"But what about Mike Stevens?" Shantel counters. "He's been missing a month now. What if whatever psycho killer killed him went after Trevor, too? What if the guy's like a modern-day Jack the Ripper, but instead of going after prostitutes, he goes after football players? Maybe 'cause, like, he didn't make the team long ago and is now seeking revenge?"
It's not a bad scenario for a made-for-TV horror movie and certainly would seem a lot more plausible to your aver-age person than the possibility of the two guys being eaten by rabid, cheerleading wolves. But I don't think it's healthy for Shantel to focus on either scenario at the moment.
"You're jumping to crazy conclusions," I scold. "And we don't even know that Mike Stevens is dead
either. It's not like anyone's found a body. Maybe he just got sick of Massachu-setts and took off to Europe or something. You know, to, like, go find himself." I'm totally stretching here, but hope-fully she's willing to grasp at any straws at this point.
"You know, I'd like to go back to Europe myself at this point," Shantel blubbers, breaking into a fresh round of tears. "Everything's sucked so badly this year. I just want it to be over."
"Have you been to Europe? What countries did you visit?" I ask, trying to steer her into more comforting terri-tory. Maybe I can get her off the subject and calm her down.
"We went to Europe for our cheerleading competition this summer," Shantel says, sniffing, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. "It was in the middle-of-nowhere England and we stayed at the cutest little village.
The local people were so sweet. Though so superstitious. They were always warning us not to go out at night. Which, of course, sucked." She rolls her eyes. "But the last night we all decided to sneak out once everyone had gone to bed. We met up with this really hot En-glish soccer player. You should have seen him, Rayne. He must have spent, like, years in the gym to get a build like that fine body of his. I swear, he looked exactly like a blond Brad Pitt. We were all totally in love. Anyway, he brought us to an amazing bonfire party in the middle of the woods. We all got so totally wasted. I don't think any of us remembered how we got back to the hotel. It was killer."
I stare at her. Tiny village in England? Night out in the woods that they don't remember? Could that be where they got infected? It has to be!
"Shantel, I've got to go," I say, rising from my seat. "But hang in there. I'm sure Trevor will turn up sooner or later. You'll see."
"Thanks, Rayne," she says, staring down at her hands."Ihope so. I really hope so."
Me, too.
+++
“And so then Shantel says that they went to England for a cheering competition and ended up partying in the woods and they all blacked out. It's got to be where they were infected, don't you think?"
Mr. Teifert shifts on his throne. The drama class is doing Camelot this semester and so the auditorium stage has been transformed into a medieval kingdom. He thinks for a mo-ment, then nods slowly.
"That seems like a logical explanation," he says. "But werewolves!" He shudders. "Can't have those running around town. We'll have to put them to sleep as soon as possible." He rises to his feet. "Thank you, Rayne. Job well done. We can take over from here."
What? Did he just say—?
"We can't put them to sleep!" I cry, jumping up to my feet. "That's like cruelty to . . . pep squads!"
"We'll use humane euthanasia, of course," Teifert says, not seeming the least concerned at the idea of the impending cheerleader genocide.
"But don't you think someone would notice if the entire cheerleading squad turned up dead?" I demand.
"We'd make it look like an accident," Teifert says with a shrug. "A bus crash, maybe a drunk-driving incident after a party. I mean, it's not like Veronica Mars is going to show up and start asking questions."
He snorts at his oh-so-clever pop-culture reference, then turns serious. "Look, Rayne, these girls are monsters and can cause serious problems for our community. Look at what they did last night!" He passes me a newspaper. The front-page headline is "Vandals!" and the accompanying photo illustrates the word very effectively. The wolves evidently wreaked havoc on the entire town, breaking into department stores and destroying makeup counters, tearing through the local chocolate factory, and de-vouring all their goods. Ditto to three convenience stores— cleaning them clear out of HoHos and Ding Dongs. Hope-fully, all this ravaging burned a lot of calories or these girls will so have to go on Atkins to fit into their size-two uniforms.
"Wow," I murmer. "I had no idea they did all this."
"Not to mention that they don't even have their shots," Teifert adds. "You want them running around town infecting more and more people? Pretty soon our town will be one big werewolf pack."
"But still!" I put the paper down. "They're not just were-wolves! They're teenage girls! And no matter how ditzy they are, they don't deserve to die."
"Look, Rayne, Slayer Inc.'s job is to police our commu-nity's supernatural element. To slay when necessary those who step out of line. These are not vampires living in secluded communities, keeping to themselves and not interfering with human life. They're a pack of wild dogs running around de-stroying everything in their path. I don't think you fully under-stand the danger here. They could break into your house. Kill your mother. Or worse, turn her into a werewolf. And then what would you do? Imagine finding out your mom's now a real bitch 'cause you were soft on fur."