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Authors: Cynthia Leitich Smith
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meet some new people. It’ll be good practice for college.”
Good practice for college? One reason I don’t lie often is because I’m horrendous at it.
“Just be careful,” my father replies. He reaches for the syrup, then, reconsidering, withdraws his hand. “If you catch so much as a glimpse of Darby — I mean, he’s supposed to be leaving town, and he seems harmless enough, but —”
“You’ll be the second to know,” I promise. “After Sheriff Bigheart.”
It’s the right answer.
I wait until Dad departs for Founders’ Day and then give it another five minutes for him to clear out of the neighborhood. Meanwhile, I book upstairs to my bedroom, Peso at my heels. I pull on a pair of shorts, tucking a copy of the spell into the front pocket, and a tank top that’s a little lower-cut at the bust and higher-cut at the midriff than, strictly speaking, makes my father comfortable.
I’m not dressing for Yoshi. I’m dressing so that I can shift fast if I need to, and that works best without restrictive material binding my human form.
I may have given up on romance, but the thought of nakedness can be distracting. I doubt it’ll come up, but if so, the whole transformation process works best starting naked, and that could mean naked me and naked Yoshi, if only to . . . What are we doing, anyway?
Oh, right. Tracking my Coyote stalker — focus, Kayla, focus.
Taking stock of the clouds darkening overhead, I’m proud of myself for picking up the human girl’s scent before I see her. I’m getting better at that. “Yoshi?”
“Come on up,” he calls from my tree house.
Given the crash I heard earlier, I didn’t expect to find Yoshi alone. But the newcomer doesn’t look threatening. She has vanilla-blond hair with turquoise streaks, a small silver hoop through her left eyebrow, and tiny crosses tattooed around her pale neck. Yoshi introduces her as “Aimee,” and he says her name like she means something to him.
They’re seated, cross-legged, on my fuzzy throw rugs. She’s fiddling with her phone, and he’s flipping through one of my
Mechanical Engineering
magazines.
Her smile is welcoming. “Howdy.”
Her tongue is pierced, too.
I wave, feeling small-town, clean-cut, and dull as cardboard.
“She’s going to stand out,” I say with a gesture. I’m not all that worried about it, but I need some way to explain my up-and-down stare.
Pushing to his feet, Yoshi laughs. “Please. Your dad waltzed out dressed like an undertaker.” Yoshi waves the magazine. “Do you understand any of this stuff?”
“Of course.” Not really, but I will someday.
Yoshi tosses the magazine aside. “I’m getting an A in phys ed.”
Aimee snorts with laughter and still manages to be adorable.
I’m not sure what’s so funny. “I take it Peter Villarreal didn’t make an appearance?”
As Yoshi shakes his head, Aimee says, “He’s pretty low-profile online, too, but I friend-requested him.”
“Most shifters are,” Yoshi puts in. “Low-profile, that is.”
I’m not, and there’s some subtext I’m not quite getting. Is he saying I’m a lousy wereperson? Maybe I don’t know much about my shifter heritage or culture, but I refuse to believe that there’s one right way to be a Cat or that he’s better at it than me. Why is it important to Yoshi to be better at it than me, anyway? What does he have to prove?
Aimee leans forward. “Kayla, I read up on the guy, Benjamin Bloom, who died on the carousel. I’m sorry. I’m sure you grew up with him. But do you know anything about the history of the ride? Sometimes with magic attached to an object, a seemingly insignificant detail about it becomes important.”
“Come again?” Yoshi says. “Where did you —”
Aimee swats him on the leg. “You said to research the mystical angle and . . . Kieren texted me the information.”
“Kieren?” I hate being the odd-wereperson-out. “Who’s Kieren?”
“Good friend of Aimee’s.” Yoshi
Good practice for college? One reason I don’t lie often is because I’m horrendous at it.
“Just be careful,” my father replies. He reaches for the syrup, then, reconsidering, withdraws his hand. “If you catch so much as a glimpse of Darby — I mean, he’s supposed to be leaving town, and he seems harmless enough, but —”
“You’ll be the second to know,” I promise. “After Sheriff Bigheart.”
It’s the right answer.
I wait until Dad departs for Founders’ Day and then give it another five minutes for him to clear out of the neighborhood. Meanwhile, I book upstairs to my bedroom, Peso at my heels. I pull on a pair of shorts, tucking a copy of the spell into the front pocket, and a tank top that’s a little lower-cut at the bust and higher-cut at the midriff than, strictly speaking, makes my father comfortable.
I’m not dressing for Yoshi. I’m dressing so that I can shift fast if I need to, and that works best without restrictive material binding my human form.
I may have given up on romance, but the thought of nakedness can be distracting. I doubt it’ll come up, but if so, the whole transformation process works best starting naked, and that could mean naked me and naked Yoshi, if only to . . . What are we doing, anyway?
Oh, right. Tracking my Coyote stalker — focus, Kayla, focus.
Taking stock of the clouds darkening overhead, I’m proud of myself for picking up the human girl’s scent before I see her. I’m getting better at that. “Yoshi?”
“Come on up,” he calls from my tree house.
Given the crash I heard earlier, I didn’t expect to find Yoshi alone. But the newcomer doesn’t look threatening. She has vanilla-blond hair with turquoise streaks, a small silver hoop through her left eyebrow, and tiny crosses tattooed around her pale neck. Yoshi introduces her as “Aimee,” and he says her name like she means something to him.
They’re seated, cross-legged, on my fuzzy throw rugs. She’s fiddling with her phone, and he’s flipping through one of my
Mechanical Engineering
magazines.
Her smile is welcoming. “Howdy.”
Her tongue is pierced, too.
I wave, feeling small-town, clean-cut, and dull as cardboard.
“She’s going to stand out,” I say with a gesture. I’m not all that worried about it, but I need some way to explain my up-and-down stare.
Pushing to his feet, Yoshi laughs. “Please. Your dad waltzed out dressed like an undertaker.” Yoshi waves the magazine. “Do you understand any of this stuff?”
“Of course.” Not really, but I will someday.
Yoshi tosses the magazine aside. “I’m getting an A in phys ed.”
Aimee snorts with laughter and still manages to be adorable.
I’m not sure what’s so funny. “I take it Peter Villarreal didn’t make an appearance?”
As Yoshi shakes his head, Aimee says, “He’s pretty low-profile online, too, but I friend-requested him.”
“Most shifters are,” Yoshi puts in. “Low-profile, that is.”
I’m not, and there’s some subtext I’m not quite getting. Is he saying I’m a lousy wereperson? Maybe I don’t know much about my shifter heritage or culture, but I refuse to believe that there’s one right way to be a Cat or that he’s better at it than me. Why is it important to Yoshi to be better at it than me, anyway? What does he have to prove?
Aimee leans forward. “Kayla, I read up on the guy, Benjamin Bloom, who died on the carousel. I’m sorry. I’m sure you grew up with him. But do you know anything about the history of the ride? Sometimes with magic attached to an object, a seemingly insignificant detail about it becomes important.”
“Come again?” Yoshi says. “Where did you —”
Aimee swats him on the leg. “You said to research the mystical angle and . . . Kieren texted me the information.”
“Kieren?” I hate being the odd-wereperson-out. “Who’s Kieren?”
“Good friend of Aimee’s.” Yoshi
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