Students move around the hallways in gossiping throngs discussing what they did over the weekend. Some of the girls are curled into other students, their shoulders heaving up and down. Others shake their heads, heavy sighs escaping their lips. Two girls by the restroom are sobbing their eyes out, black streaks of makeup staining their faces. I continue down the hall only to run into a giant of a guy.

I stumble backward. "I'm so sorry."

He turns to face me and sniffles. His eyes are bloodshot just like the girls' I just passed. He nods and steps aside so I can pass.

If this is normal behavior, then humans are completely unstable.

Before I can ask one of the nearby hall monitors what's going on, a kid rushes past and bumps into me, and I trip. A low growl rumbles in my throat as I regain my balance.

The high-pitched blare of the first bell echoes through the hallway. Pulling out the phone from my jacket pocket, I check the time.

Chikushō!

I jog down the hallway, arriving to chemistry class with five minutes to spare. Mr. Ortiz is as welcoming as the smell of bleach that seems to permanently hang about his classroom. Ugh. Don't these people breathe? How am I the only one who notices this?

Blaire's in her seat, scrolling through her phone. Her face is taut, eyes unblinking. A few students arriving into class sport red-rimmed eyes. I plop into my seat and lean in to Blaire. "You okay? What's going on?"

Her hand trembles, fingers gripping the textbook with such force her knuckles are white. "Aimee—the girl who sits behind you—died last night."

My eyes widen. Majide? I whip my head around to the empty seat, my stomach clenching and flipping. "Doushite no? Uh, I mean, what happened?"

Blaire opens her mouth, but no words come out. Her lips tremble until she bites on her bottom lip with such force she might break skin. She wipes away tears staining her cheeks with the back of her hand. "People are posting Aimee and her boyfriend were attacked by a huge dog on their way home from the movies. She died in the hospital and he's in intensive care right now."

"Not a dog. A wolf." Gretchen stares at the three of us, her eyes puffy. "A wolf killed Aimee."

No, no, no.

Sweat drenches my skin, pulse skyrocketing. My fingers curl into fists, nails digging into my palms as dread gnaws at my stomach like a school of piranha. It's not Raiju. He wouldn't be hunting humans. I'm safe. I'm safe. I'm safe.

Blaire's fingers find and tighten around my hand. "God, Bax was right when he said a wolf attacked him."

Afton State Park is close, but no large predators live there. I checked. I squeeze my eyes shut, chasing away the world. I yank my phone out of my back pocket and search for wolf sightings in Afton. The only thing that pops up is an event notification. The International Wolf Center is down here doing a weekend program. Perhaps... "Did IWC lose a wolf?"

Gretchen hangs her head, shoulders slumping forward. "I asked Bax the same question. His dad checked. It's not them."

"Then it can't be a wolf. Maybe a big husky or malamute. Some look like wolves. Or a Tamaskan. Everyone wants one of those these days. And Gretchen, I'm sorry about your friend. Whether it was a wolf or not doesn't matter."

Death isn't kind. It takes people—takes kitsune—who were far too young, far too good. Aimee, like my young sisters and brothers, had her entire life ahead of her. And now it's gone, snatched away in one cruel second. I rub my clammy hands against my jeans, my muscles twitching.

If kitsune are lucky to outlive humans, we can reach one thousand years old and become a god or goddess. But since the industrial revolution, most wild foxes barely live two to five years. That's hardly enough time to develop abilities. As far as I am aware, no amount of powers will protect me from predators. A wild wolf is just as dangerous as Raiju. They are like Sam—immune.

The bell rings, and the class turns their attention to the front. Mr. Ortiz clears his throat, rubbing his glasses on his sweater. His eyes bulge even when the thick lenses of his glasses are removed. In his nails-on-chalkboard voice, he tells us how very sorry he was to hear about Aimee Bender's death, that the guidance counselor is open all day if anyone needs to talk to her, and that today we will be talking about various types of chemical reactions. Not exactly the most thoughtful transition.

I open my textbook and press my notebook flat on a new page. Next to me, Gretchen continues to sniffle, her shallow sobs drowning out Mr. Ortiz's lecture.

"Gretchen..." Mr. Ortiz pinches his nose. "If you're so distressed that you can't get through the period without crying and distracting everyone, go see Ms. Albert."

Seriously? What a jerk!

Gretchen sobs louder, gathering her belongings and dashing for the door.

My blood boils hot as lava, churning and hungry for destruction. "That was mean, don't you think? Her friend died last night and you just, like, basically told her to stop crying about it."

Mr. Ortiz turns his glassy gaze on me and sits against the ledge of his desk. "If you have a problem with it, Amaya, feel free to join her." He points his finger toward the hallway.

I sit back in my seat, crossing my arms. I'm not leaving. This loser isn't chasing me out. Not to mention we have a test next week and I can't afford to miss any lectures.

Mr. Ortiz's lip curls. "I didn't think so." He stands up and turns back to the whiteboard, pushing his glasses up his nose as he retraces his complicated equations. "As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted—"

My cheeks burn, fingers clenching and unclenching into fists. The sounds of the room drown out until only the rhythm of my pulse fills my ears. Light sizzles cover my scalp and skin, sinking into my head. Jaw clenched, my eyes narrow to slits, focusing on Mr. Ortiz's bald head. A blanket of static flutters over my body.

"Now, the Briggs-Rauscher reaction is one of a small number of known ostrich clemichal redactions."

A few kids snicker and I take in a deep breath, lips stretching into a wide gaping grin and my brows arch toward the sky. Oh my! I've just affected Mr. Ortiz without eye-to-eye contact.

Mr. Ortiz stops speaking and smacks his lips. I'm so not done with him. Concentrating, I wait for the sizzles. When the tiny zings flood my head once more, I dip my chin.

Round two.

Mr. Ortiz turns, grabs his water bottle, and dumps the water on his head. "It's getting hot in here..."

Kids in the front row scoot their chairs back. But when some whip out their phones, I stop. No need to make the chemistry teacher an internet sensation. My small triumph backfires and a flustered Mr. Ortiz assigns us textbook problems to complete, which he will be grading as a test.

The class grumbles in unison.

My pencil taps in beat to my heel. As usual, while Mr. Ortiz continues to talk about textbook problems, my mind wanders. Except this time, I can't help but replay Gretchen's last words to me.

Gretchen's got to be wrong. The dog's got to be Tamaskan or a hybrid some moron purchased as a pet. Wolves don't live here. Besides, the animal that bit Bax was a big dog, too. If it had been a wolf, Bax wouldn't be alive right now because it wouldn't have been just a small bite on the hand.

My vision clouds with swarms of red. Idiots. Just last week I came across a video of some human female who had a fox—a damn fox—as a pet and was feeding it a vegan diet. The poor creature lost most of its fur. It looked so weak and feeble, nothing like the spritely form foxes are meant to have.

Why do I want to live among humans again? Oh, right. I have no home to go back to, no skulk to live with.

When the bell rings, Blair drags herself from the plastic blue chair and turns toward me. "Want to head to the cafeteria? I'm not really in the mood for another assembly about how the school is here to help us get through a student's death. Nothing they offered helped when Tori died."

I nod and follow her through the halls. Blaire is quiet most of the walk, with shoulders slumped forward and gaze focused on the ground. I scoot in closer so our arms touch. Sometimes quiet sympathy is better than talking it out.

The cafeteria is a cacophony of loud chatter, each table a group of kids speaking loudly to be heard above the others. Crap, the first lunch period of the day. Not sure if it should even be called lunch when it's only 9:45 a.m. But, as Blaire explained it on my first day, schools can't take away a student's lunch period. So, over a meal of soggy fries and mystery meat, alliances form and gossip is traded like poker chips. A much different tone than chemistry class. But not everyone knew Aimee, so they wouldn't be affected by what happened to her.

We grab an empty table toward the back of the room. After I complained yesterday, Mom made me a packed lunch. I pull out my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Nothing like a midmorning snack to chase away my anxiety.

Blaire winds a strand of hair around her finger. "So, why'd you start school in December?"

"My dad took a new job." My teeth sink into the moist bread of the sandwich, the creamy peanut butter sticking to the roof of my mouth. I bring the bottle of water to my mouth and swish around the clear fluid before swallowing. "We actually just moved from Warsaw, but we lived in Japan prior."

"My mom spent a couple of months in Japan years ago for work. I think her office was in Osaka, in the Umeda Sky Building."

I snort and screw the cap back onto my water bottle before putting it down. "Home of the world's highest escalator."

Blaire grins. "She raves about the Kuromon Ichiba Market. Her best memories center around the market. Were you born and raised in Japan? You don't have much of an accent."

My nerves frazzle and jump altogether, and in different directions. Blaire's too perceptive, and if I'm not careful she might notice some of the nonhuman traits I can't hide. "Born and raised, but my parents are American so must've picked up their accent. So, did your dad enjoy Japan, too?"

A deep red flush crawls up Blaire's neck as she dips her chin, eyes focused on her hands. "Don't know, don't care. He left us."

My insides jolt like I've just been kicked in the gut. Nothing like a simple question opening up painful wounds. The same thing happened when I asked Sam about his mom. Maybe I should just keep my mouth shut from now on. "I'm sorry."

She shrugs, her lips tight. "Whatever."

I sink my teeth into the green apple Mom packed, unable to fathom someone choosing to abandon the people they love. Dad derailed his career because he wanted what's best for me. But what if he had decided to keep his job? He could've tried to wash his hands of me. He and Mom could've chosen to go their separate ways. There are so many possible ways in which my bid to become their daughter could've blown up in my face.

I raise my head, looking toward the kitchen, and spot Bax tossing garbage into one of the pails. "Question for you. What's his deal?"

"Baxter Warren?" Blaire's voice is suddenly sharp. A sour look distorts her delicate features.

I cock my head to the side. "Why isn't he sad?"

"Most likely because now that Greg is out for the season, Bax becomes the new captain." Her eyes narrow to crinkled slits as she slams her fist on the table, nostrils flaring. "He gets away with everything. The entire team gets drunk after a first game, drives around the city while they are piss-faced, kill my best friend, and they all walk around like nothing happened. Just like they are doing now."

The hairs on my arms prickle while unease rolls through me like a chilled, dark wave. "Why aren't all of them behind bars right now?"

She swings her legs over the bench, grabbing her bag. "Because Bax's dad is the sheriff and the team never gets called out for doing anything wrong. Win a couple of trophies and everyone looks the other way regardless of the harm they cause."

Heat licks my skin and my body twitches as I stare across the room at the captain of the lacrosse team. The guilty not being punished never sat well with me. Whether cheating spouses or rich thieves, I always made their crimes came to light.

"Sorry, I can't look at them any longer. Enjoy the rest of your meal." Blaire storms off, crashing through the blue metal doors of the cafeteria.

A sour odor, like stale fat and lemon, wafts into the room in her wake. A weight presses on my chest, robbing me of breath. Wolf. My eyes dart between each of the crowded brown octagon tables to the students in line getting their lunch. I whip my head over my shoulder toward the windows behind me, my heart beating at a dizzying pace.

Impossible.

No way a wolf can be in the building or on campus without the staff alerting the students. A message would've gone out over the loudspeaker. I throw the remainder of my sandwich into the brown paper bag, grab my shoulder bag, and head toward the hallway.