Never Cry Werewolf (2 page)

My dad’s really a simple guy, so maybe he was too dazzled by Priscilla’s boob job and her flashy clothes to see what she really was. Since my mom had died three years ago, Dad had been seriously lacking in the dating department. He was ripe for the gold digging and Priscilla knew it.

Less than four months after they had met, just as stock in Dad’s company split, making him the first multimillionaire in our Milwaukee neighborhood, Priscilla had convinced him to marry her in a tacky, huge wedding fit for the E! channel. But her best work was talking Dad into moving us away from my life and friends to this fortress in Beverly Hills. When I asked why we had to leave, Dad told me it was because we needed a fresh start. But I always thought it was because Priscilla would be closer to her plastic surgeon.

“It’s late,” Dad said, scratching at his crazy hair again. “You should get to bed, Shelby. We all should.”

I shrugged.

“Yes. Let’s continue this discussion in the morning. Remember, dear, we have some
options,
”

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Priscilla said, giving Dad a knowing glance. Before I could ask what that was all about, she whisked him up the staircase to bed.

I was left wondering what she meant by
options.
Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be long before I found out.

I slept terribly that night. Peeking through my window, the face of the full moon kept me awake like a giant lighted clock dial. Over and over, I thought about what Priscilla must be planning. I mean, they’d already taken the prom away. What else could they do?

It wasn’t like I was a bad kid. Sure, I stayed out late sometimes, but that was only because I couldn’t stand being around Priscilla, especially when she was draping herself all over Dad. And they didn’t need to keep harping at me about hanging out with boys. I got good grades, so it wasn’t my fault that guys from school wanted help and that sometimes meant I got distracted and lost track of time. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with helping someone out, especially a cute guy.

For the record, I was trying to be more responsible lately. I now knew that sneaking out of the house to help with a last-minute history project could turn into joyriding. I’d figured out that tutoring a running back from the football team sometimes led to getting caught making out in the reference section of the library. I totally got it. And now that I was trying to follow the rules, a simple walk in the moonlight had ruined everything.

And what about Josh Tilton? I doubted he was in any kind of trouble. I was the one taking the fall for a boy who dared to push the rules and make me break my curfew. Life was so unfair.

Priscilla and Dad were on the stone patio eating breakfast when I finally went downstairs the next morning. Against the velvet green of the lawn behind them, they looked like a picture-perfect couple, right down to their fancy tennis clothes. I hadn’t even brushed my hair.

I padded up to the table and plunked down into one of the white iron chairs.

“There’s my sleepyhead,” Dad said.

I gave him a half smile. He hadn’t called me “sleepyhead” in a long time.

“Here you go,” he said, handing me a glass of the fresh-squeezed orange juice he’d poured from the crystal pitcher on the table.

Priscilla lowered her fashion magazine and gave me a perfunctory smile. “Good morning, Shelby.”

“Hi.” I took a swig of the juice and reached for a piece of toast.

Dad passed the strawberry jam without me even asking. I slathered my toast with it, and then paused. It was too quiet. And everyone was being too nice. It was weird.

“Okay. What’s going on?” I said, setting down my toast and knife.

Dad cleared his throat. “Honey Bun and I feel like you need a break.”

“Summer’s almost here, Dad. I’ll get a two-month break.”

“No,” Priscilla said, tucking a strand of her black hair behind an ear. “What your father means is a break from us.”

“I will be having a break. My friends and I were talking about a trip to Cabo.”

“No.” Priscilla placed a hand on one of my father’s. “I’m afraid not. Mike?”

“Ah…we’ve been talking it over,” Dad said, “and we feel that perhaps some time away with counseling and fresh air would be ideal.”

My heart started to pound. “Counseling?”

Dad nodded. “Some time to spend working on yourself.”

“Yes,” said Priscilla in a silky tone. “At a top-notch teen program at an exclusive facility.”

Oh, crap. She meant brat camp. I remembered the stories from school about the kids who were sent away to hike in the mountains for the summer at one of those “top-notch” programs. They came back all brainwashed, like totally different people. I’m sure that was just what Priscilla was hoping.

While I stewed, Priscilla calmly reached into her Coach tote and pulled out a stack of slick brochures. She fanned them out on the table in front of my father and me. “My favorite of these is Red Canyon Ranch, a personal skill-building institute in the Utah desert.”

“Wait. Dad,
you
actually think I should go to a brat camp?” I couldn’t keep the anger from my
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voice. No one had ever called me a brat. Certainly not my dad, who, up until Priscilla had hypnotized him, had been semi-reasonable.

“I need to be able to trust you again. Some time apart might be good.” Dad looked down at the table, like he was embarrassed to regurgitate Priscilla’s fake reason. “A camp like this might help teach you some life skills, give you some perspective.”

“Thanks. It really feels good to have your own dad throw you to the wolves,” I said, in total disbelief that he was selling me out.

Dad held my gaze for a moment, looking like he wanted to say something. I hoped he was going to tell me this was all a bad idea and just to forget it. But he didn’t. He gazed at me in a sad, tired way—

a way that seemed to say he didn’t know what to do with me. It hurt to see that in his eyes.

I picked up one of the brochures, just so I didn’t have to face him.

“Maybe it could be fun,” he said.

Eww. The kids on the Camp Sweetwater brochure made me cringe. They looked like they were being held at gunpoint and forced to smile.

But Dad didn’t seem bothered. “‘Nestled in the majestic mountains of western Montana, Camp Sweetwater is the most effective remote teen therapy facility in the nation.’ You love the mountains. It’d be beautiful up there,” he said, with what I hoped was fake enthusiasm.

I paged through a few more brochures, and then finally I held up the Red Canyon brochure.

“Priscilla’s favorite says ‘boot camp’ workouts. Five-mile runs in the
desert?
That sounds like hell on earth.”

“Shelby, language,” whispered Priscilla. “And desert air can be really good for your skin. People pay thousands for workouts at desert spas.”

“It’s not a spa, that’s the problem.” I glared at her and then turned to Dad. “You want me to run in the desert? Am I that bad of a kid?”

He didn’t answer, just continued paging through another brochure. “Swimming, arts and crafts, archery,” he said with a hopeful smile. “They sound like normal camps.”

“Normal camps do not serve therapy with their s’mores,” I said.

Dad regained his serious face. “Here, listen to this one: ‘Campers learn self-respect and discipline along with the joy of helping others. After experiencing community service projects, our graduates go on to lead productive lives filled with solid American values.’”

“Discipline? Community service projects?” I shuddered, imagining myself in a baggy orange jumpsuit picking up trash along the side of the road. “Summer is supposed to be fun.”

Dad patted my hand. “Keep looking. There’s bound to be one you’d like.”

“I’ve already made a call to Red Canyon,” Priscilla said in a breezy tone. “They have a place for you if you’d like to give it a try. A little discipline and physical conditioning would be good for you.”

“I want you to have a say in this, Shelby. Pick the one that you think you’d enjoy,” Dad said, giving Priscilla a back-off look.

Reluctantly, I started reading the brochures seriously. Camp after camp promising to return well-adjusted teens at the end of summer. Lists of disorders and problems they could treat. Glossy photographs of immaculate campuses and barracklike rooms. My stomach felt sicker as the minutes went by.

Finally, after discarding a few more with pictures of kids smiling like zombies, I picked up a brochure with mountains on the front.

Deep in the Oregon forests, Camp Crescent is an exclusive facility tailored to the
individual. We strive not to change young people into someone their parents think they should be,
but to deepen their understanding of who they are. Transformations happen every summer at
Camp Crescent through traditional camp activities and a variety of artistic expression exercises.

I let out a deep breath. “At least this one doesn’t sound like torture or brainwashing.”

“Camp Crescent is a good start,” Priscilla said with a shrug. “But it may not have the discipline you need. I’m going to have Red Canyon save you a place.”

“How about neither one?” I said, beginning a last desperate attempt. “I know I haven’t exactly
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been the perfect daughter lately, but—”

Priscilla faked a cough and slanted her eyes toward Dad.

I tried to ignore her, realizing I was fighting for more than my summer. “Listen, I’ll try to follow all your rules. I’ll try to be nice to Honey Bun. Please, don’t make me go.” But even as I said the words, I knew it was too late.

Priscilla’s smile told me I was already gone.

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T
he last weeks of school went by, the senior prom came and went—Josh Tilton took Sophie Brewer, Honor Society vice president—and my carefree life spiraled downward. The moon magic had totally worn off.

So, the second week of June, I found myself in a mess of kids gathering around the Camp Crescent bus in a parking lot at the Portland airport. As I dug in my backpack for a stick of gum, a girl in sunglasses tugged on my sleeve. She reminded me of an elf. Not the tall
Lord of the Rings
kind, the toy-building North Pole kind.

Her tiny face paled against her blue-black hair as she asked, “Weren’t you on my flight from LAX?”

I nodded. I’d noticed her reading a copy of
Paris Match
a few rows away from me on the plane.

“Yeah, that was me,” I said.

She nodded back, then stared at the sprinkle of afternoon rain sizzling on the warm pavement, apparently ignoring me now that she knew where I was from. So much for elfin conversation.

To pass the time, I put on lip gloss and fluffed my hair, using my mirror to check out the guys behind us in line. Some of them had potential, especially a tall blond guy who resembled Brad Pitt when I squinted really hard. But, I reminded myself, the last thing I needed to be focused on was boys. I had to make it through the summer and stay far away from anything resembling desert sand and military uniforms.

The line inched forward, placing me in front of the luggage compartment, which overflowed with matching Louis Vuitton travel sets and expensive hiking gear. I handed my plain red American Tourister to the pimply guy loading the bags.

“Sheep,” said Elf Girl, dragging an airport cart of luggage toward the guy.

“Excuse me?”

“They buy the designer labels like sheep.” She shrugged. “Like it really matters what your camping stuff is packed in.”

“Easy for you to say,” said a redheaded girl, cutting in line in front of us. “When you’re a billionaire, I guess first impressions don’t matter.” She shoved a huge monogrammed suitcase toward the bag dude, then studied my blank face. “She’s Ariel DeVoisier? The perfume heiress?”

“Oh.” I blinked at her. “Great.” DeVoisier? I’d seen the name at the makeup counter, but Elf Girl sure didn’t seem all glamorous or anything. Her black cardigan was buttoned all the way to the top, and her tan capris were pretty normal. Her sunglasses did have little rhinestones in the corners, though.

Meanwhile, the redhead smiled. “I’m Jenna Grant. My dad’s in real estate in South Beach.” She did a sort of twirl, showing off her hot-pink jacket and her matching mini. “Prada.”

“Nice,” I said with a shrug. It was a cute outfit and all, but not the best for camping, obviously.

Besides, I wasn’t too impressed by the whole Prada thing. I mean, seriously, a year ago when I lived in Milwaukee, my friends all shopped at Old Navy. Nobody cared about what you wore, just if you looked good in it.

Jenna looked me up and down, as if trying to use X-ray vision to check out my labels. “I’m sorry

—and you are?”

From her snotty tone, I guessed she wasn’t satisfied with my lackluster reaction or with my outfit of American Eagle shorts, Roxy zip sweatshirt, and tank. Labels aside, I’m no fashionista or anything.

Some makeup essentials, a few highlights to brighten up my boring brown hair, and I’m good to go. I gave her a confident smile and said, “I’m Shelby Locke.”

“Wait—of
Locke
Cosmeceuticals?” replied Jenna in a breathless voice.

“Yeah. So?”

“No waaaay!” Jenna’s eyes widened. “My mother
swears
by Re-Gen. Those Botox people are losing a fortune on her. Re-Gen, unbelievable.”

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All of a sudden, the entire line of kids clustered around me, talking about Re-Gen. Ariel hung back, seeming to be the only one not interested in Dad’s plastic surgery drug. Meanwhile, everyone was chattering about their parents’ plastic surgeons or someone they knew who wanted Re-Gen. It was creepy. At least at my school, everyone was over everyone else’s fame or money or whatever.