The Wolf of Hopes and Dreams

               There’s a new family next door, but I’m not allowed to socialize with them. My brothers can do anything they want but I must stay home and do my chores… and my younger brother’s, too.

               To get through the emotions, I listen to music of my own choosing today. Not the Contemporary Christian music my mom listens to; I choose Disney music today. I feel the magic in the air when I sing along to anything relating to magic.

               Halloween is my favorite time of the year, though I can’t celebrate in ways others might. Instead of “trick or treat,” I have to attend “Hallelujah Night” at the church where all the bad blends in with the good to gain power over everyone. Mom is making me dress as an angel again; I don’t feel like an angel. Instead, I’m evil because I don’t believe like she does. At least, that’s what she says to me when I ask questions. Sometimes I want to scream, but I hold it in like a good girl.

               The open window lets fresh, cool, crisp air waft into my face. The earthy smells of peat and moss and leaves excite me. The wind seems to flow around me, wrapping me in an emotional net that will keep me sane and happy. The anger leaves as I breathe in the scents.

               My hand grazes a knife I put into the sink before I was focused on my task. The bleach in the rinse water stings my finger as the knife slices through—the burning seems to flow to my elbow, blocked from going further by the tension in my arms. Some of the blood went into the wash-water, too. I watch as it blends with the suds, turning some of the bubbles pink.

               The doorbell rings and I wrap my hand with a paper towel—I’ll have to toss the rest of the roll because I got blood on it—before answering.

               “Hi,” the new neighbor boy, around the same age as my fifteen years, says. His blue eyes twinkle in the shadows, intriguing me. Somehow, they seemed as bright as my own blue ones in the shade. A spark ignites in the center of my brain; he’s familiar, somehow.

               “Hi,” I respond, somewhat breathless as though I had sprinted a few seconds. “Welcome,” I add as I walk onto the porch and shut the door behind me. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t have visitors when I’m home alone.”

               “You’re not alone with visitors,” he said, turning his head in a puppy-like way. He smiles and I laugh. There’s something animalistic about him.

               “What’s your name?” I blurt as my heart beats faster. I wipe my bloody hand on my jeans; the sweat is too much to handle now.

               He smiles. “Rusty Zimmers. What’s yours?”

               “Ruth Storm,” I say with a grimace. “I want to change it when I’m old enough, though I haven’t chosen my own name yet.”

               “Keep the Storm part; it’s cool.”

               We laugh together and I feel my face turn as red as Rusty’s. His hair looks orange compared to the pinkish-red hue in his cheeks and forehead. His blue eyes pierce my heart and I take a deep breath.

“Wow, I can breathe around you,” I say and bite my lip—I didn’t mean to say it aloud.

“Me too,” he says and lowers his eyes. “Kind of… So, tonight’s Halloween. What are you doing?”

“Hallelujah Night.” I sigh.

“Sounds lame. Want some company during it?”

“Yes, are you asking if you can come with me?”

“Sure, what time?”

“It starts at five, but we’re always unfashionably late… so sometime after five. You can ride with us. My mom likes getting people to go to church with us, so I don’t think there will be a problem.”

We part ways after making the plans.

A few hours later, I have a bandage on my finger and my mom fits me for the homemade costume. She berates me for injuring myself and wasting water. She lectures me on trusting the new neighbors—I’m uncertain how she knows I talked to Rusty—and tells me the way of Jesus is the right way. Anyone who celebrates Halloween worships Satan and can’t be trusted.

I smile through it all, knowing down deep my mom is trying to control everything about me. I feel trapped. In three years, I will move out and explore the world and learn the truth about “good” and “evil” in the universe. For one, can you lump any one group into the term “evil”? What about misled?

I stop thinking along those terms for now; she seems to sense anytime I’m insecure or confident, increasing the first and destroying the latter. I smile so much my teeth begin to ache, though that seems impossible. Maybe I’m just too sensitive.

My mom finishes with the last touches—a set of wings that weigh more than they should with their cotton stuffing and a halo of little stars and moons that presses on my skull—and I walk out to greet Rusty. I’m more excited to see him again than I’ve been for what seems anything in my life.

When I walk out, Rusty is on the curb, watching people in the neighborhood walk by. All the costumes bring the neighborhood to life.

“Nice werewolf costume,” I say. “It looks real. Are you a lumberjack werewolf?”

“That’s right, nice guess,” he says as he pulls out a fake ax.

He looks like a puppy again. An urge to touch him and caress his fur comes over me, but I pull back. I don’t want to be weird.

My mom makes my brother sit between Rusty and me. We still exchange glances as my mom sings as loud as she can over the radio. The song is about wolves in sheep’s’ clothing. She chose this song, I’m sure.

When we arrive, I feel the energy come from inside. It is not the happy energy one would expect from a church. There’s something off about it, and it’s not the Halloween curse upon the land. The parking lot is packed, and I begin to shake.

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” Rusty whispers in my ear.

“You don’t either,” I say with a smile. We walk in touching fingers; it helps me cope as all eyes turn to us. Mom pulls me to the side and warns me about “wolves in sheep’s clothing,” like I didn’t already hear her singing about it in the car.

“It’s funny; he’s dressed like a wolf, not a sheep.” I walk away before she can berate me more.

“I have to bob for apples,” I tell Rusty as I approach. “Do you want to join me?”

Rusty laughs. “I’ll just watch. Kick some butt!”

The ice cube, water, and apple-filled metal troughs call to me. “Buck-toothed Ruth” was a name given to me by some of the church people, adults and kids alike. I show them every year that my teeth do not make me inferior.

The one-minute timer begins, and I shove my face in the water. I don’t go for the apples right away; instead, I enjoy the feeling as my face numbs; the burning sensation tells me it’s time. My lips loosen and I open my jaws. Water rushes into my mouth and nose. I feel the apples’ energies, sweet and nutritious and energizing. I salivate as I grab for one after another.

My hands are tied behind my back, so I feel like a chicken as I pull each one to the ground. By the time the timer runs out, I’ve collected seventeen apples, without rushing. That’s a record for me.

Rusty claps with a grin on his face, his bright red fur glowing in the fluorescent lights. His eyes still captivate me, and I walk toward him. “You’re pretty neat,” he says.

I blush and reply, “I’m kind of fond of you, too.” I look around at an energy, and whisper. “Something is wrong… it feels… evil in here, and it’s getting stronger. “I shiver, and realize my hair is sopping, and my white dress is now translucent.

“Here, take this,” he says as he removes his flannel, leaving suspenders over his undershirt, which is whiter than the walls in the church.

I take the flannel, smelling it before I cover my semi-nudity. It’s a warm cedar scent with slight puppy smells, which permeate my nostrils and my heart.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say. “People are still looking at me.”

“What about your family?”

“I’ll leave a note. It’s only a few miles home; we can walk.”

Rusty nods and I lead him through the throng, many of whom dressed as Mary or Joseph or the wise men. No one chose Judas or Jesus. I would have chosen to be a magical creature or a dragon, had I the choice.

Once I leave the building, I relax a little. Rusty and I walk side-by-side, enjoying the cool night air. Little critters run through the trees lining the gravel road we chose to walk tonight.

I pull the flannel tighter, welcoming the warmth it brings. “Thank you for loaning me the shirt,” I say after a few moments.

“No problem, keep it as long as you want.” He sniffs the air and pulls his fists from his pockets. His hair stands up in a crest down his neck; I assume it goes all the way down his back.

Rusty begins to sprint ahead and I race after him, glad for my running training over the years. I meet him stride-for-stride.

I see his target up ahead. A man looks over, rage in his eyes. I see his teeth, like Rusty’s, only chipped and stained with red. The man turns into a beast—no, a werewolf—and rushes toward us. Rusty pushes me out of the way and races ahead, meeting the werewolf head-on.

I want to help, but I will just get in the way. I decide to look for survivors instead. A whimper leads me to bushes, where a young child, no more than four, bleeds on the ground. She has wounds all over her, her stomach ripped and hemorrhaging.

“No,” I say as I lean over the little girl. “Not today; you will live through this, and you will be stronger than ever!” I remove the flannel and staunch the blood flow. My body will keep this little girl safe from further attack.

I begin to hum a melody of my own making and I close my eyes. I feel the urge to breathe deep, and I give in to that urge. My mind slows and I become the calm before, during, and after a storm. The wind circles us and flows through the air, extending farther than I can feel.

When I open my eyes, the scene has changed. The little girl has no marks, and her clothing is repaired. I look at my finger; the wound is gone.

“You’re an angel,” the little girl says.

“No, I’m not an angel,” I respond. “I don’t know what I am.”

“You’re a witch,” Rusty says as he approaches. His t-shirt is now redder than his hair or his blushes.

“I won’t tell anyone,” the little girl offers.

“It’s okay if you do,” I say. I’m done hiding who I am. I look at Rusty. “How do you know I’m a witch?”

“I smelled it in your blood when you cut yourself today.” He looked down. “I’m a werewolf in real life.”

“I figured as much. Are you also a lumberjack?”

He laughs and says “no.”

“Then you’re still wearing a costume. Let’s get this little girl home… what’s your name?”

“Sitar,” the little girl says.

“I like that. I think I will go by Sitara from now on.”