When I woke up the next morning, my gums hurt and there was a pile of loose, bloody teeth on my pillow. For a terrifying, panicking second I imagine my mouth must be like that of the woman’s, needletongued and toothless, but when I thrust my fingers inside and feel around I find a row of teeth and a regular tongue meeting me. Yet another form of horror surges up my spine and I bolt up in bed, jerking my head back and forth, looking into the shadows of the room, trying to spot her. But she isn’t there. She’s… she’s dead, I think.

I heave a shivering sigh. A strand of crow-black hair falls in front of my eye. It’s longer than it should be. I tuck it behind my pig-ear.

I jump out of bed and realise that not only am I still wearing the same clothes I had last night, but so too is the lamp still on and my backpack isn’t unpacked, meaning my damp, already-used gym clothes must still be in there.

Stupid, stupid Luis. Always with this.

A list of things I need to do quickly forms in my head. The first is to take another look at those teeth.

I glance back at my pillow and gulp. Bending down, I observe them critically. I can’t know too well but it seems to be an entire set, with canines and whatever else included. Worst of all, going by a few of the more malformed ones, they do indeed seem to be mine. They all lie in a puddle of my nighttime saliva and a surprisingly little amount of blood considering that it seems like they all fell out of my mouth in the middle of the night.

My teeth fell out. But I have teeth now.

…Why? What? How?

I frown to myself. A thought strikes me and I glance at the clock. Yeah, if I want to get to school on time, I’ll need to think about these things as I get ready. I move to the bathroom. As expected, the apartment is empty. One time, I asked dad if he could do a different shift, but it would’ve meant working so late into the night he could barely eat dinner, which would’ve been even worse. I walk into the bathroom. For a mouthful of supposedly fresh teeth, they aren’t especially clean.

Each and every one of them is covered in a slimy layer of half-dried, brownish blood. It isn’t my first time seeing something like it, but it still disgusts me so much I spend over a minute brushing my teeth. A ridiculous amount of time, I know, but sometimes it’s needed. I spit the reddish water into the sink and when I look back up I realise that I may be an idiot.

How did I only now notice that my hair is suddenly way longer?

I touch a hand to it. It reaches down well below my shoulders. It’s still the same black colour and the same dry, dusty texture but the length is just ridiculous. I twirl my finger around a stray strand. Something sour rises to the back of my throat and I feel a sudden compulsion to cut it off. I need it gone. I can’t look like this going to school.

My hand reaches for the scissor but something stops me.

Dad usually cuts my hair. I like the way he cuts it. In return, I cut his hair. Cutting your own hair is hard. It probably won't look any good and dad usually wants me to tell him I need it cut a day or so ahead of time. If I cut it now, on my own, with time quickly running out, it’s sure to look horrible.

…But it’s better than having it like this.

I see myself grimace in the mirror. Giving only a final moment of hesitation I grab hold of the scissors. It doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to be passable. Passable…

Snip snip snip.

I drop the scissor as though it’s scalding and give my mirror-self a long, hard look.

…I’m going to need to wear my hoodie up all day. Not that that’s all too unusual. Yeah. I’m sure nobody will react. If I just sit in my corner and don’t say a word nobody will notice. For sure.

I stumble out of the bathroom, grab my backpack and move into the living room. Before I leave the house fully, I give a longing look at the landline. I could just call in sick. Say I’ve got a fever and feel ill. It would almost be the truth.

…But if I miss a few more days of school I’ll be out. Teach said as much at the last parent-teacher conference. Dad had looked really worried, too. He didn’t know. I should’ve told him. I promised not to pretend anymore.

Groaning to myself, I put my hand on the front door’s knob and twist, making sure to lock it behind me. The elevator is still being repaired and I imagine it will continue being repaired until the end of mankind. The staircase echoes with my footsteps. Then, as I pass the third floor, a woman pops out of the hallway like a jack-in-the-box before engaging the staircase, also going down.

I don’t walk any slower or faster than her, so we’re pretty much forced to move at the exact same speed, next to each other. My mind burns with the awkwardness and I genuinely consider the merits of going into a freefall to descend the stairs faster.

“So,” she says, breaking the awkward silence, “don’t you live on the sixth floor? Jack’s kid?”

I turn to her, and apparently, she only now noticed my horrendous, downright offensive haircut, because she forgot what she was doing, stumbled on the stairs and rolled her ankle, only avoiding a nasty fall because I briefly overcame my hatred of touch in order to grab her arm. Her breathing, quick and shallow, fills the echoing staircase.

“...You okay?” I mumble. She nods curtly and I pull her up into a proper standing position.

“Thanks,” she murmurs back at me. We walk the rest of the way in silence, parting at the front doors without a word. I pull up my hoodie to hide my head. Only when I’ve moved a few blocks from the building do I consider how weird it was that I could hold up an adult woman with one arm. Something there doesn’t sit quite right, but staring at my hand won’t give me anything apart from an angry honk from a car that almost ran me over. I snap out of my confusion.

I move over a zebra crossing and look to the sky. The sun isn’t standing any high but it is standing. If I touch my wrist I can feel a quick heartbeat and warm flesh. My skin isn’t pale. My teeth aren’t any sharper than normal and in the glass walls of a mall, I see my eyes are still a dusty brown.

I would be tempted to call yesterday a nightmare if it wasn’t for the teeth and hair. Or maybe this is all just a hallucination, but schizophrenia usually only takes hold around the mid-twenties. I should be alright on that front—for now.

But something is going on. Last night, something happened, and I don’t know what.

My feet stall to a stop. The street in front of me splits into two. One goes faster, through a few alleys. The other is a roundabout way through a suburban street I have good reason to hate. I gulp. Meeting Jake and his friends would be almost worse than meeting whatever I met last night. Almost.

Praying that Jake got up on time this morning, I choose the detour.

Maybe I’m a werewolf now. That would explain the growing hair and the teeth falling out. But that doesn’t explain why the teeth that grew out are totally normal and why the hair that grew is only the stuff on my head. Besides, if I turned into a wolf-boy in the middle of the night, I think dad would notice. Probably.

Also, the woman wasn’t like a werewolf at all. She was more like… She had…

I shudder involuntarily and force down the nausea rising in the back of my throat.

She wasn’t really like anything I’ve read about. Not a vampire, not a ghoul, not a ghost… I don’t know. The whole thing feels foggy and unreal. I don’t want to think about it but I feel like I have to.

Alright. She was being chased by him. He was… I don’t know who he was or what he was doing. Maybe some sort of hunter. Didn’t seem too good at it. Then she got to me, and… And…

And both of them mistook me for a girl. A girl.

Is it because I’m small? I know my shoulders aren’t exactly broad but there’s no need to rub it in. Lots of men are small and maybe a little frail. Lots. It’s nothing weird. Certainly doesn’t make you a girl. How would you even make a mistake like that? Sure the alley was dark, but I’m clearly a boy. A boy. Not a girl.

Both of them have to have been at least half-blind. I mean, how else would you-,

“Gurb?”

I freeze in place and instantly wish I’d started running but it’s too late for that. Wide-eyed, sweat already forming on my brow, I turn towards where I heard the voice. That voice I know too well.

“Hey, I knew it was you! Didn’t know you took this street nowadays. I barely recognized you with your hoodie up like that,” Jake says, his voice already grating on my ears. Maybe if I don’t respond he’ll think he got the wrong guy. Oh, no, he’s walking up to me. I keep my eyes on his broad chest to avoid looking him in the eye. I read somewhere that if you look gorillas in the eye they’ll take you for a threat. “Are you trying to hide something under there? A tiara, maybe?”

“No,” I mumble back at him, my eyes still on his chest, rereading the same printed two words over and over in my head: ‘Surf Slick’, ‘Surf Slick’, ‘Surf Slick’... What does that even mean? I don’t ask him. “It’s not.”

“Sure it isn’t,” I can hear the lilt in his words signifying a taunting grin. “You’re up late, by the way. I mean, I’m late all the time, but you? Surprising.”

I’d be late more often if it meant avoiding you, I think to myself. Instead, I just say, “Overslept.”

“Ah, of course, that age-old excuse.” He holds up his right arm and looks at the fancy, expensive watch he got for his confirmation. I don’t remember if he invited me to the party or not. “Well, the clock’s-a-tickin’, we’d better get to class.” He chuckles. “You wanna jump up on my back? I bet I could get us there in a jiffy.” To prove his point, he bends down, showing off his broad back. I noticed too late and was forced to look him in the eye. A brilliant blue. I quickly look away.

“It’s okay,” I say.

He shrugs and stands up again. “Suit yourself.” He punches my shoulder. “See you there!” And with that, he jogs away.

Once he’s gone, I rub my shoulder and try to hold back tears. He’s worse with other people around. I don’t know if it’s because he has something to prove. Maybe the reason he’s all buff and jockey is to show that not all homosexuals are prissy wusses. I don’t know. If he’d been more like me, meeker, he’d be on the other side of the punches. I just know it. Can’t get kicked if you’re the one doing the kicking.

I wipe at my nose and for one heart-seizing second I imagine there are maggots on my hand, but when I look down at my palm, it’s empty. I sigh.

A few minutes later, just in time to hear the bell ring, I arrive at school.

There’s a banner hanging outside the cafeteria that wasn’t there yesterday. It says ‘Pavrille Parrots’ alongside a somewhat crude drawing of our team mascot. I guess this means the season is coming up, but I couldn’t care less. It might mean that Jake and his followers will get more aggressive, but it could just as well mean the opposite as they take out their frustrations on the battlefield instead of me. One can always hope.

I move through the hallways silently. People have already gone to their classes, so there aren’t a lot of people around. I’d enjoy it more if the whole being-late business didn’t make me feel so horrible.

Grabbing my books from my locker, I make my way to the first class of the day: English.

My hand hovers over the door handle. I can hear someone talking in there, so whatever I do I’ll be cutting them off. Horrible, horrible. As I press down the handle, steeling my heart to do what I must, I realise mid-swing that the voice I hear isn’t from the English teacher, but someone else. Once I get the door open fully, I find that it’s our principal, Mrs Rosewood, oddly enough dressed—much like myself—entirely in black. She turns to me, her eyes red and puffy. “...Luis, please, take a seat.”

…No being told off for being late? Confused, I make my way through the room, between the seats. Everybody has such strange facial expressions, I can’t really understand them. It’s not sadness, but close, with their frowns twitching just a little. To try to understand better, I aim in on one of the girls, chancing a look at her eyes. She’s looking straight ahead, eyes trembling, a bit too moist than need be. I look away and move to my seat.

When I compare what I just saw to what Mrs Rosewood is wearing, it’s clear that, for some reason, somehow, the students and the principal are all wearing expressions of grief.

I sit down close to the back of the class. Mrs Rosewood stares out over us for a few more seconds before continuing. Only now do I notice the man standing behind her. How in the world did I not see him before? Especially with that beard. He’s a full foot taller than her, as slim as a corpse and somehow his presence just doesn’t feel real. It’s like he’s a shadow, or a piece of furniture. Just not there.

“And that is why I am sorry to have to introduce you all to Mr Chetwynd-Talbot, who was gracefully able to take over even on such short, tragic notice.” Saying so, she takes a step back, letting the substitute teacher (I’ve already forgotten his name) take centre stage.

“Please,” he says, smoothly, “no need for formalities. By all means, call me Henry.” A smile. Neither too formal nor too familiar. Just… perfect. “I’m assured you are all devastated by the loss of Mr Chalkbest, a feeling I relate to all too well. The reason I am able to step into his large boots on such short notice is in fact because I was his friend and confidant. As my accent may have betrayed,” I had barely noticed it, “I am not from this side of the Atlantic. Regardless, I hope you will accept me with open arms and eager minds. I may not be able to live up to his memory, but I will try to honour it.”

Nobody has anything to say and I don’t either. We’re all just staring straight ahead in a sort of collective daze as though we’d just been listening to the principal hold an hour-long speech on the future generation or whatever.

He smiles in the way old paintings do and Mrs Rosewood smiles too, some amount of relief clearly present on her lips.

She bows her head down a little, her curly black hair bouncing. “I’m sorry that we couldn’t give you students more time to grieve, but with midterms coming up…” Her voice shifts. “It’s what he would have wanted.”

With her piece said, Mrs Rosewood backs away, towards the door. She gives a final glance back before leaving fully. The classroom is uncharacteristically silent, but I chalk it up to the news we just received. For a few seconds, nobody says anything. Really, it’s so quiet we can hear the classrooms around and below us, mumbling. A classroom as silent as this would usually be the perfect breeding ground for gossip and whispering and laughing, but nobody says anything. Nothing at all.

A girl sniffles, hiccups, somehow breaking the ice enough for people to start mumbling to each other. Thankfully, nobody says anything to me. I can understand what’s happening without-,

“Chalkbest died!” Jake whisper-shouts at me, leaning across the space between our chairs. “They say he was-,”

A clap of the hands silences everyone again. “I know you’ve heard some terrible news, I am as shocked as you, but please don’t use this as an excuse to gossip amongst yourselves. As Principal Rosewood so elegantly put it, he would have wanted us to continue learning.” Everything he says, he says clearly, cleanly, without a single pause or stutter. It’s hard to describe, but it sounds as though he’s an actor speaking his lines perfectly, without a single hiccup. Even Chalkbest spoke like a human. The substitute smiles at us. “Would anyone like to explain what you worked on last? I’m afraid I have not had the time to acquaint myself with your curriculum yet. I have been… preoccupied.”

For a second, there is no response. Then one of the girls in the front row raises her hand. He gives her a well-measured nod. She goes on to ramble about the last book we’ve had to read and that we were going to watch the movie adaptation next week to write a report on the differences and similarities between the two.

He takes it in with a calm disposition, thanking her for the opulent explanation. He really used that word—opulent. I can’t see her face, but when she sat down, she seemed extra careful with straightening out her skirt so it’d look just right. Suck-up.

Thankfully, maybe reading the atmosphere, he lets us spend the rest of the lesson just reading our books. I’ve gotten a bit further than everyone else, but not because I like the book or anything. It’s mediocre at best. Weird humour, but since I read fast I’m able to get through it without having to read it at home. I glance to my right, finding Jake sitting there, hand in his hair, frowning down at his book. He’s barely gotten a quarter into it while everyone else is way past the halfway mark. I grin to myself.

“Is there something the matter, student?”

I look up. He’s so close now. I didn’t hear him approach and I wasn’t even reading that intently. I accidentally meet his eyes and they seem to almost be burning. I look down at my book, affixing my gaze on the word ‘crumb’. “Uh, no.”

“You seemed very amused,” he breathes. I look around. Nobody else seems to even notice that he’s all the way at the back of the class. “It’s a shame, but the other student—Alice—failed to describe the plot too deeply.” I can feel his breaths, nearby. They don’t smell like anything. Just air. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

“No,” I say before I realise that this means I’ll have to talk more. I wet my lips. “Well, um, it’s about this boy, and he’s… at this place in the desert. They’re all digging holes. Hence the, uh, title.”

“Holes? For what?”

I gulp, running my thumb over the print, around and around, trying to take comfort in the texture of the paper. “I… don’t know. It hasn’t been revealed yet, but I think they’re looking for… something. Maybe.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to spoil it. Since I’m sure to stay with your class for at least a while, it might do me good to read it as well.” A brief pause. I wish it means he’s done speaking but he isn’t. “Could I have your name?”

I glance up again. His eyes are still burning. “Luis,” I say. “Luis Freighthold.”

“Luis… It’s a good name,” he says. “You know, it’s the funniest thing. I can’t say I’ve been here for too long, but—it’s one of those culture clash things—you apparently still refer to people by their last names, including teachers you know. Isn’t that silly?” I don’t think it is, but I don’t say anything. “I’d rather you just called me Henry. Chetwynd-Talbot is such a mouthful.”

I glance up at him again. He smiles affably. “But I’ll leave you to your work now, Luis. I hope I didn’t take up too much of your time.”

“...No problem,” I mumble.

I don’t hear him leave either. When I look up, all of a sudden he’s back at the front of the classroom, as though he never left. Feeling slightly nauseous, I turn back to my book, trying to make the feeling go away by drowning my mind out with words. Surprisingly, it works.

Class ends, and on the way out, Henry encourages everyone to go in a line and tell him their names and what their favourite piece of music is. When it’s my turn, he just looks at me and says, “I already know you, Luis.” He let me through. I had been repeating my name and my favourite song in my head for maybe three minutes at that point (Luis Freighthold, ‘Breathe’, Luis Freighthold, ‘Breathe’, Luis Freighthold, ‘Breathe’...) so I felt a bit snubbed. Nonetheless, the fact that I didn’t have to say anything did bring some relief.

Second period is maths. I do alright. Jake isn’t in it but a few of his cronies are so I’m able to stay without having to interact with anyone. At some point, I try to answer a question and when I get it wrong everyone laughs. I sit back down. Someone else answers it correctly and everything continues as normal. I don’t have time to go cry in the toilet before the next period begins.

The rest of the time before lunch goes alright. After leaving my books in my locker I go outside, bringing my backpack with me before remembering that I didn’t pack any lunch this morning.

Maybe I should just skip it. I don’t feel hungry anyway.

I shake my head. That’s the kind of logic that got me so thin in seventh grade. I was lucky dad caught me in time or we may have had to take me to a hospital or something, which we obviously wouldn’t have been able to afford. Spinning on my heel, I re-enter the school. The cafeteria is predictably bustling and the sounds irk me more than the long, winding line does. I take my place.

I have three reasons for eating on my own, outside: firstly, it’s cheaper to bring my own lunch than to buy from the school; secondly, it’s quiet outside; thirdly…

“Hey, Gurb!” someone calls and I try fruitlessly to merge more with the line, but Jake’s voice cuts above the rest. “Come stand over here with us!”

A few annoyed glares shoot my way from those ahead of me, but by this point, I know what happens if I don’t ‘join them.’ Meekly, I step out of the line and approach the group of four standing by the treys. Jake welcomes me with a leering grin. All four of them are taller and broader than me. I think they could bicep-curl me if they wanted to, but if I said anything like that they might be tempted to actually try it.

Jake turns away from me and the three others share indecipherable looks.

The line shifts and we move to take food. I don’t say anything. Anything I say can (and will) be used against me for the sake of some derogatory joke. There’s no point in even trying.

“Veronica was totally checking you out dude,” one of the three guys—Patrick—says, jutting his elbow into Jake.

“She was not!” he says back, and so the conversation continues. I’m not even sure why they keep me around. Slapstick, I assume. I follow them as they move across the food. I look down at the food and frown. Poached salmon. Isn’t chemical warfare against the Geneva convention? Skipping over the pink rubber, I grab a pile of stringed carrots and some cucumber, placing them on either half of the plate, neatly separated.

Silently, I follow the four as they make their way across the cafeteria, finally sitting down at a large round table. I’m unwillingly sitting next to Jake because that was the only spot open. They’re talking about games and girls and I’m poking at the tawny greens on my plate, wondering if it’s worth salting them. I’ll just get made fun of again, but maybe it’s worth it.

“What about you, Gurb?”

My heart jumps into my throat and emerges as a croak, “What?”

A chuckle passes around the table. I feel hot in my hoodie. Patrick smiles at me mockingly. “What’s your favourite team?”

“Oh, um…” I rack my brains. I don’t know any teams. Dad doesn’t even watch sports. “The… Parrots.”

A few more chuckles around the table and once again I have no idea what they’re laughing at. It’s like they’re talking in morse. Jake slaps Patrick on the back and, grinning, says, “Hey, come on, man! You’re going to cast a curse over us or something.”

“Yeah,” one of the others pipes up, “might as well ask him to come cheer for us. Watch the clouds go black!”

“Like a black cat,” someone else says. Going by the laugh in his voice I think they meant it as a joke, but it doesn’t have any punchline. Regardless, the others laugh. Not wanting to be left out, I give a small chuckle.

The table abruptly goes quiet. Four pairs of eyes turn on me and I look down at my plate. “What’s so funny, Gurb?” I think Jake says.

I ball my hands into fists. My head is filled with buzzing flies. “I don’t know,” I say.

“What’s that?” he says, and I can hear the smile on his face. “I couldn’t really hear you. Come on, Gurb. Speak up.” I don’t say anything in turn. “Besides, what are you wearing this hood for? Come on, man. You’re among friends, you know that, right?” No, I’m not, I think, but nothing comes out. A hand touches the edge of my hood. “Did you go bald? Did you get cancer? It’s not like we’ll laugh if you did.” I bring up my hands, holding the hood in place. “Don’t be like that.”

He rips back my hood, much too strong for me to fight, and cold air brushes my head. I stare straight forward, unwillingly meeting the eyes of all four, and for just a moment, nobody says anything. Then…

“”“-BWAHAHAHAHAH!”””

In a matter of seconds, moments, I fly to my feet, feeling how they whirl beneath me and my breath razes through my throat and the action of running briefly keeps me from crying, and for just a second I hear how one of them stops laughing to pat Jake on the back and say “you’re awful” and then I’m running again and I keep it in all the way until I get to the bathroom, where I run into the third stall and hop onto the toilet, pressing my knees against my face so I won’t have to wet a more obvious piece of clothing. Like this, I can just say I fell down in a puddle, or something.

As I sit on the toilet, sniffling, sobbing, the door opens. “Hey, Gurb, you in here?” Jake asks. I stop my sobbing. But it’s hard. The edges of my lips keep dipping down into a trembling frown and I’m on the edge of hiccuping. I pinch my nose shut. My eyes are already going watery but I’m at least keeping myself from making too much noise. “Hey, man, I think I might’ve overstepped a boundary there or something, just…”

A pause. I can hear him pace across the floor, probably hunched over, looking beneath the stall doors. I clutch my knees closer to me.

“...But, seriously, you can’t fault us for laughing, right? I mean, you look like a, like a… Like you put a dead crow on your head! Ha-ha!” I don’t laugh. “Or… something.” A few more moments brush by, awkwardly conjoined. “Right. Yeah.” I think he stands up again. “See you in fifth period?”

The door opens and then he’s gone. I sit on the toilet for a few more minutes, and then I wipe my tears with a paper towel and flush it down the toilet.

I only now remember I left my plate in the cafeteria. It still has everything on it. I tried to eat, but the carrots tasted weird. I should clean up after myself. It’s almost time for the next period to begin, so it should be alright.

Wiping at my eyes, I exit the stall only to find someone standing there and I stumble back. A pair of burning eyes fall on me and Henry smiles in a way I think might be sympathetic. “He said something mean, didn’t he?” I’m too startled to reply, and with sudden self-consciousness, I pull the hood back over my head. His smile softens. “You don’t need to hide it, you know. I don’t mind.”

I want to say something but my throat is still full of sobs so I try to push past him but his hand falls on my shoulder and I tense up. It’s stronger than I’d think of him. “We may not have known each other for long, but if you ever need someone to talk to, I would gladly lend you my ear, Luis.”

I brush him off and leave the toilet.

For the rest of the day, Jake doesn’t try to talk to me, which I’m thankful for. When the bell rings for the final time I run across the school yard, successfully avoiding them. Once I’m a fair distance away from the school I slow down my pace and walk. For some reason, I’m not out of breath, even though I ran for a pretty good while.

My knees are trembling. I keep walking. I don’t want to think about anything.

To keep my mind off it, I focus on what I should make for dinner tonight. I don’t feel like making anything too grand, but some chicken, some rice, and… and a few…

I grind to a stop.

An alleyway gapes open before me. A tremble returns to my knees. I… I must have taken this road on instinct. Yeah, that’s it. Instinct. My chest feels cold. I take a step back. Yeah, I just need to take a detour, and then…

Jake’s face flashes through my head and I draw a sharp breath. I can’t. I can’t.

I look back at the alley. My eyes turn downward, at where she was yesterday. But there’s nothing there. Not even the scent of her perfume. In fact, the whole alley smells cleaner. I think the cat’s been removed. Unwillingly, I take a breath of the alley. It smells like alcohol, but not the drinking kind. Confusion washes over me.

As I stand in the middle of the alley, I hear a sound. Like heels, but heavier.

I swirl around. A man with yellow glasses stares down at me. I gulp.

Leaning down, he asks, “Have we met before?”