Page 1 of Fool Moon First Aid

Prologue: Ava

“Mama, what is a wew-wuff?” I ask, playing with the word in my head like a new toy. It sounds neat but kind of funny when I say it out loud. I bet it’s because of the big gap where my front teeth used to be. “Wew-wuff. Is it like that fluffy puppy we saw in the pet store window?”

“Ava, darling,” Mama murmurs, bending down to my level right outside the best ice-cream shop ever. Her eyes are big and brown, like the marbles I play with, and they sparkle in the sun. She looks like a queen from my storybook in her pretty blue dress and a hat with a ribbon. She fixes my pigtails, all messy from running around, and pretends to wipe dirt off my shoulders. “We don’t say that word here, they are spiritkin,” she says in a secret voice, looking around at the people walking by, all smiley and slow because it’s Sunday. “And no, puppies are way different. They are like baby dogs who don’t know how to be clean yet.”

I think hard about that, imagining a puppy making a mess in our living room. Maybe I can convince Mama to get a clean dog so it doesn’t mess up her brand-new carpet. Daddy hates when things get messy.

“At Sunday school, Jessica Gillis said her big brother got bit by a wew-wuff, and now he makes noises like a wolf when the moon’s all big. I just want to know one thing about that,” I start, not really sure if Mama’s listening or just pretending. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell with grown-ups.

“Oh, Jessica’s brother is in the hospital right now, sweetie. He’s really sick,” she replies, brushing my pink dress, even though it’s clean. “Ava, my love, did you play in the dirt again?”

“Mama,” I say, trying to sound grown-up, “ladies don’t play in the dirt. We explore.”

She smiles, her lipstick as pink as bubblegum. I wish she’d let me try some, but she says lipstick is for big girls, not for someone who’s six.

I feel like I’m half a little kid and half a big girl. Mostly a big girl, though.

I’m about to tell her a super important story, including all the questions I have, but she stops me.

“Ava Martinez-Thompson,” Mama begins in her you better listen voice as she stands up and holds my hand, “let’s go now if you want your treat.”

I roll my eyes, but inside, I’m jumping up and down. Who doesn’t love ice cream? “I want a sugar cone, not the crumbly kind,” I tell her, making sure she hears me, “with lots of cookie dough ice cream and chocolate sprinkles.”

Mama nods, her smile making me feel all warm. “Okay, darling. Go grab a seat, and I’ll be right over with your treat.”

I lift my chin and look around the ice-cream shop. It’s super busy with families and kids, but Mama says a girl should always keep her head up. I zigzag through the crowd, aiming for the best table near the window, where the sun makes everything look golden.

As I reach the coveted spot, it turns out it isn’t empty after all. “You can’t sit there,” I announce, standing with my hands on my hips and tapping my foot, imitating Mama’s stance when Daddy does something silly. It’s like the calm before the storm, especially when she mutters in Spanish. Daddy says those words are “adult language,” but he still taught me a few, giggling like he shared a secret.

The boy in my seat looks up, his eyes as brown as chocolate cake, and squints through the sunbeams that steal into the shop through my favorite window. Without warning, he growls at me like a puppy pretending to be fierce.

I point my finger at him, trying to look as stern as Mama. “Don’t you do the rumbly grumbly at me, young man.” I even throw in some Spanish for good measure. “Los niños pequeños no me asustan.”

Little boys don’t scare me.

“I should scare you,” he replies, surprising me. He lowers his voice, almost like he’s telling me a secret. “I’m a wolf.”

He just got more interesting, so I stop my foot tapping, and instead, I peek over my shoulder to make sure Mama is still waiting in line. Sliding into the seat across from him, I prop my chin on my hands. “I want to know about wew-wuffs,” I demand, feeling like a detective in one of those TV shows Daddy watches.

His ice cream cone, a droopy tower of chocolate, is melting all over his hands, making a gooey mess, and his eyes are big and round, like he just saw a ghost. “Go away,” he whispers.

“Nope,” I say, borrowing the sassy tone I hear the big girls at school use. “You’re a wolf, right? So dish out the deets!”

“That’s meant to scare you,” he admits, his voice wobbly. Mama always says I’m good at surprising people. She’s right again. I can tell he’s used to people running away.

“Do I look scared?” I ask, puffing out my chest, trying to look brave.

“No,” he says slowly, his certainty fading away like chalk in the rain.

“Well then, tell me about wew-wuffs before my mama comes over here and shoos you away with her purse,” I insist, rolling my eyes. Time’s flying, and he’s just sitting there like a statue. “She’s pretty good with that purse, you know.”

“Werewolf,” he mumbles quietly, trying to lick the dripping chocolate, which is now all over his fingers. “I’m a born wolf,” he declares proudly. “A spiritkin.”

“Born,” I repeat, tapping my chin thoughtfully like I’ve seen detectives do in mystery movies. “Is that different from?—”

“A bitten wolf?” He leans closer, his hair flopping over his eyes like a shaggy dog. “Yeah. I’m a full-blooded wolf,” he declares, trying to sound important.

“My friend’s brother got bit,” I tell him, curious to see what he says.

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