I’d never be able to admit my doughy, in-love-with-a-Westsider feeling to Ivy or Abby. Brandon didn’t fit neatly into their clique. To them, he was an outsider, plain and simple. He didn’t live in our neighborhood, he didn’t play sports, and, most important, he wasn’t Nash.
For now, I’d have to keep my thoughts and feelings locked away inside me. If Brandon didn’t tell anyone about the event, and neither did I, then no one would be the wiser.
However, I knew I’d need to thank Brandon. If Nash had rescued someone, he’d want to make it known and be celebrated on national TV. Brandon, however, had disappeared. I didn’t even know where he lived to deliver him a thank-you gift. I assumed he didn’t want any recognition or attention. I felt he might be the kind of person who’d be embarrassed if I tried. Besides, what does one do for a person who saves one’s life? Brandon was a true hero—brave, modest, humble. There was no real way to properly thank them. But that didn’t mean I shouldn’t try.
For now, I’d just have to wait for the right moment.
I wouldn’t be able to admit my obsessive feelings toward Brandon to anyone—not my friends, family, or him—when it was hard enough to admit them to myself. Instead I looked at the clock and counted the minutes until I knew I’d see him again.
Chapter Nine
Tall Tales
I wasn’t excited about the weekend. Normally, I’d take advantage of the two days off catching up on homework, chores, and, most of all, texting, calling, and hanging out with Ivy and Abby. Nash had an away game, so we weren’t going to have a date night. I was so eager to go back to school and see Brandon, I spent most of my hours not accomplishing anything and dreaming about him.
I tried to snap myself out of my pining for Brandon, so I threw myself into the research for my folklore paper. Werewolves were subjects of Greek mythology and European and Early American folklore. In most of the traditions, lycanthropes were scary, deadly creatures to be feared. No one wanted to become a werewolf, and no one wanted to encounter one. I’d been holed up all day when I thought it might be good to get some new perspective. Mr. Worthington seemed to know more than anyone about the legends, and I knew he’d be happy to tell me about them.
“I want to talk about werewolves,” I said when I found him reading a magazine in the lobby at Pine Tree Village later that day. “I’m doing a paper on folklore and thought you’d be the perfect person to interview.”
He paused, taking an extra moment to examine me. Then he closed his magazine.
“It’s me, Celeste,” I said, confused at his expression.
“I know who you are . . .” he said cheekily. “But you seem different. . . .”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s an extra twinkle in your eye.”
I blushed. Could he see I’d been obsessed about Brandon?
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I said.
“Are you sure there isn’t anything new? Did you do something different to your hair?”
“Same old me,” I said. I felt funny about girl talking and gushing about a guy I couldn’t get out of my mind to an eighty-nine-year-old man.
“I’ll get it out of you eventually,” he said. “Something about you . . . but I can’t put my finger on it. I haven’t been around for all these years without seeing things.”
“Well, that is what I want to talk to you about.”
“Yes?”
“I’m doing a paper on werewolf folklore and was hoping you could tell me more about the Legend’s Run werewolf.”
Mr. Worthington perked up.
“Please, come sit down.”
I sat on the sofa next to him. I pulled out my notebook and opened it on my lap. “I read that a person could become a werewolf if they wear a pelt or skin from a wolf,” I said, “or if they’re bitten by a werewolf. And of course one of the cures is a silver bullet.”
“Go on,” he said.
“And some can shape-shift.”
“Yes.”
“But that’s all basic stuff. I want to know—what do you know about the Legend’s Run werewolf?”
“What do I know?” he said with a mischievous laugh.
“Yes. Anything you can tell me would be great.”
“Well, let’s see,” Mr. Worthington began. “He was first spotted in the last century, soon after the town was founded. But his transformation didn’t come from a werewolf bite or a pelt of skin worn around his human body. It came from the bite of a wolf.”
“Wow . . .” I said.
“He was a regular man—in fact, a good man—one of the early settlers who were helping build the community. A loved and respected man.” Mr. Worthington recited his tale as if it were fact. “He was building a house when a pack of rabid wolves stole the basket his child was resting in. The man fought for his son’s life. In the struggle, the man was left bloody and fighting for his life. The following full moon, the man was missing from his home. It was very unusual, as he was always protective of his family and community.”