Adventures of a Wimpy Werewolf: Hairy But Not Scary Page 3

  While I was with Tyson, I thought I might as well remind him that he’s still got my copy of Grand Theft Auto, but he just shrugged and said he hadn’t finished it yet. I lent it to him in January. How long is he going to take? The worst thing is, I can’t even go to the police about it because it’s rated 18, so they’d probably send me to prison for buying it in the first place.

  Mr Landis called me into his office as I was leaving school.

  At first he looked at me in silence and shook his head. Then he said he’d seen it all before – hardworking, well-behaved pupils getting led astray by the cool kids.

  He said that since the day my blazer was ripped I’d been disobeying school uniform rules and wearing cool gear like hoodies and dark glasses instead. Now he was getting reports about me turning up late, getting thrown out of lessons and hanging around with Tyson’s gang instead of the respectable pupils like Pete and Karl.

  He said that I could go on following Tyson and his little entourage right to the unemployment office after school if I liked. Then I’d see how cool they were.

  I wanted to tell him my new clothes were down to a medical condition, but when I tried to speak, all that came out was a high-pitched yapping noise.

  He walked over to his door and opened it for me. He said that if I wasn’t taking my future seriously, he didn’t see why he should.

  Tonight I thought about how Tyson had stolen my copy of Grand Theft Auto, and it made me really angry. What right did he have to steal my property?

  I could hear a strange noise in my bedroom and for a moment I couldn’t work out what it was. Then I realized that it was me. I was growling. I stopped right away, and tried to get back to my science textbook.

  But I kept glancing over at my games collection and worrying that Tyson would come round and steal those too. For some reason, I decided that the only way I could make absolutely sure they were safe would be to bury them in the back garden.

  I took the shovel out of the shed, dug a hole and threw my all my PS3 games into it. I knew the damp soil would damage the packaging of the games, and send their exchange value plummeting, but I somehow felt they’d be safer this way.

  Just as I was finishing, Mum popped her head out of the kitchen window and asked me what I was doing. I was too tired to lie, so I told her I was burying my computer games to make sure they were safe.

  She said that she now realized I couldn’t possibly have a girlfriend after all. For some reason, this put her in a bad mood for the rest of the night. I don’t know why she’s still so convinced that romance is the answer to everything. She’s had three boyfriends since Dad left and they’ve all been complete losers. And that’s coming from someone who’s just buried their copy of Street Fighter IV in the back garden.

  Tuesday 24TH April

  According to my revision timetable, I should be waking up at six every morning this week to fit in an extra hour of study before school. As a matter of fact, I did wake up early today, but opening my textbooks was the last thing I felt like.

  I felt like I needed to get outside and release all the energy that was pent up inside me. I didn’t plan my route, but I found myself heading out to the fields to the north of Newchester again and making for Lunar Wood.

  It was so early that I had the woods pretty much to myself. The only other jogger was an older teenager with short ginger hair and a white vest.

  He was running the opposite way around the track, and smiled at me when we passed, as if he recognized me. I was pretty sure I’ve never seen him before. He looked really tough, and had loads of strange tattoos up the side of his arms with pictures of moons and slogans like ‘No surrender’ and ‘Support our troops’. He doesn’t look like the sort of person I’d make friends with.

  On my second lap of the wood, I had another of my funny turns. This time my whole body bloated out, and I threw myself down to the ground. I felt like all my muscles were twisting and tearing apart and my bones were breaking and reforming over and over again.

  A few seconds later, it was all over. I stood up, brushed off the dirt and looked at the damage. My baggy tracksuit bottoms and hoodie had survived the stretching, thank God. The only casualties were my shoes, which had split into useless scraps of leather and rubber. But that’s all right. I’ll just wear my trainers with the laces really loose, so they’ll slip off rather than rip apart next time.

  I made my way out of the woods and back across the fields towards Newchester. After a few minutes I saw the jogger coming after me, so I tried to speed up in case he’d seen my funny turn. But it was difficult to run across the uneven ground with no shoes on, and he caught up easily.

  He handed me the ruptured remains of my shoes and I thanked him. Then he asked why I’d howled, and I said it must have been someone else.

  The jogger stared at me in silence for a couple of minutes. Then he said he knew what I was going through and he could help.

  I should have begged him to tell me what he knew. But I was so freaked out by the notion that he might have seen me that I turned and ran away.

  This time he didn’t follow. He just shouted after me that it was up to me to decide if I wanted help, but if I did, I should email him at RYANSAVAGE1987@HOTMAIL.COM

  By the time I got home it was too late to go to school, so I sneaked back into my room and pulled the covers over my head.

  I won’t take this Ryan guy up on his offer. I think he’s probably from a religious cult. He heard my cry of anguish and decided to exploit my weakness and recruit me. I’ll forget I ever met him.

  Wednesday 25TH April

  I have now resolved to forget all about my illness and go back to normal. Whatever condition I’ve got, it’s surely just a case of mind over matter. If I stay focused and confident, I’ll no doubt be able to behave like a normal person and get my life back on track.

  It all seems to be working so far, touch wood. I sat through Maths this morning without humiliating myself in a bizarre way. It’s lunchtime now and I’m reading my history textbook on a bench in the playground. I’m still alarmingly behind with everything, but I’ve had a decent morning for once. I might even reward myself by joining in the game of football on the playing field.

  The football players were very reluctant to let me join in at first, and I could hardly blame them. Whenever I’d been forced to play in PE, I’d usually passed the lesson at the side of the pitch talking to Pete about Doctor Who. But this time I really wanted to play, and eventually they gave in.

  I think they were quite surprised by my energy as I bounded around after the ball. I didn’t really get a touch, but I was enjoying the exercise nonetheless.

  After about ten minutes, I got my big chance. The ball rolled towards my feet just a few metres from goal. Surely, I’d be able to tap it in and taste sporting glory for the first time in my life.

  I can’t remember why I did this, but I got down on my hands and knees and picked up the ball with my teeth. Then I trotted over to the goalkeeper and spat it at his feet.

  Everyone stopped playing and waited for me to leave the pitch. The other members of my team shouted things like ‘Mouthball!’ as I shamefully made my way off the field. I noticed the ball had now rolled past the feet of the keeper and into the net, and was going to suggest they count it as a goal, but I thought I’d better leave them to it.

  I’m back home now, and getting on with my science revision. I’m trying not to think about the match. It doesn’t really matter. I was never friends with the football gang anyway. It’s not like I showed myself up in front of anyone I liked.

  Thursday 26TH April

  I noticed the squashed remains of a squirrel on my way in this morning. I can’t usually look at things like that, but this morning I found myself drawn to it. It couldn’t have been dead for more than a few minutes, and it smelt so fresh it made my mouth water. I got down on my hands and knees and took a whiff. I wondered why I should let this lovely meat go rotten on the side of the road when I could pop it in my m
outh and enjoy its succulent flavour.

  I think I would have actually done so if an old lady hadn’t shouted at me. She accused me of being on drugs and threatened to make a citizen’s arrest and march me down to the police station. I pretended I’d dropped my contact lens, but she wasn’t convinced.

  Then I ran off to Tesco and bought some reduced chicken drumsticks to eat on the way in. Chewing raw meat off the bone might be pretty scuzzy, but if it stops me lapping up roadkill, it’s what I’ll have to do.

  When I got into my science lesson, Mrs Marshall was handing out multiple-choice tests to check how our revision was coming along. Apparently she’d announced this on Tuesday while I was away.

  I felt my heart beating quicker in my chest as she placed my paper in front of me. I was going to ask to be excused, but I got a decent amount of revision done last night, so I thought I might as well give it a try.

  I turned over the sheet and glanced through the questions. I could answer them. This was going to be fine.

  I tried to pick up my pen but it fell out of my grasp and rolled along the desk. I looked down at my hands. The thick hairs had returned, but this time something even odder had happened. The lower half of my hands had stretched to twice their normal length, and my thumb and fingers were now a few inches apart.

  For a while, I managed to grip the pen between my middle finger and my index finger. But then my fingers shrank into hairy stumps and it fell away again.

  I shoved my paws into my armpits, staring at the paper in frustration. I glanced around the room. Everyone was concentrating too hard on their papers to worry about me, so I grabbed the pen with my teeth and circled the correct options.

  My claws were digging into my underarms and blood was trickling down my sleeves, but I went on anyway, determined to complete the paper.

  After a couple of minutes of this, Mrs Marshall shouted at me to take the exam more seriously. She said that I might find it easy, but that was no reason to mess around while others were concentrating. I dropped the pen and sat back in my chair, staring helplessly at the questions I knew the answers to.

  At the end of the lesson, Mrs Marshall came round to collect our papers and I noticed that my hands had returned to normal. I tried to circle as many answers as I could before she reached my desk, but I didn’t get far.

  I dread to think how I’ve done. There was a pupil at my old school who actually scored less than 25 per cent on a multiple-choice science exam with four options for each question. I tried to explain to him how statistically unlikely this was, but he’d failed Maths too so he didn’t understand. I don’t think I’ve done as badly as that, but I can’t be far off.

  At lunchtime I decided to go round to Mr Landis’ office to apologize for my behaviour on Monday. I wanted him to know that I still took my responsibilities as a prefect seriously, even though I’d let myself down by barking at him. I intended to assure him that my behaviour was brought on by a fit of exam stress, and it wouldn’t happen again.

  When I got to the office, I somehow took it upon myself to whimper and pat the door with my hands instead of knocking. As soon as I realized what I was doing, I blushed with shame and dashed off down the corridor. Unfortunately, Mr Landis stuck his head out just in time to see me running around the corner. He told me I’d get a whole week of detention if he caught me playing such stupid pranks again.

  This can’t go on any longer. I want to email that Ryan guy, but what can I write? I can hardly ask him if he has any advice about stopping your hands from turning into paws. He’ll report me to the loony bin.

  Friday 27TH April

  Today Mr Landis called everyone from Year Eleven into the assembly hall to lecture us on how important our exams are. I think it was meant to motivate the lazy kids, but as I’m already well aware of how much is riding on the upcoming examinations, it sent me into a fluster.

  I thought about how far behind I was with my revision and how few hours there were between now and my first exam on June 16th. I wondered if I should try to stay awake until then.

  I thought about how my hands had deformed during the science test. What if that happened in my real exams? What if I failed them all?

  I tried to tell Mr Landis to stop freaking me out. I wanted him to let me go and get on with my work right away. But all that came out when I opened my mouth was a terrified howl.

  Everyone in the assembly hall broke into laughter and Mr Landis stopped mid-rant. He pointed at the exit and told me to leave. He said that I wouldn’t find it a laughing matter when I failed my exams. I want to tell him that I was already aware of this and he was just making it worse, but I didn’t want to speak in case a moo or a miaow came out this time.

  As I trudged out to the sound of shame coughs, Mr Landis shook his head and said he expected better from a prefect and that I’d let myself down.

  I know I’ve let myself down. That’s about all I do know at the moment. I don’t know what’s happening to me, I don’t know how to stop it and I don’t know what career options are open to someone with all the communication skills of Lassie, but I know I’ve let myself down.

  Saturday 28TH April

  Okay, I’ve got to do this. I’ve got to contact Ryan. So what if he wants to brainwash me? I’ve got to talk to someone. And so far, he’s the only person who’s offered to help.

  I sent the email and then spent the whole afternoon staring at my inbox and clicking the ‘refresh’ icon. I know I should have been revising, but I was too curious about what he’d say.

  It wasn’t until four hours later that I got a reply.

  My first instinct was to delete the email and forget I’d ever contacted him. I’m not in the practice of turning up at the houses of strangers, especially those who can’t spell. I mean, how much time does it actually save to type the number 2 rather than the letters ‘t’ and ‘o’? How could this illiterate man possibly know more about my condition than a doctor?

  I wondered if it was all a scam to get me round to his house so he could steal my phone and bankcard. But when I got to the bit about my body growing in size, I started to think that this guy might actually know something useful to me.

  I googled the postcode, expecting to find it was in the middle of a rough estate. Surprisingly, the map was showing me a detached house near the woods where I’d seen him jogging.

  Surely he couldn’t be too hard up for money if he lived in a country mansion? I doubted he’d be interested in my battered Nokia or my £86.42 savings.

  I feel quite hopeful now. Ideally, I’ll turn up at Ryan’s house tomorrow, he’ll give me some medicine, my erratic behaviour will cease and I’ll be back to my revision by late afternoon.

  Sunday 29TH April

  Ryan’s house turned out to be a large manor house on a hill overlooking Lunar Woods. There was no signpost or address at the end of the driveway, but it was the only house on the lane, so I thought it must be the right one.

  Ten windows faced out across the top floor, while eight windows and an elaborate porch stretched across the bottom floor. There was even an annexe on the side that must have been for servants once. I wondered how a teenager with bad spelling could possibly live in such a place. Did he have rich parents? Was he a rapper? A footballer?

  As I got closer, I noticed how run-down the place looked. Several of the windows were broken, and a loose tile slid off the roof and smashed on the driveway as I approached. The words ‘Lunar Hall’ were etched above the doorway on cracked stone.

  Maybe Ryan was part of some criminal gang. Maybe he was going to talk me into smuggling drugs. I stopped, wondering if I should go any further. But then Ryan appeared in the doorway and beckoned me in.

  Inside, the house looked even more decrepit and run-down. Huge chunks of plaster had been gouged from the walls, and the bare floorboards were covered with countless scratches. The whole place stunk of moulting hairs and rotten meat, and there were burst footballs and dirty tennis balls in every corner.

  I asked R
yan what he knew about my condition, but he said he’d have to show me rather than tell me, and led me into a room that contained nothing except a few circular bits of metal attached to the wall.

  I began to feel very uncomfortable. I told Ryan I’d made a mistake and I needed to go, but he blocked the exit. I tried to shove him out of the way, but he pushed me back to the wall. I struggled against him, but it was no use. He yanked my wrists up and fastened them into the steel manacles on the wall. I tried to pull against the shackles, but they held fast.

  I’d been nervous about visiting Ryan, but it turned out the truth was worse than I could possibly have imagined. He wasn’t a footballer. He wasn’t a rapper. He wasn’t even a robber. He was a serial killer. And now he’d lured me to this deserted house to kill me.

  I couldn’t believe I was going to be killed! It would be in all the papers! And the only photo Mum would give them would be that embarrassing one of me performing magic tricks at my thirteenth birthday party. She’s always loved that picture. I have no idea why.

  Ryan walked out and I tried to shout for help, but all that came out was a piercing howl. I felt like I was having another of my funny turns, where my body expands and my bones crack into weird shapes, though I was so terrified I didn’t really know what was going on.