Chapter the First: In Which Kitty Teague Come To Ipswich, or 'How Life Can Suck'

Ipswich. What kind of a name is Ipswich? Sounds like a sneeze, or some kind of rare disease. 'Sorry, ma'am, you've got ipswich. You have two weeks to live.' Okay, maybe a little bit melodramatic, but that's the way I was feeling when I rolled into Massachusetts.

Let me give you a bit of background. I am from California. As in the California everybody on the East Coast thinks of when they hear the name: beaches, palm trees, surfers, the whole shebang. I lived in paradise for seventeen years of my life, which really made up for the other parts that were so severely screwed up. Now, along with all my other problems, my divorcee-father has upped and moved all the way to this dinky little Salem-wannabe town where the closest thing to a beach is what, the town chlorine-infested pool? I'm nursing some bitterness here, in case it was unclear.

Just so I don't sound completely bitchy, I do in fact have some pretty serious issues. Number one on the list being that I have a secret. A big one. A secret that has pretty much bound me my entire life. There really is no easy way to say this, so I'll just come right out with it.

I am a werewolf.

That's right, you heard me. Were-wolf. Man-wolf. Well, girl-wolf, to be more accurate. The point is, I have a chronic case of the fuzzies. Every full moon, to be exact, though I can Change at any time if I so desire. No, by the way, I do not turn into some ravenous beast. Please. How… passé.

So there I was, teenage werewolf on campus. (I love that show. Hilarious.) My dad was way too excited about this move for me to bum him out completely, so I was stuck being depressed all on my onesies, which was not too fun. And the very next day after we moved in, I would be going to Spencer Academy.

I kid you not.

Seriously, any school with the tag 'academy' on it has just GOT to be a drag. They have uniforms. There is no way anything, especially an academy can be any degree of chill with uniforms. This, suffice to say, did not add to my overall cheer factor.

"Kitty! Come on down and look at this!" Perfect. Dad-bot Version Single. Honestly, despite the fighting, I think I preferred him and Mom together. At least he didn't have that stupid 'everything is DANDY' tone in his voice all the time. And now I feel guilty, of course, for begrudging him his happiness. Damn it, I just can't win.

"It's KAT," I screamed back, knowing perfectly well I was fighting a losing battle.

"Come DOWN," he responded, equally loud. Sighing, I stomped out of my new room, careful to step on every crack I could find in the stairs with my daisy-patterned (thanks to Sharpie and a free period at my old school) combat boots in order to make the old wood creak as much as possible. My father was sitting at the kitchen table, holding a brochure in his hand.

"Yes, padre?" He looked up with a smile and waved the brochure at me.

"Check it out, Furball!" I took the shiny packet with an eye roll. Isn't it ironic that my parents had a werewolf for a daughter, and named her 'Kitty'?

"It's Spencer," I noted dryly, flipping open the brochure. "I've already seen this, Dad."

"I know, hon, just… Look at that campus. You like being outside, right? I bet you're gonna love it here. No, I know you are!" I wished I could bite down right there and make him feel how much I resented this move, but I just. Couldn't. Not when he looked so hopeful, so eager to please. I knew how hard he'd fought to get custody of me, to be able to take me with him into his new life.

"Yeah," I allowed finally. "I'm sure it'll be great."

Hell. Pure and uninterrupted Hell.

From the moment I walked into that damn school, eyes were on me. New girl. Oooh, look at her hair! Are those bleached, or is she some kind of skunk half-breed? What's with all the bracelets and the black nail polish? Is she Goth? Does that explain the eyeliner and combat boots?

I could feel the stares like brands. I've never moved before, never had to face this kind of scrutiny. Not only was there that, but my classes were hard! No one ever mentioned that Spencer was a school for smart people, or at least that I had been put (by who, please?) into a smart person's classes! I slumped in the back after the mandatory introductions, and wished I knew the answer to at least one question.

After what seemed like forever, the last class of the day rolled around. Some level of English. Contemporary Lit, or something. I slunk into the room with as much stealth as I could muster, wincing when the teacher, a middle-aged guy who looked vaguely irritated, called my name. Before I could pretend like I hadn't heard it, he'd spotted the unfamiliar face and was beckoning me to the front.

"Settle down," the teacher called. Chaos. Utter chaos. I raised a brow. "Be QUIET," he roared without so much as a warning. I jumped about a foot in the air, and the students dropped reluctantly into seats arranged like stadium risers. I gulped, put on my disinterested face, and looked around.

"People, this is Kitty Teague. She's just moved from California. Help her catch up to where we are." And that, amazingly, was it. First teacher that hadn't actually asked me some asinine question about what my favorite band was or something. Giving the man, a Professor Daly, an uncertain look out of the corner of my eye, I stalked (I like to think so, at least) up the risers until I found an empty seat. As I sat down, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I glanced up and behind me to find a boy leaning down past another, darker-haired boy, arm still outstretched. His longish blond hair fell into wicked blue eyes, and his grin was just as devilish.

"So tell me, Kitty-cat," he said boldly, "do you purr?" I cocked a brow. This, I knew how to deal with.

"Only after beating the shit out of guys like you," I replied, before turning back to face the front. From behind me, I heard the blond jerk laugh and then the sound of a muffled punch as someone else said,

"Oh, Reid, burn! Hey, ow!" Despite myself, my lips curved just a tad. Hey, he'd laughed at my snappy comeback instead of taking offense. Then, I mentally slapped myself. Dumbass. You can't get involved with anyone, not with what you're hiding. And especially not involved with arrogant, flirtatious… annoyingly good-looking…

Time to focus on English. Oh, goodie. Stephen King.