Kiley Black and the 7 Werewolves

Prequel:

"I'd Rather Have the Psychotic Boyfriend…"

Life isn't fair. Yeah, I get it. Believe me. I know. Everybody's got something they've got to deal with, right? Dry skin, a lousy job, psychotic ex-boyfriends who try to run you over with their cars. The list goes on from there. I guess my problem is "bad genetics"…or maybe "family issues." Neither one of those really sums it up too well. Either way, one second I'm a somewhat average American teenager growing up in the city with my even more unusual crowd and the next…well it's complicated enough. I've got some deep dark family curse on my ass and suddenly I'm being shipped all the way out to a reservation where I am anything but wanted. And if that wasn't bad enough, I spend every waking moment with seven loud, obnoxious, hungry, pig-headed, hormone-crazed boys who can't seem to keep their thoughts to themselves. Every normal girl's fantasy right? Yeah…right. In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly "normal" by anyone's definition. If my ranting hasn't bored you already…It's best we take this to the beginning, and you know where all great stories begin…

Math Class.

Chapter One:

"This is What Happens When You Bail On A Party to Study for a Math Test"

Math Class. Every teenagers personal hell. Especially when you have Mr. Hardy. I mean you could have closed your eyes and swore you were in Latin. I sigh and copy the notes lazily scribbled on the chalkboard. The rest of the class takes this opportunity to catch up on their beauty sleep. I mean, were talking about Evanburrowkids here.

I live in Westbridge, a small, bustling city with over packed apartments, unbelievable traffic jams, and one of the fastest growing crime rates in the state of California. Evanburrow is the "cleaner" side of town, with the shiny skyscrapers, acres of golf courses, and wrought iron gates to keep people like me out. For the last two years I had been going to Evanburrow Prep, the only student in my class to be on a full ride. Which means two buses to school everyday, the "nerdy poor girl" remarks, and the fact that I actually have to pay attention in math class. Not that I'm complaining or anything. I want this…I need this.

It's pretty simple. My mom has a shopping problem. My dad's nowhere to be found. Without a college scholarship, my chances of going to an ivy league school, or any decent school for that matter, are hysterical.

The clock's tedious ticking seems to echo in my ears, growing louder and louder, engulfing my teacher's incessant drones. My head starts to pound and I do my best to tune it out, wishing I had some Tylenol. Without looking behind me I know Nick Bradford is chewing absently on the tip of his pencil, causing the piercing pounding in my head to start up again. It takes all my willpower not snatch it out of his hand, which is something I'd usually never even dream of doing. I grind my teeth and focus on the board. No biggy. So these headaches have been building up all week. It's probably just the stress, and it's making you irritable. You've got a fever too. Maybe you'll take a nap after work…

I'm distracted when my best friend at Evanburrow Prep, Stephanie "Babybel Cheese" Cadwick, frantically attempts to keep up with Mr. Hardy and flashes me a look of pure torture. I try to suppress my laughter. It's tougher than it looks, isn't it?

Babybel's parents told her if she doesn't pass Pre-Calc this semester their cutting her off at A.C Moore. Babybel's got a knack for knitting, stickers, and anything shiny and/or colorful.

By the end of class, I smooth down my red and blue uniform plaid skirt and gather up my books. When Babybel stands up, I'm shocked to notice how tall I've been getting in the past couple of weeks. In less than two months I've gone from a measly 5'2 to at least a 5'5. I can see the top of Babybel's white blonde hair, ruffled from the day's frustration.

"And don't forget class!" Mr. Hardy remarks quickly as the kids make a dash for the door. "You have your logarithm test to-morrow!"

I don't remember it again until after my shift at "Chichi's" a Mexican restaurant/bar/club Marco's parents run at a corner street. I'm wiping down the last of the tables and about to make a run for it until Ronny blocks me at the door. Her wild red curls run all the way down to her shoulders. She wearing a Motley Crue T-shirt and there is a devious look is in her eyes. I can tell she's got something exciting planned when she invites me to some 4 o'clock lets-spoil-your-dinner ice-cream.

At first, I actually try to tell her no. This fever has been getting worse all afternoon and even though I don't feel sick, I definitely feel strange. When it's obvious she's not "asking" me I roll my dark eyes at her and head to the stockroom. Marco's shift is over too. Maybe he'd want to come. I find him sitting on a sturdy cardboard box, ipod on full blast, checking inventory.

"Yo Marco!" I holler, my voice bouncing off the walls. He doesn't look up so I snatch the clipboard out from under him and realize he's been doodling all this time. He looks up and gives me a sheepish grin.

"What's up, Kitten? Is my shift over yet?"

"Yeah, but from the looks of this," I said, emphasizing the well-drawn sketch of a dragon lighting someone (who suspiciously looks his principal) on fire. "it's been over for two hours."

He snatches the drawing back. "It's just so boring in here."

I shrug. "Wanna trade tomorrow?"

"Sure," he replies, standing up. "Now me and Marissa can have some alone time together."

I snort. Marissa is the "hot" twenty-two year old "babe" who comes in everyday for happy hour. "There isn't enough tequila in the world for her to say yes-"

"I've got a plan," he says suggestively, wiggling his eyebrows. I start laughing and playfully shove him on the shoulder. Unexpectedly, he slams against the wall as if I'd pushed him with as much strength as I have. The shelves above us tremble violently.

It's as if everything is in slow motion. A box of painted plates tips over on the shelf and come spiraling to the floor, as daintily as feathers. Before I even realize I'm doing it, I'm gathering up all the plates with incredible ease and stacking them on top of each other with my free hand. When time decides to speed up again Marco's eyes are darting across the floor, waiting for the sound of smashing ceramics. When he spots the plates in my hands, he gawks at me in disbelief. I almost drop them in total shock.

"What the hell!"

I want to laugh bitterly at him. As if I knew the answer. My wide eyes are glued to the plates. My breathing's picked up and my heart's racing.

What was that?

I shake myself out of my baffled state. You're sick, I remind myself, you're adrenaline's pumping or whatever. I shrug it off, nearly throw the stack of plates into the box and grab Marco's hand, whose blinking furiously, like he'd missed something.

After Marco rambles on about the incident in the stockroom, I continue to blush and look down at my ice-cream. My hands are balling and unballing themselves into fists and I have no idea why. I'm not a violent person at all. That's always been Ronny's department. Though neither one of them notices. Something bigger is on Ronny's mind. As the topic switches from me to some party tonight, and I begin relax. Stupid teenage hormones.

"Ethan Rider caught me at the pipe with Twizler," Ronny explains, trying to keep her couldn't-care-less attitude from shattering, though we both no how wound up she is. "And Carter's older brother just nailed this rich betch so she's letting him throw this party just outside of Evanburrow. They've got this giant pool and everything…"

Her conversation dissolves in my head as a stare absently at some couple fifty feet away. The pounding in my head is up again, and it's like the two of them are arguing into a speaker phone. The longer I stare, the more I pick up about them. The man smells like aftershave and ax; the woman's wearing blue eye shadow and-

"Kit? Didja hear me?" Ronny pokes me and almost sends my ice-cream flying. She takes a moment to laugh and then looks curiously at me. "You okay?"

I blink a few times, trying to make sense of it all. I give a heavy sigh and get off the bench we're sitting on. "No, not really. I gotta go."

"But you are coming with us tonight, right?" Ronny and Marco stare at me expectantly. They know I'm not the party type. There's a reason they call me "Kitten." I'm the innocent one. The safe one. The responsible one. I've got bigger things to worry about, but that didn't mean Ronny wasn't going to drag me to this party anyways. I'm a total buzz kill, but were also friends. And you know the rules: real friends drag you everywhere, no matter how stupid or reckless or lame it is. Plus, I've had a crush on Ethan Rider since the 7th grade and Ronny knows it.

"Kiley! Seriously? Are you coming or not?"

"Not," I mutter indignantly, grabbing my backpack.

She gives me a unmotivated bummed out but totally disbelieving look. If I wanted to ditch this party, the excuse had better be better than I'm-not-feeling-well. Who's really going to believe that anyway? Certainly not Ronny.

"Logarithm test. Tomorrow. Freaking out. Ask Babybel."

She grimaces at my dare to call Babybel, knowing I'm telling the truth.

"You've always, and I do mean always, have some kind of work to do. I'm telling you, it's not healthy."

"You know I have to keep up an "A" for my scholarship-"

"Yeah, yeah. That scholarship is really starting to be a major pain. I hardly see you anymore, between the job and everything…"

She trying to guilt you. Quick, get out of there! My head screams. I mumble a half-hearted "sorry" and catch the next bus home.

A few hours later I'm sitting alone in our apartment, doing homework and deciding what to have for dinner.

My mom's a flight attendant two cities over in Breton. She let us stay in Westbridge because of my scholarship and our friends here in the city. She usually doesn't come home until the middle of the night, if she decides to come home at all. She tries to sugarcoat it for me with the whole "I'm too tired to drive home so I'm staying with a friend" story, but I know my mother. The "friend" she's always referring to is one of her secret boyfriends she's too ashamed to tell me about. She's afraid it'll upset me, but it really doesn't. My father is out of our lives forever and Mom has a right to be happy. Plus, she's my mom. She's terrified of being alone, unlike me. Though, occasionally I wish there was somebody to talk to, to eat with, to argue with over petty problems like boys and cell phones...

You're a teenager with total freedom and practically your own place. Everybody you know is jealous of you. You could throw parties, get wasted, invite boys over, but all you want to do is study and pity yourself. You're pathetic.

I tighten the grip on my pencil so hard, it snaps.

I study so I won't be like my mother. I won't have some stupid job on a stupid plane for ten hours a day smiling and pretending my heels aren't killing me. I won't have to keep making up with my jerk of a boyfriend so I have a place to sleep at night. Because I didn't party like she did. I didn't drink like she did. I didn't get pregnant at 16 and ran away with a man like my father…

Where is all this coming from?

I don't even realize that I'm shaking. I take a few deep breaths, push my homework aside, and fix up some leftover Chinese food. When I'm in the shower, the telephone goes off and I don't answer it. Once I get out, I wrap myself in a towel and look at myself in the mirror.

My dark eyes look back sarcastically. My parents both grew up in Washington on some Indian reservation. Though I've spent nearly my entire life in Westbridge, the Native American blood shines through me. I have well set cheekbones, long eyelashes, and russet colored skin. My thin black hair runs straight down my back, dripping on the bathroom floor. I can feel the heat my body is radiating off, because I'm almost dry. I should take some cold medicine and just give it a rest. Logarithms can wait until tomorrow morning.

There's a message on the answering machine.

"Hi baby. It's your mother. I just wanted to let you know I'm working late tonight. One of my girlfriends is letting my sleep on their couch, but I promise I'll be home early tomorrow. There's some extra cash in a jar above the-"

I can't even listen to it anymore. The trembling is starting up again in my body and I can't stop it. I'm just so sick of this! I'm sick of being alone all the time! I'm sick of working my ass off while she's hanging out and having fun with some boyfriend! I'm sick of it!

Maybe you're just sick…

The fury has been building up so much inside of me, I have no way of calming myself down. My burning rage turns into black fear as I lose control of myself. Something's wrong. Something's really really wrong. My fever is rocketing. My blood is boiling. My heart's beating furiously against my chest, faster than humanly possible. I am blinded by the most searing pain I have ever felt in my life. It felts like I'm being torn into a million pieces.

And then it stops.