Choir was always the worst hour of the day. She only had it once a week. Aysel could have elected to have a period of silent reading on Thursdays instead, or chosen to play piano for the band, as she had last year, but at the beginning of the school year she had been very attached to the idea of getting out of school when she was eighteen and starting a band.
The alto section was composed of Aysel, Tommy Wodewose, a girl named April Kua who never spoke and who seemed to whisper instead of sing, and Abigail White, an overly tall tenth-grade girl who tried several times to convince the choir teacher, Ms. Coulter, that she was really a soprano, with no success.
Today, they were singing a chorus number from The Music Man, an obnoxious musical about a con man and a noble woman librarian. Tommy was singing enthusiastically and the people around him kept elbowing one another and giggling at him. He seemed unaware, but Aysel had learned that his hand twitched when he knew people were making fun of him, and his fingers were dancing against the side of his leg. Tommy had braided two twigs of rosemary and a length of black ribbon into a plait on the top of his head.
“Tommy is the only one of the altos who is singing,” Ms. Coulter said loudly, over the music. “Come on, you three, listen to him sing the part once and then sing it with him. Take out your music, Aysel.”
Last year, just before they had taken him up to the roof and thrown him off, the rumor had been going around that Tommy had been seen talking to birds there. Talking to birds was supposed to prove that you had fairy blood. It was all made up, naturally.
Aysel squinted through her hair and her glasses as Tommy’s skinny shoulder bumped past her out the door and down the pale white hall as the bell rang loudly.
Aysel spent lunch poking at a pimple on her neck while sitting in the science room. Mr. Weber always kept his classroom open during first lunch, but he wasn’t always in the room. Today he was somewhere else. Aysel thought about Z, and wondered how they were doing, and where they were. Azra had stopped packing Aysel’s lunches in the eighth grade. Nowadays Aysel ate mostly toaster pastries and bananas. Since she had gotten her braces off it was okay for her to eat hard foods, but she’d fallen out of the habit.
Crumbs fell down over her black cotton T-shirt and onto her lap as she ate and stared at the purple toad in its tank and did her math and Magic Application homework. This week they were learning Detailed Summons and the quadratic formula, and there were at least four problems in each subject that had symbols Aysel was mostly but not entirely sure she understood. She hadn’t caught up on the homework for either class and was falling behind. The pentacles and parabolas started to get mixed up in her head. The toad stared at her uncomfortably. Aysel decided she would try again later. She got up and went looking for Z, her shoes flapping on the linoleum floors.
Aysel was not sure what it was about Z that made her feel so dedicated to becoming friends. Before the accident, Aysel hadn’t noticed Z very much, because their name had been Susan then and they had been friends with Bethany, who had once asked Aysel rudely how many Pop-Tarts she ate every day.
Z was nowhere to be found. Aysel stomped upstairs and looked into the library, but there were only a few boys in the back by the photocopy machine, working on something for a class. Z wasn’t in the lunchroom, either. So Aysel sat down next to the door to Mr. Holmes’ room and hummed to herself until class started.
Mr. Holmes scratched under his nails, which made awful clicking noises as he pushed his hands together. Aysel thought about what she had heard, about him trying to give Z away. Mr. Holmes had never been one of Aysel’s favorite teachers because of the way he talked about monsters—once he had spent the whole lesson talking about how immigration from Southern and Eastern Europe had worsened the United States’ werewolf problem in the early decades of the twentieth century, and made it clear to everyone that he was one of those people who believed that werewolves were better dealt with during the fourteenth through eighteenth centuries, when they were burned. Most people seemed to like him.
“The Eastern Warlock Union made inroads toward workers’ rights in the 1880s in the wake of the Great Fire of Baltimore. Who knows what started that fire? Anyone?” He looked around. Nobody had been paying attention enough to answer, but Mr. Holmes wasn’t really looking for audience participation. “It was, of course, caused by poorly supervised dragon slaughterhouses.” Mr. Holmes snuffled loudly.
Ginger was in the very middle of the middle row, discreetly coloring a detailed pattern of stained glass on the cover of her notebook, her long straight red hair falling elegantly to one side. Mr. Holmes either did not notice her or chose not to reprimand her. Aysel was certain that if she tried to draw in class she would be called on it immediately.
It was after fifth-period Magic Application, as Aysel was walking down the corridor, that she heard Mr. Holmes talking to one of the janitors.
“A window broken in Town Hall, and you know it’s werewolves, Morris wasn’t the only one—they’ve been having this happen in Portland too—”
“They’re saying it’s werewolves,” the janitor was saying, “but you can’t know that. It could be anything. It could be bears. Don’t worry so much.” Aysel looked back over her shoulder. Mr. Holmes was rubbing his amulet between two fingers.
“Of course it’s werewolves, Mike,” he said nervously. “It’s the breakdown of law and order, I swear. We’ll be overrun. Anarchists burning things down and opening the way for the monsters. A werewolf attack once a month—just think of it. We’ll all be overrun. And that bookstore downtown with a themed display about accepting werewolves as part of society, without electroshock. What the hell are they playing at?”
Mike the janitor shrugged. “Well, don’t let it get to you,” he said. He began to walk away with his cart of mops. Mr. Holmes was left standing alone, staring at the other side of the hall like it was about to attack him. Aysel felt, momentarily, sorry for him.
She stepped into the bathroom and pulled her hair into a ponytail and poked again at the pimple on her neck. Behind her, one of the stall doors opened. It was Z. Aysel started and looked around, hoping that Z hadn’t noticed her touching the pimple. They hadn’t seemed to have noticed Aysel at all. Z looked worse than the previous day. Their eyes were watery and yellowish and tired, and there was a dark spot under the skin on their cheek. They smelled slightly acrid as they approached the sinks. It wasn’t enough to notice unless you were close, but Aysel had a very good sense of smell. Z wore a black shirt and black pants and had a black wool hat pulled low over their eyes.
“Hello,” Aysel said, drying her hands on a paper towel.
Z did not answer at first. They looked apathetically at the mirror, and for an instant Aysel had a horrifying impression of a hollow, unmoving body, a corpse propped up. It only lasted a moment. Z turned toward Aysel and seemed to recognize her. “Oh,” they said. “Hello.”
Aysel had a strong impulse to hug Z, or to rip them apart. She stepped backward instead. “What’s your next class?”
Z stared into the mirror again. They touched their face gingerly. “Do you see that spot?” they asked.
Aysel tried to decide whether to be truthful. “Yes,” she said. “A little.”
“The book I got on forensic analysis,” Z said, “says that those are formed by blood clotting under the skin. Or sometimes by gases that are given off in decomposition.”
Aysel looked with polite interest at Z’s spot. “Oh,” she said.
“After a while, they burst.”
“Well, I have spots,” Aysel said. “Zits and things. They all look worse than that, too.”
Z stared at Aysel. “I guess,” they said.
“Look, you just have to not think about it for now and you can sort it out later,” Aysel said helplessly. She felt this was the opposite of good advice, so she amended it by saying, “Maybe. Sorry.”
“My next class is Spanish,” Z said.
“Me too,” Aysel said, flustered. She and Z left the bathroom and walked down the hall together. Most people were already in their next classes, so the halls were empty.
“I like your outfit,” Aysel said, a little timidly.
“Thanks. I’m in mourning.” Z smiled a little. “Also, my uncle threw away my favorite sweatshirt.”
“It’s a good look,” Aysel said. “I want to dress like that—I don’t know what you’d call that style. It’s not goth, just minimalist maybe. Goth is overdone.”
“Yeah,” Z said.
“Except I might end up being a goth. I also want to dye my hair a bunch of colors.”
After the last class ended, Z and Aysel walked out of the school and crossed the lawns. The clouds still hung thick in the sky. They passed a few groups of people; Aysel imagined she felt people staring at them. It was almost four in the afternoon and the sun would set soon—midwinter was all short gray days and long nights. Aysel’s feet made slipping noises on the pavement.
“Oh hell,” Z said suddenly, and stopped walking. Aysel looked over.
“What’s wrong?”
Z stood there, looking ahead with wide eyes. They made no noise. Aysel saw again how much Z resembled a corpse but tried not to let it faze her.
“What’s wrong, Z?”
Z made a long, low rasping noise. It did not sound like human speech—it resembled the noise wind made at night. Their eyes rolled back into their head for a second, yellow watery orbs. Then they bent over and began to cough loudly.
Aysel began to panic. “What’s happening? What can I do?” She moved a little frantically and held Z’s shoulder. Z was stiff and cold and shook with each cough, as if whatever they were coughing up was from a very deep part of their body.
Z spat out something soft and black onto the pavement and stood up again, clearing their throat. Aysel looked at the thing on the pavement and wondered if it was an organ. Z didn’t seem very concerned. They rubbed their eyes and smiled. “Sorry,” they said. “That was probably really weird.”
“It was scary. What was that?”
“It’s been happening lately. I’m not sure what it is.”
“Does it hurt?”
“When it starts it hurts, but then I go all numb. I think my pain cells must be dead. Neurons.” Z began to walk again, stepping carefully over the thing on the sidewalk.
“When are you going to go to the university for the books about necromancy?” Aysel asked.
“This weekend, I guess,” Z said. “Saturday or something.”
“You’re going alone?”
“Mr. Weber is going with me.”
“He’s a great teacher. He helped me start the science club last year. He’s not like other teachers.”
“I know he isn’t,” Z said, “but I don’t know if he’ll do anything for me. He does have to stay safe.” They turned to Aysel, who blinked at the unexpected eye contact. “You know what it’s like. Adults always say they’ll do something nice or protect you, but they don’t know what you actually need.”
“I know what you mean,” Aysel said. “I’m sure Mr. Weber’s not like that, though.”
“Okay,” Z said doubtfully. They reached the bus stop.
“What are you doing this afternoon?” Aysel asked.
Z shrugged. “I’ll probably go home and sit in the house alone and try not to get eaten by cats and do homework.” They smiled. Aysel was still getting used to their weird, supernaturally low voice.
“Who do you live with?” Aysel was suddenly curious. She realized that Z must have had to deal with a lot lately on their own—there didn’t seem to be an adult in the background helping them through anything. Who was there for you when your parents died?
“This old lesbian witch from my mother’s church. She offered to take me in because my uncle is a terrible person.” Z said it matter-of-factly. “She owns that bookstore, The Reading Circle, in town. It hasn’t been doing too well lately. Some people threw something through the window and broke the glass because she has a section on werewolf rights.”
“Oh,” Aysel said. She had been inside the bookstore, but she hadn’t known it was run by a lesbian.
“It’s pretty okay. I mean, if I have to choose someone to live with, Mrs. Dunnigan’s all right. We don’t have a lot of money for groceries and she’s kind of messy, but she’s really cool.”
“She sounds that way.”
“For a while she was into acting like a mom,” Z added, “but it finally stopped this week. She’s too old to juggle everything. She’s got an event at her bookstore. Some author coming in to read about his time working with at-risk werewolves. So she’s out tonight.”
“Do you want to come to my house?” Aysel asked suddenly. She heard her voice shake.
“Why?”
Aysel floundered. “Well, just because. I don’t live too far from here. My mom isn’t working today, either, so she could make dinner.”
“Okay,” Z said.
They walked the rest of the way to Aysel’s house. When they got there Aysel realized for the first time in months how messy their yard looked. It was a garden in the summer, but in the winter it was just kale and squash plants and dirt mounds which hid potatoes. The earth was still damp from the rain, and their shoes were both muddy.
“Could you take off your shoes? Sorry,” Aysel said, as Z walked into the hall.
“Oh, right,” Z said. They slid off their shoes, and Aysel got a glimpse of a grey, dry ankle between the edge of Z’s pants and their sock. Z looked up at the nazar bead, hanging on the wall. “What’s that? It’s the same as your necklace.”
“A charm to protect us against evil. Demons and monsters and shapeshifters and djinn and stuff. It’s a Turkish thing.”
“Didn’t do anything to me,” Z said.
“You must not be the kind of monster it’s set up for.”
Azra was asleep on the couch, dressed in purple pajama pants and a thick black sweater that was too long for her. Aysel was embarrassed when she saw her mother like that. Azra woke up when the door clicked open. She looked groggily up at her daughter and Z.
“Hello, Ayselcim. Who’s your friend?”
“This is Z, Mom,” Aysel said.
Z waved timidly. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Tahir,” they said.
Azra ran a hand through her hair, which had gotten messy while pressed into the couch pillows. She was not wearing any makeup, and looked sleepy and puffy. “It’s Ms. Tahir, actually,” she said, “but please, call me Azra. I’m sorry for my appearance, I have today off and was catching up on sleep. I had a big court date yesterday and I haven’t slept much for a while.”
“Oh! It’s um, it’s all right.” Z looked over at Aysel as if expecting her to say something or guide them. “Um, thanks for having me over, Azra,” Z said.
“You don’t need to thank her,” Aysel said. “It’s fine.”
“It’s nice that you have such a polite friend, Aysel. Don’t reprimand her for just being decent.” Azra turned to Z. “It’s a pleasure to have you, dear. Zee, you said? What is that short for?”
“It’s not short for anything,” Z said, at the same time that Aysel began to tell her mother Z was short for Susan. Aysel was glad afterward that she hadn’t finished saying that.
“How unusual,” Azra said.
“You can go back to sleep, Mom,” Aysel said. “Z and I are just going to do homework for a while.”
“No, I’m up—and look, it’s nearly five, I should start making dinner. Are you going to eat with us, Zee?”
“I—am I invited?” Z asked.
“Sure, of course!” Azra said. “Go with Aysel and dig me up some potatoes before you start your homework.” She went over to the sink and began washing her hands. “I’ll make tea.”
Z and Aysel walked back outside. The light shifted from the yellow glow of inside to the cold blue light of winter.
“My mom enchants the potatoes and kale to grow year-round,” Aysel said. “It doesn’t work on things like strawberries—too much work—but she manages the boring foods.”
“Your mom seems cool,” Z said.
Aysel felt a wisp of hair at the end of her nose and scowled. “Not really,” she said. “Help me dig up the potatoes.”
Z stared at the cold earth, at a loss.
“Here,” Aysel said, and bent down and began to part the earth with her hands. It was cold around her fingers, and soft. She reached down, moving the earth with sweeps to the side. She lifted up a grubby potato and handed it to Z. A worm crawled away from a pile of dirt that had been overturned, and Z was staring at it.
“The food just comes out of the ground,” Z said a few minutes later, their hands full of small potatoes.
“Well,” Aysel said, maybe a little crossly—which she felt was fair, seeing as Z had done nothing but stand there while she dug in the dirt—“you have to tend them and then go and dig for them.”
“Still, though, it’s a miracle,” Z said.
“Okay, it’s a miracle. The circle of life.”
Z giggled unexpectedly as Aysel pulled the door open. “I bet I’d make good compost,” they whispered.
After dinner they went into Aysel’s room and listened to music and did homework. Z showed Aysel how the quadratic formula worked after Aysel fried her calculator with frustrated magic, twice, and had to put in new batteries. As it turned out, there was no quadratic formula button on the calculator. Aysel thought there should be. Couldn’t one thing in mathematics be easy?
“You have to learn to use math if you’re going to be a scientist,” Z said. “Isn’t that what you want to do?”
“I want to work with animals, not anything that needs math,” Aysel snapped. She felt friendly, though. They were both writing papers about their weekends for Spanish class, and Z joked that they could write about accidentally pulling out their own eyeball while trying to take out a contact lens. At least Aysel thought it was a joke. It was meant to make Aysel laugh.
Azra was watching the news in the front room. She had been tuning in to the evening news regularly since the police killed Timothy Morris. The coverage of the story as it developed, and the police’s growing case against the dead werewolf, put Aysel’s teeth on edge. She had not been able to pay attention. She jumped and looked warily at Z when Azra called out from the front room.
“Aysel! This news story is about the Pagan murder.”
Aysel stuck her head around the corner and gestured behind her to where Z sat studying Spanish adverbs. “Mom,” she said, “I can’t right now.” But she looked toward the television and stood halfway in and out of her room as blurry ticker tape announcing the story scrolled across the twenty-inch screen.
“New evidence has come to light that Archie Pagan did not stop working with werewolves when he moved to Oregon,” the reporter onscreen said. “The murdered man had previously cooperated with a nonprofit on the East Coast that helped provide electroshock to wolves. He claimed that his new practice in central Salem was devoted to traditional psychoanalysis and family therapy, but an anonymous source claiming to be a relative of a local patient says that Pagan continued to secretly provide electroshock therapy to werewolves inside the state of Oregon. The source described an underground operation that had continued for over a decade, through which potentially thousands of unregistered werewolves were rendered nonmagical. Pagan’s wife was not reachable for comment, but police have obtained an initial warrant to search his old office for evidence of illegal werewolf treatment.”
Z stood and came to stand behind Aysel. “What’s this?” they asked her.
“It’s about that guy that was murdered,” Aysel said. “By Timothy Morris, the werewolf. The news says he was treating unregistered werewolves, giving them electroshock so they didn’t transform.”
“Fuck.”
Azra looked over at Z. “Hey, watch your language,” she said. Aysel knew the tone of her mother’s voice meant that she was distracted.
“What will they do if they find out that he was really doing this?” Z asked. “They can’t try him if he’s dead.”
“They could track down the werewolves that he helped,” Azra said. “Unless they were smart and used assumed names. But that’s only if Pagan was stupid, and didn’t hide his files.”
They finished their Spanish homework and sat around listening to Aysel’s Şebnem Ferah casettes, because Z wanted to know what a Turkish girl rock band was like. It was dark outside, but Aysel didn’t turn on any more lights. She lay on the floor with the desk lamp’s pale glow against the window, the only source of illumination, looking at Z.
“You should see the video we have for this song,” Aysel said. “She’s got these platform boots and is wearing this amazing halter top and she leans back really far when she hits the high notes. My mom likes her too.”
“We could watch it now,” Z said.
“No, my mom’s out there still and she would try to give us a history of the whole rock scene and be really goofy. But sometime we should.”
When Z had to go home, Aysel offered to walk them to the bus. Azra smiled and said goodbye to Z and tried to help Aysel put on a coat. They both went off into the dark, hurrying from streetlight to streetlight. The last bus was due to run soon. Aysel was wrapped in her mother’s coat and was still cold; Z wasn’t even wearing a jacket.
“Can you feel anything? It’s freezing out here,” Aysel said.
“I can’t really tell it’s cold out at all,” Z said. “It’s just numb. I can’t feel a lot of temperatures very well. I only feel really hot things, like fire.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve experimented a little. Just to see what happens.”
“What if your toes freeze off?”
“I don’t know,” Z said.
“Sorry. That was awful of me. Thanks for coming for dinner.”
“Thank you for having me,” Z said. Suddenly they were stiff and formal again, a cardboard cut-out. “You don’t have to wait for the bus with me. It comes in ten minutes.”
“Okay,” Aysel said. She didn’t want to risk saying anything else wrong. She turned around and walked away. Halfway down the block she realized that she should turn and wave or something, so she spun around—but Z was gone. Maybe they had realized they wanted to walk home, Aysel thought.
Azra was up watching reruns of a show about ghost hunters in the Canadian wilderness. Aysel sat and watched it with her. They didn’t speak; eventually both of them fell asleep curled in different positions on the same couch.