Our victory is short-lived, as there are plenty of rich kids who don't want to sit at our table and, instead, join Daniel and his posse. Someone even switches tables halfway through lunch break—I guess she couldn't take it anymore. The only one who doesn't sit with the assholes is Sam. I don't know what to make of the guy anymore, but I don't care enough to find out. Davy doesn't seem like he's in a rush to do so, either.

Nichola is actually really fun to talk to. She has opinions about everything, but not in a way that's grating or rude. She's like a nicer and more talkative version of Margie. Not everyone is as chatty as Nichola, of course, but I appreciate that they stick around. And for the first time in my life, I appreciate how much people love to gossip. Everyone's figured out the situation before the end of the day, which makes our job a lot easier.

The next day, people start to actually talk to me. They wave and smile, and they tell me they're sorry for what happened. Lower-class kids who used to ignore me, because I was too poor and too different even for them, now stare at me with envy and awe. Meanwhile, Daniel, Bennett, Emre, and Sam receive the treatment I'm used to.

It's bizarre.

But what really takes the cake is that when Margie passes me in the hallways, she asks if I'm "one of them now" in a way that implies she no longer respects me. I can't say I'll lose sleep over it, but I thought she was impressed by my ability to mix in with the rich kids . . . and now she's not? What gives?

I was never trying to impress her, though.

"Not really," I say, shrugging.

"Could've fooled me."

"Do I look like I'm one of them?"

She slowly narrows her eyes at me. "Not yet."

"Okay, what's up, Margie? Do you want me to come back to our table? Is that it?"

"I don't care if you sit at our table," she scoffs.

"Then I don't understand why you're acting salty."

She rolls her eyes and walks away.

When I turn around, Nichola is suddenly in front of me, stumbling back to avoid a collision. "Sorry," she laughs, reaching up to her neck as a blush spreads across her cheeks. "You turned around very suddenly."

"Were you listening?"

"Oh . . . yeah," she says, and I've got to give her credit for admitting it. "If you don't mind me asking, were you two friends?"

"No."

"Hm. Maybe she thought you were. She sounded jealous."

Well, if Margie is jealous, that's not my problem—she's the one who kept saying she didn't want to be friends, even when I made an effort to get to know her. She needs to make up her mind.

That probably sounds mean, though, so I say, "Maybe."

"She's a bit of an odd duck," Nichola says.

"Yeah."

"When she was new here, we were always trying to figure out what her deal is."

"Did you?"

She smiles wryly. "No. We decided she's harmless."

That's a nice way of putting it. Margie can be a bitch, but yeah, I guess she's not a threat to anyone, least of all the upper class. No doubt she would have been, though, if she cared to. I guess I'm lucky she was never bothered by my presence.

For that, I'm grateful.

☽〇☾

Two days later, I'm called into the principal's office. Mrs. Edwards is the sort of woman who always looks like she'd rather be anywhere else, which makes two of us. I can't imagine she invited me over for a fun little chat.

I slowly take one of the empty seats on the other side of her desk, keeping my eyes on her rather than the thousands of faces staring at me from the walls. Sometimes I wonder if she surrounds herself with all of her students because she wants to remind herself of how much power she has over them or because she wants to remind them.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Reed," she says, pushing a pair of glasses up her nose. "Thank you for coming. Do you know why you're here?"

"Sorry, ma'am, I don't," I say, although I have an inkling.

"A few concerned colleagues have informed me of a rumor that's been circulating around the school. I would like you to confirm whether this rumor is true, and whether you were the one to spread it. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"Uh . . . yes, ma'am."

"Good. We take these things very seriously, so I would like you to be honest with me. It would not reflect positively on your school record if you were to have said such things about your peers."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

I clear my throat. "Assuming they're . . . not true?"

"Correct."

Take one look at my fucking face, woman.

Okay, to be fair, I suppose she can't confirm who or what did this to me. For all she knows, I did fall out of a tree and decided to blame it on some rich kids. Because all the poor people have it out for the rich, I guess. I have to remind myself she's rich, too, and she's one of the worst. She owns this school.

"Can I ask a hypothetical question," I ask, "for clarity?"

She nods.

"You've told me what happens if I confirm that I've been spreading lies about my classmates. What would happen if I said it was true, regardless of whether I told people about it or not?"

She narrows her eyes ever so slightly. "We would . . . probably launch an investigation."

Considering she already doubts my word, I don't feel very confident that she would, let alone that it would turn out the way I want it to; she's determined to prove her upper class students innocent. Besides, I don't want to get the police involved.

"Thank you," I say. "Unfortunately, I don't know who's been spreading those rumors. It wasn't me. Maybe you should ask them. The people the rumors are about, I mean."

She shakes her head. "They wouldn't say."

It wasn't really a serious suggestion, anyway. I doubt Daniel, Emre, Bennett, or Sam would ever tell the principal Haley was the one who spread the "rumors." As dumb as they are, at least they're smart enough to realize that would not reflect positively on anyone, all things considered, though I do wonder if Mrs. Edwards would even believe them. The Sinclairs are one of Larkwood High's most generous sponsors, their kids intelligent and competent. It would make no sense for Haley to defame his upper-class peers unless they did something to him, and I'm not him. I'm a nobody.

"Well, I'm sorry I couldn't help you," I say.

For a long moment, Mrs. Edwards stares at me. Her dull green eyes flit over my fading bruises until, finally, she asks, "Is it true?"

"With all due respect, ma'am, would you believe me if I said yes?"

She clears her throat and folds her arms on her desk. "Not with the scarce information I've been given, I'm afraid. I think I'm missing the part of the story that will make me understand why it happened."

I shrug. "Misunderstandings? Prejudices? Boredom? There are a lot of reasons why it could have happened. Maybe I have no idea why. Doesn't mean I'm lying."

"So you're saying it's true?"

Fucking hell, woman, I'm saying there doesn't need to be a reason for you to give a shit about a student being assaulted. I'm saying you should not believe the assaulters just because they're rich and the victim is not.

"What do you think?" I ask.

"I think you're evading my question."

Yeah, well.

"Mr. Reed, let me remind you, in case you've forgotten, you are one of Larkwood High's best performing students. Despite your . . . unfortunate history, you adjusted quickly and you've been very well-behaved. You are, in almost every respect, a model student. I would like to keep it that way—for both of our sakes." She forces a smile. "Let me know when you're ready to tell me what happened."

I can't tell anymore if she wants me to assure her it's not true so she doesn't have to do anything, or if she wants me to say it is so she can accuse me of lying and kick me out, but I'm not gonna play that game. I don't trust her to play fair. Haley and I have it under control, anyway. Every day, people are getting more and more used to me being friends with him, to me being part of the group. It's slow progress, but progress nonetheless. I'll take my chances.

☽〇☾

Come Friday evening, I'm starting to feel the urge again. It hasn't even been a week, but I don't fight it this time. Haley drives me to the woods again, and together we walk under the thinning roof of leaves. They flutter down one by one, red, orange, yellow. To Haley, they all look the same, different shades of the same color. He says it's pretty nonetheless; at least they have color now.

"Do you think it's a shapeshifter thing?" I ask.

"Why?"

"It can't be a coincidence that red is one of the few colors you can see."

He faces me, one eyebrow quirked. "It's not as if it's difficult for you to see blood when you can see other colors. There's no advantage. Besides, why should I be able to see the color of the sky? So I can eat it?"

I laugh. "It could just be a side effect, instead of an advantage."

"Nah, I think I just drew the short end of the stick in the genes department."

"Maybe."

The wind shakes more leaves out of the trees.

"Have you tried getting in touch with that snake yet?" I ask.

"I thought you didn't want me to."

"I helped you find her, didn't I?"

"Okay, well, we were kind of occupied with other things, and there's no rush, so I haven't done anything yet. I was thinking about it, though. If the woman we found is actually her, it should be easy to just send her a message. We just have to make an anonymous account and then we need to figure out how to phrase our question."

"Which is arguably the hardest part."

"Yeah."

Leaves shatter under our feet, crunch, crunch. Haley hums, swishing their black jacket around with their hands deep in the pockets.

"You got any ideas?" they ask.

"No."

"Maybe we should just ask and see what happens."

"Ask her what? If she's a snake? If she sells information about mythicals? Sounds like a great idea. I'm sure she'd love to tell a complete stranger all about that."

"Dude, I'm not an idiot. I think we should ask her if she can, like, help out a fellow mythical or something. That sounds a lot less confrontational. And if she doesn't know what mythicals are, we can be like, oops, sorry, wrong person, and move on."

"What if she asks how we know she's a mythical? What if she thinks we're hunters? How can we convince her we're trustworthy?"

"She didn't know if your mom was trustworthy."

"True, but . . . Honestly, I don't think we should even be talking about mythicals on social media, even if it's just a throwaway account. They can trace everything."

"Okay, so we get her number and use the chat app. It's all encrypted."

"How are we getting her number?"

Haley purses their lips, swishing their jacket around some more. Then they look at me with a twinkle in their eyes. "She's currently single."

I burst into laughter, then press a hand to my ribs. "Ow."

"Don't laugh," they chuckle.

"You just suggested seducing a woman who's nearly twice your age so you can ask her about your vampiric tendencies. Excuse me if I think that's amusing."

"Do you have a better idea?"

"No. I think it's a good idea, but you might have to pay her double—for breaking her heart when she finds out you're a high schooler."

"Okay, first of all, if we're doing this in the app, she will never need to know who I really am, but she might be upset that we just want information instead of an actual relationship, so I'll compensate. Secondly, me? We're doing this together, man."

"I'm not really looking for a girlfriend right now."

"Dude," they laugh. "Neither am I. Davy would cry a river."

"Y—wait, he told you?"

"He, uh . . . yeah, a few days ago. I didn't—" They rub the back of their neck as they put one foot in front of the other, crunch, crunch. "Well, that's not important right now, and it's a pretty long story, so I'll tell you later."

"Alright."

"So, are you in?"

"Yeah, I'm in."

"Awesome. Now get naked. I need you in top form for this quest for knowledge."

Trying not to laugh, I start taking off my clothes.

When I'm done switching forms, Haley takes out his phone and starts preparing his social media account while we walk. We're lucky that the app on which he found Penelope, our suspected snake, is the type of app that is not only used to connect with people, but also to meet people, so it won't be too weird if we suddenly slide into her DMs. At least, according to Haley. I'll take his word for it, since I don't use social media.

"Okay, first things first," Haley says. "How old is this dude? Penelope is, uh, thirty-two, and her exes all look like they're about the same age as her, so we probably shouldn't make him too old or too young. Thirty?"

I nod.

"Alright. We're thirty." He taps on his phone. "Name? Something common, probably. Let me think. . . . Jason? Matthew?"

Yeah, I don't know if it matters much.

"Alright, Matthew. Last name, uh . . . " A robin whistles nearby, and he makes a demonstrative gesture. "Bird. Matthew Bird. Lovely." More tapping. Then he starts chewing on his lip, gazing at the trees ahead of us with a distant look.

I keep moving forward, one paw in front of the other.

"Okay, I have a thought. Let me know if you think it's stupid. So I was kind of expecting we would just find a random guy and use his pictures, but what if she does a reverse image search on those pictures and finds out we're catfishing her before we even get her number? And what if we do need to meet with her in person? Well, I'm a shapeshifter. I literally have the ability to put on a stranger's face, and I can take original pictures. I can even change their age, their hair and facial hair, everything."

Oh, I don't think that's stupid at all. I agree, and he nods.

"That means we have two options—I'm not gonna be Ryan."

Right, the kid from our school. I still don't know how Haley got his face, but I promised not to ask. (Not that I can do that right now.) Either way, I agree, it's probably best not to use the face of somebody we go to school with, even if he would look more than a decade older if Haley used it.

"I think the other guy I have is not handsome enough. He's pretty short as well. All of her exes are pretty good-looking and taller than her, so I'm not gonna take that gamble. Which leaves the boy."

I turn my head toward Haley questioningly.

"Oh. Sure. Let's see."

I only saw the face of the child at his original age last time, and I didn't realize it was a boy because of how long his hair was, but I can see it now. Haley leaves his shiny black hair the same length, down to his shoulders, but his jaw is wider, his nose heavier, his eyes deeper. I can't quite pin down his ethnicity—his skin is a bit tawny, his brows thick and dark—but what's important is that he's handsome.

Yeah, I think he'll do.

"We can fine-tune the details later, of course," Haley says, and I watch his eyebrows thinning, his eyes lightening, his face softening, shaving off twelve years, until he's Haley again. "First, let's think about what this guy does for a living."

☽〇☾