Never Cry Werewolf (3 page)

My cheeks flaming hot, I backed away from the crowd. “It’s no big deal,” I said.

“Boys and girls, we need to maintain an orderly check-in.” An old guy with a mustache and a beer belly barely hidden by a Camp Crescent polo shirt clapped his hands near the bus doors. “In line, now!”

Grumbling, everyone fell back into place.

“So, you’re, like, a celebrity,” mumbled Ariel. “Yay for you.”

“Yeah,” I said, arching an eyebrow at her. “Yay for me, Miss Billionaire.”

Ariel hid behind her fringe of straight black bangs, but I did see her smile.

After hearing about Re-Gen, Jenna apparently decided I was somebody she should get to know.

She blabbed away about her family’s second home in the Hamptons, and her mother’s private raw food chef, who made the most divine organic fennel carpaccio, whatever that was. By the time we’d reached the front of the line, my brain hurt.

“Howdy, I’m Mr. Winters,” the old guy said, checking my name off on his clipboard. “Deposit your cell phones, PDAs, MP3 players, and any other electronics into the bin on the front seat.”

“My PDA?” I clutched my backpack to my chest. I’d wanted to text my friends a daily camp report.

“You’ll barely miss it,” said Mr. Winters with a thin smile.

Ariel rolled her eyes but dug out her cell phone.

Mr. Winters tapped his pen against his clipboard. “Let’s go, girls, we’re on a schedule.”

And with that, I climbed into the darkened bus and chucked my last link to the outside world into a plastic bin.

Reading steadily as the bus rolled away the miles, I was halfway through a romance paperback when we jerked to a stop. I looked out the window and saw that a black limo had pulled up next to us on the shoulder of the road.

“Sit tight, campers. This will only take a second,” said Mr. Winters, bounding to the front of the bus.

Jenna, who’d taken the seat across from me and Ariel, said, “Why couldn’t
I
ride in a limo from the airport?”

The boys behind us hooted and laughed. One of the guys leaned forward. It was the blond guy from the line—my squinty-eyed Brad Pitt. “There’s always one at every camp.”

I raised my eyebrows. “One what?”

“A prima donna,” he said with a twist of his lips that was almost a sneer.

“Oh-kaay.” I gave him a nod and settled back into my seat.

“Watch out for that guy,” Ariel whispered to me. “Charles Morton. Totally nuts. His dad owns seven tabloid newspapers worldwide. A few years ago, he tried to buy his way out of Pinnacle Crest Camp in Idaho by promising to get the counselor Reese Witherspoon’s cell number. When that didn’t work he tried to run away. They found him hitchhiking along the interstate. He’s totally whacked.”

“Sounds like it.” I gave Ariel a little smile, impressed by how dialed in she was. “The brat camp world must be very small.”

She nodded. “I see some of the same kids at camp every year. Everyone’s parents keep shelling out money when these stupid places don’t work. They’ll probably keep sending us here until we go off to college.”

I wondered why Ariel kept getting sent to camp, but I didn’t ask her. It was probably something like my situation—evil stepmother trying to ruin her life, or her parents too distracted to care.

“So, have you been to Camp Crescent before?” I asked.

“No, but it’s cushy compared to the place I was last year.” Ariel’s elfin smile dimmed.

“What camp are you talking about? Was it really that bad?”

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“Red Canyon Ranch. Every time I say its name the scar from my scorpion sting flares up.”

I blinked at her. “Hot desert boot camp? Third level of hell, right?” I said, thinking she was joking, but Ariel didn’t laugh.

“It almost killed me last summer,” she said with a shudder.

I peered into her eyes to see if she was serious, and what I saw there gave me a chill. “Uh…my stepmother said if things don’t work out here, I’d end up there,” I said.

Ariel’s mouth tightened. “Trust me. It’s horrible. People are always yelling at you, barking orders, making you run miles in the sand dunes.”

“So the brochure doesn’t lie,” I said.

“Actually, it leaves a lot of things out,” Ariel said. “They have this solitary confinement place called the Thinking Shack. I got sent there once for twenty-four hours because I made my bed the wrong way by accident.”

“No way.”

“That wasn’t the worst, though, Shelby. They try to tear you down and make you into some kind of robot.”

Just then the bus shook with the clamping noise of the luggage compartment shutting. As the limo sped away, Mr. Winters lumbered back up the steps, along with a boy—not the type of guy you’d think was cute right away but definitely the type that made you want to keep looking.

Dark hair spilled down his forehead, and his olive-toned skin gleamed in the dim light. He was tall, with long arms. A leather jacket, a black concert T-shirt, worn Levi’s, and motorcycle boots showed he was anything but a preppy jock like some of the boys on the bus. And he hadn’t gone the all-black route like some of the Goth guys. He stood in the aisle motionless, like he was daring anyone to say something.

Ah, yes. The rebel troublemaker common to every school I’d ever heard of, let alone attended.

The cute bad boy you date and he wrecks your life. I wasn’t impressed. But when he took off his sunglasses, I found myself staring into deep, amber brown eyes.

“Austin Bridges the Third,” whispered Ariel, giving him a little wave. “What is he doing here?”

“What? He’s not a brat camp regular?” I said.

Ariel shook her head. “Never.”

Jenna leaned across the aisle. “Do you know him?” she gushed.

Ariel nodded. “His dad and his entourage stay at our beach house when they tour So Cal. We know them, all right.”

“Oh, wait. Bridges? That’s the son of that crazy lead singer from Burning Bridges?” I said, wrinkling up my nose.

Ariel and Jenna looked at me like I was crazy.

“Sorry. I have heard of them, but I don’t keep up with dried-up old rock stars,” I said with a little shrug.

“Austin was on the cover of
People
three months ago with his dad,” said Jenna.

“I must have missed it,” I murmured.

The guys behind us let out a little whoop as Austin searched for a seat. “‘Dancing on your grave! I

’ll be dancing on your grave, dearie!’” they sang, butchering lyrics from Burning Bridges’s last hit.

Austin glared over at them, shutting them right up. “Have we a problem, lads?”

Ooh. British accent alert. I loved accents. I sat up straighter to make sure I didn’t miss a word.

As the bus lurched forward, Austin slid his backpack off his shoulder and took an empty seat a few rows in front of us, his eyes still on the doofs behind us. The glare was so hot now, I swear I almost saw smoke rising up.

“Well? Have we?” Austin said.

Charles turned red. “Chill, man. We were just singing.”

“As you Yanks are fond of saying, don’t quit your day job,” Austin said tartly.

Hmm…I stopped watching, and went back to reading my paperback romance. Well, pretending to read, anyway. My eyes were on the glossy hair of Austin Bridges III.

Camp just got a whole lot more interesting.

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After what seemed like an eternity, the paved road ended, and the bus shot into a tunnel of dense evergreen trees. From the bus window, it was trunk after trunk as far back as you could see. Tangles of berry brambles, prehistoric-looking giant ferns, and scrubby underbrush filled out what few holes there were in the forest landscape. Saturated green and brown everywhere, it was the biggest dose of nature I’

d seen since we’d moved to California.

“A forbidden forest,” said Ariel.

I studied her serious expression and then said, “Okay, I just have to know—do you speak Elvish?”

Ariel narrowed her eyes at me. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just, I mean, ‘a forbidden forest’?”

“You know,” Ariel said. “Like in a fairy tale. It’s dark and dangerous. The kind of place you go into and never return from. Or you go in there and the trees talk and there are magic creatures.”

“Uh-huh…”

“Now you think I’m weird,” Ariel said.

“No, no. I think you have a great imagination,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure it’s just regular old woods.”

Ariel looked indignant. “Actually, I heard a kid ran off and died out there in the forest a few years ago.”

“They probably tell campers that to keep them from running away.”

Ariel shrugged. “There are cougars all over the Pacific Northwest. Not to mention coyotes, black bears, even a grizzly once in a while. I wouldn’t want to take my chances.”

I glanced again at Ariel’s prim yet funky outfit—very Manhattan. I didn’t guess she got to go on nature hikes very often. In fact, most of these kids didn’t seem the camping type. But when you’re going somewhere for therapy, maybe the camping is secondary.

“See how the trees stretch into the horizon,” Ariel said in a quiet voice. “It’s like another world.”

“Yeah, maybe—”

Suddenly, the bus swerved violently. Several girls, and a few boys, screamed. Mr. Winters, who I could barely hear above the kids heckling the screaming boys, came on over the loudspeaker. “Folks, the bus has a flat tire. There’s no reason for alarm. Return to your seats. Stay calm.”

“Stay calm,” muttered Ariel as the bus limped off the road. “They always say that at brat camp, but no one ever does.”

An hour later, we were still stuck in our seats, waiting for some mythical replacement bus. The mood was barely above riot stage as a tall lady counselor with a flowery dress and a guitar strummed out the last awful chorus of a song about fried ham.

Mr. Winters, who’d been handling complaints for fifty-nine of the last sixty minutes, reached for the intercom. “Okay, campers. We’ll get off the bus to stretch our legs while we wait,” he announced.

“Just five minutes, folks. And stay close. We don’t want to lose anyone.”

Outside, people plopped their backpacks down on the grassy shoulder of the road. Of course, some boys, and even a few girls, headed for the woods to pee, with Guitar Lady and Mr. Winters watching from the tree line. It seemed pretty permissive of Mr. Winters. I mean, any second a kid could

—

“Hey!” A shout rattled the windows of the bus and bounced off the endless tree trunks. “Mr.

Winters!” A nerdy boy dressed in baggy khakis and an oversize pink polo bounded out of the trees.

“Some kid took off running into the woods!”

Winters nearly dropped the megaphone. “What? Where?”

The snitch dragged the old man into the woods, pointing into the distance. A lot of kids ran over from their spots near the bus, despite Winters yelling into the bullhorn to stay back. Guitar Lady snatched up her instrument, trying to distract everyone with another chorus of “Fried Ham.” That totally bombed.

Kids lined the edge of the woods, trying to see what was happening.

Ariel and I followed Jenna over to the tree line, avoiding the clumps of backpacks and lounging
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slackers who were too lazy to come gawk at the disturbance.

As we reached the end of the grassy meadow, Austin stepped out from behind a tree.

“Hello again,” he said to Ariel. Then his gaze moved to me.

“Hey, Austin. Oh, this is Shelby Locke,” Ariel said. “Shelby, Austin Bridges.”

He gave me a little nod.

“What are you doing here?” Ariel asked.

Austin’s gaze darkened. “It’s a bloody mistake. My father’s new road manager is a complete idjit,” he said. “So, what’s all the ruckus? Someone stray from the pack?”

“He was probably trying to get away from the awful songs,” I said.

“What’s up?” Vince, the preppy black kid who’d been sitting behind me on the bus, joined the group of us standing opposite Austin. Vince was the son of some film director guy I’d barely heard of.

“Just wondering who’s playing hide-and-seek with Mr. Winters,” Jenna said in a bored tone.

“Wait.” Vince turned and scanned the crowd near the bus, concern in his dark brown eyes.

“Where’s Charles? You know, that skinny kid who was sitting next to me?” He ran a hand over the back of his shaved neck. “I could be wrong, but I don’t see him.”

“Everyone step away from the woods,” shouted Guitar Lady. “Grab your gear and we’ll reboard the bus.”

We started to do that, but then we heard Winters wailing, “Cha-arles!” into the megaphone and we all stopped.

Vince shook his head. “Great,” he said. “I didn’t want to be right.”

“He’s probably just pulling a prank,” said Jenna.

“I don’t know. Maybe. A minute ago he was over there by our backpacks,” Vince replied. “I thought he was just getting a snack or something, but I guess he bailed.”

Austin’s gaze snapped to the pile of gear. “That wanker’s really gone.” His mouth set in a thin line, Austin walked toward our stuff.

We all followed, but as everyone grabbed their gear, Austin didn’t have a backpack. That was weird because I swear I saw everyone put their stuff all in one pile.

“Everything all right?” I asked.

Austin raised his gaze to me, and for half a second I thought I saw something flicker in his eyes, some unreadable expression. “Must be here somewhere,” he mumbled.

Just then a crashing sound echoed through the woods. Flailing his limbs, the snitch stumbled back through the trees, then fell in a heap at our feet. “He’s gone,” he said, panting. “Mr. Winters said…to come back…to keep…myself from getting lost.”

“Thank goodness,” said Jenna dryly. “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

Austin paced alongside the group, visibly upset. I hadn’t taken him for the type who’d worry about another kid, especially one who’d made fun of him on the bus, so I was a little surprised.