Mr. Porter said. “You get together with Cynthia. See if training with her can help you. See how the fall goes. Then let’s talk again in December.” He made a note in his calendar program.
Nessa picked up the paper and slid it back into its folder. She knew she could do this. She had to. But how was she going to get Cynthia Sinise to take her under her wing?
CHAPTER TWO
“I finally figured out a clinic plan,” Bree announced. It still felt like summer. She and Nessa were unpacking brown bag lunches at the poured concrete tables and benches on the patio outside the cafeteria of Tether High. As reigning three-year student council member, Bree had campaigned all last year for juniors and seniors to be allowed to eat lunch outside. Now, on the first day of this glorious new privilege, it felt like they’d all cut school to go to the beach. The juniors and seniors were out in force, checking out who was tan, who was taller, who had gotten a haircut and become, suddenly, hot.
The school security guard, “Pasty Pete” Packer, had stationed himself in clear view and was glaring at everyone, daring them to misbehave. He was sharp-eyed but robotic and mean, and he never made exceptions for anyone. He’d fought pretty hard against Bree’s outdoor lunches, saying it would double his workload, but she’d prevailed. Nessa had been surprised to see Pete Packer out and about—the rumor was he’d been so mad at Bree’s win that he’d taken a job somewhere else.
Bree was enjoying the moment, waving to friends, her dark glasses allowing her to scope out groups of kids with impunity, especially as Cassian Thomas selected his table and sat, creating the gravitational center of the lunchtime orbit.
Bree had a crush on Cassian. So did Nessa. So did at least thirty-five more members of the sophomore and junior classes. Tall, broad-shouldered, with loose blond hair, tawny skin, gray-blue eyes, Cassian was gorgeous, funny, popular, and the star of the soccer team. Captain Obvious.
That was the external Cassian.
Nessa thought she saw things in him other people missed. She could see how smart he was. How he was so clearly bent on getting out of Tether, like her. How he didn’t follow the straight and narrow path of popularity stardom.
Sometimes Cassian spent lunch with the gamers, strategizing RuneScape, their eyes never leaving their touch screens. Those guys liked him because he wasn’t a poser. He really knew the game. An occasional evening checking in to a gaming party wasn’t beneath him.
Cassian rocked it on the debate team, traveling all over the state during the winter, charming judges and getting write-ups in the Tether Journal. He was polite to everyone and got perfect grades. Nessa had once overheard him saying he wanted to be in the film business. On looks alone, he could easily be a star.
Nessa was staring at Cassian now. Even from a distance, he could make her feel that anything was possible. “Are you listening to me?” Bree asked. Nessa jerked her attention away from the vision of Golden Cassian in the sunlight.
“I was like a spy!” Bree confided, her curls bobbing a little and her glasses dropping down her nose. “At the clinic. I totally pretended I knew what I was doing. I said your mom had sent me.”
“What? Wait,” Nessa said, swallowing a bite of tuna on wheat. “You went to the clinic, like, physically? Without me?”
Bree shrugged, looking innocent and unbothered, slipping her glasses back over her eyes and returning her gaze to the guys. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I just asked if I could change Nate’s appointment.” Nate had been visiting the clinic weekly since he was eight. He was part of the study connected to the Dutch Chem cleanup—all the kids his age in Tether were. Initially it had been the whole kid population, but over the years the numbers had dropped to those truly impacted: kids who had developed problems from the contamination or were considered at risk.
Nessa was a little hazy on the details of the study, but it was her job to take Nate to his appointments because her mom worked during the hours the health clinic was open.
“It was brilliant,” Bree said. “They have the schedule on the computer, and I kept pretending none of the times they were offering worked, until finally the woman turned the screen around so I could look for myself. It was easy. From there all I had to do was find Cassian’s little sister’s name and then say that was the only time we were free.”
Nessa’s gaze flitted to Cassian’s table. She recognized Cynthia’s ponytail among the
crowd of beautiful seniors.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Nessa said. “Sometimes, you know, Bree, you make me feel like…like I’m so boring.”
“You, boring?” Bree said. “Save boring for people who aren’t assisting with animal surgery in their garage.”
“No, that’s definitely not boring,” Nessa agreed. “Maybe it’s more like I’m missing out on the entire teenage experience.”
Bree pulled her glasses down again, her gaze meeting Nessa’s.
“You know,” Nessa shrugged. “Boys. Fun…”
“Tell me about it! I have been single for like, what, six weeks?”
“Four,” said Nessa.
“It feels longer. Okay, let’s just define teenage life. First: boys,” Bree said, holding out an upturned index finger, like she was about to count off a list. “We can make that happen. What else? Lip gloss? Crop tops? Your own beauty tutorial video channel?” Bree fake-smiled and finished her sarcastic finale. “ACTUAL TEEN MAKEOVER!”
“Get real,” Nessa groaned.
“No, seriously, just stop trying to break the four-minute mile or whatever, and we’ll get you a boyfriend.” Bree adopted a mischievous tone. “Maybe, if my plan works out, we’ll get you Cassian.”
“Oh, please,” said Nessa. “You know and I know, Cassian doesn’t know I’m alive. How do you know he’ll be the one taking his sister? What if we go to all this trouble and we’re sitting there all dressed up and it’s only Cassian’s mom?”
Bree took a sip from her thermos of ginseng tea. She smiled, showing off her dimple. Bree was like a soda bottle all shook up and ready to explode. “Do you think I haven’t thought of that?” she said. “The mom would be even better.”
“Better?” asked Nessa.
“Better because once we meet the mom and she sees how nicely we’re playing with Sierra, who do you think she’s going to turn to next time she needs babysitting help?” Bree replied.
“Are you kidding me?” Nessa said, laughing.
Nessa noticed that across the lawn, Cynthia Sinise was standing and looking for someone. She rarely smiled, but she was smiling now. Nessa followed its direction and it landed on Cassian. He smiled back and moved toward her. Nessa was too far away to hear, but it looked like Cassian was making some kind of joke and Cynthia was laughing.