The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.
Werewolves could be real.
They probably weren’t.
But they could be.
All I’d wanted was to talk about the possibility.
I felt very alone. I lived in a world with practical people, like Emily and Rush and my parents, people who had stopped believing in the impossible a long time ago. Where were the other people like me? Locked up probably. Getting called crazy and delusional.
Sometimes, the crazy people turn out to be right though.
I shut my eyes and pushed my brother’s disapproving face out of my mind. Instead, I pictured a world where there was magic, a world where Lizzie Lovett really was a werewolf, and I was the one who found her and proved it.
The night before, I’d laughed myself to sleep thinking about werewolves, but my theory wasn’t funny anymore.
It felt possible. Inevitable.
Why shouldn’t werewolves exist?
And if werewolves were real, what other creatures might be out there?
Anything.
Everything.
I just needed to find Lizzie. I could start my own investigation—talk to the people who knew her, search the woods myself. And yeah, maybe Lizzie had simply run away, but at least I’d have some fun until the case was solved.
That night, I came up with my own version of counting sheep. Over and over again, I thought, Lizzie is a werewolf, and I am going to find her. Lizzie is a werewolf, and I am going to find her. Lizzie is a werewolf, and…
I fell asleep in no time.
Chapter 8
A Brief History of Griffin Mills
I was pretty sure I’d get my history paper back with a big F written on it, maybe a D if I was lucky. Instead, something totally weird happened. Mr. Romano wanted me to read my paper to the class.
I froze.
Mr. Romano handed my essay to me. It was only a page long, which was three pages shorter than it was supposed to be. “Hawthorn had a very interesting take on the assignment, and I’d like you all to hear it.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” I asked. Some kids laughed, and they weren’t laughing with me.
Even Mr. Romano seemed amused when he told me that no, he was not being sarcastic. I felt like I was the only one not in on the joke.
Reluctantly, I walked to the front of the classroom and took my report from him. Everyone was staring at me, including Emily, who had her jaw clenched really tight. It was probably the first time my schoolwork had been singled out before hers.
I cleared my throat and looked down at the paper.
“Go on, Hawthorn,” Mr. Romano said.
The skater kid who sat in the back of the room shouted, “Yeah, we don’t have all day.” The class laughed, even though it wasn’t funny.
When it was silent again, I figured I’d better start, or I’d just be prolonging my agony. I cleared my throat again.
“Every town has a story. And every story has a beginning and an end. For Griffin Mills, the beginning was around the turn of the century when Samuel Griffin came to the Ohio River Valley.”
I figured everyone’s essay started with Samuel Griffin. But I was probably the only one who skipped over the glory days of Griffin Mills and the advances that were made in the mining and milling industries. Instead, I focused on the Griffin Mansion, the big abandoned house on the hill, where kids tried to catch a glimpse of Samuel Griffin’s ghost.
“Griffin Mills is a haunted town,” I read. “Not by the ghost of Samuel Griffin but by generations of people who told his story simply because there was nothing better to do.”
Kids who’d been shifting in their seats and rustling papers stopped. The room was totally quiet.
“This will always be a steel mill town, even though the last mill closed more than twenty years ago. It’s a place where boys enlist in the army and are disappointed if there’s not a war to fight. It’s a town of mechanics and plumbers, of drunken brawls and Friday night football games. Kids who grow up in the Mills dream of what life would be like elsewhere and count the days until they can get out and experience it, even though, deep down, they know they never will.”
Someone coughed, that awkward sort of cough when you want to say something, but you have no idea what that something is.
“Griffin Mills is a town that’s perpetually bored with itself but too stubborn to dry up. So instead of dying gracefully, it’s a slow, painful process, one that’s embarrassing to watch. Because Griffin Mills is dying, and the people who live here are dying with it.”
I heard a few whispers. I was pretty sure they weren’t about my fantastic writing ability.
I said the last lines in a rush. “Every story has a beginning, and every story has an end. The Mills has reached its epilogue.”
If my life were a movie, I would’ve been all nervous about reading my paper, but I’d do it anyway. There would be a really dramatic pause at the end, an awkward silence, but then someone would start a slow clap, and the rest of the room would join in, and just like that, I’d go from being me to being someone who is brilliant and likable.
My life isn’t a movie.
A glance around the classroom was enough to determine my essay wasn’t going to do much for my popularity.
Mike Jacobs, who’s the captain of the football team, said, “Nice, Hawthorn.”
Some kids laughed.
Jessica Massi raised her hand and, without waiting to be called on, said, “I thought we were supposed to write a history of Griffin Mills, not insult the whole town.”