Sunblind Read Free Page B

was the chief of police and since his death I’ve effectively been ordained an orphan, because having a mother who’s in a coma doesn’t really qualify as having a full-time mom. So I’m used to being respected and pitied; being loathed and wished dead is a totally new experience for me.
    The fact that people want the wolf—or whatever they think is turning our town into the setting for some new horror movie—dead, and not me—Dominy—doesn’t soften the blow either, because like I said it’s getting increasingly harder to separate the two. It isn’t like in the beginning when I couldn’t remember anything from when I was a wolf after I transformed back, when the lives of the wolf and the girl were skew lines. Now our lives intersect. I remember most everything; some memories are clearer than others, but mainly the transformations are mentally seamless. So if they want the wolf dead, I can’t help but take it personally and feel as if they want me dead too.
    Unable to shake the bothersome thought from my head, I look around the cafeteria again to examine who my potential enemies could be. Who was carrying a torch last night with my brother? They all look like they’re more interested in their franks ’n’ beans or their conversations, but I know better. I know that behind those faces, whether they’re filled with acne or animation or apathy, there exist Lubaphiles. They may not even realize that they’re part of Psycho Squaw’s army; they may never have heard of the crazy witch, but they’re doing her bidding all the same. And how ironic is it that her two right-hand men appear to be my brother and my guardian? I guess that should be her right- and left-hand men? Doesn’t matter. Without her even formulating a strategy, my adversary is closing in on me.
    Because Jess is right; people act jerktastically when they’re scared. I just have to make sure their fear doesn’t get me killed. And one of the best ways to thwart an enemy’s plan is to make sure he knows his plan is no longer secret. So I need to tell him. Or at least tell his daughter.
    â€œI know your father is trying to kill me,” I announce before Arla even places her tray on the lunch table.
    Her reaction is as smooth as her complexion. Obviously, being my friend and now my sort-of stepsister has taught Arla to expect the unexpected and to take outlandish comments in stride.
    â€œI thought his meatloaf the other night was really good,” she replies, sitting down across from me. “The chipotle in the gravy gave it some kick.”
    â€œI’m not talking about his meatloaf, which was really good, by the way,” I say. “I’m talking about the vigilante crusade he was on last night.”
    Her forehead crinkles like one of my French fries. “Sister-friend,” she says. “I have no idea what your mouth is yakking on about.”
    I stare at Arla and try hard not to laugh. It’s not that I find our conversation hilarious, but considering she’s wearing a 1950s-style Junior Miss platinum blond wig in honor of the fact that we are now in our junior year and at the same time adopting a tone of voice that is more appropriate to one of those 1970s blaxploitation films, she’s quite funny. Yup, the more I get to know Arla, the more I realize she’s filled with contradictions. Just like me.
    â€œClearly your dad’s learned how to be clandestine,” I suggest.
    â€œUnlike you,” Arla replies, scooping up a spoonful of beans.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I ask.
    â€œYou put my father, kill, and clandestine all into the same conversation,” she states. “Not exactly subtle.”
    I take a deep breath, because I realize what I’m about to say is less bizarre than it is a tad-bit accusatory. “Well, I’m, um, pretty sure your dad is the lead operative in a clandestine plot to rid Weeping Water