Page 1 of Wishing for a Werewolf
CHAPTER ONE
Autumn
A triumphant bleat cuts through the air as I spoon my special pumpkin spice mix onto the newly poured pumpkin soap. I hide a wince and smile at the camera. It’s fine, totally fine.
“Did you hear that?” I use the handle of a wooden spoon to swirl the rich-brown cinnamony goodness through the creamy orange soap in pretty patterns. “That’s one of the goats here at Ferndale Falls Goat Farm, where the happy free-roaming animals produce the amazing milk that makes our soaps so luxurious.”
I’m filming outside at the edge of the backyard, letting the forest’s red and gold autumn leaves create a beautiful backdrop that complements my red hair and bright teal dress. Part of my pitch is that I make natural goat-milk soap on a goat farm. Goat sounds simply add to the charm.
Yet I know that bleat. Itshouldmean furry adorableness, but…
“Autumn!” my mother yells from the barn. “Thatgoathas done it again!”
“That goat” is my attempt to create a mascot for our farm. All of the regular-sized animals are lovable, but mini-goats take cuteness to a whole other level. Too bad I picked one determined to be the most mischievous goat to ever gambol her tiny hooves across my heartstrings.
I finish up with a quick tilt of the mold pan toward the camera to show off the top of the soap loaf, my golden bangles sliding down my forearm in a soft chime. “Look how beautiful this pumpkin spice latte soap is! I love the way the pumpkin adds a pretty pale orange to the soap, and the ground coffee we added will gently exfoliate as you wash! I wish you could smell its lovely scent. It’s spicy and warm, like a cozy fall hug.” I take an appreciative inhale and let my eyes flutter closed for a moment. Then I stare right into the camera and smile. “We’ll let this set, and when I come back, I’ll show you how to cut it.”
I click the remote to stop my phone from recording, hoping I’ll be able to edit out Mom’s voice and still use the video for my YouTube channel. Then I step around the rustic wooden table I use for filming, grab my phone from its tripod holder, and go to see what “that goat” has done this time.
The main house sprawls in front of me, a huge Victorian painted white with a touch of fanciful dark-green gingerbread trim. An iconic red barn stands just beyond it, and as I pass the corner of the house, the south pasture comesinto view, dotted with goats browsing on the last of the year’s grass, already starting to brown. We moved the goats from the north pasture a couple of days ago, once they finished grazing its last growth of the year. In a week, we’ll get our first big shipment of hay bales, which will act as winter feed.
But first I’ll use all of those bales to make the best hay maze Ferndale Falls has ever seen! I’m totally going to win the maze design competition this year. That’ll show Maria! Her farm’s hosted the event for the past five years running. It’s time for someone new to win—it’s time for my family’s farm to shine.
We’re doing okay but only okay. If I can get business to pick up, then I can finally open the little store I’ve always wanted and sell my more artisanal soaps. And now that downtown Ferndale Falls is full of people shopping again, it could totally work!
Mom meets me at the barn door, her forearm swiping across her forehead to push her red bangs out of her eyes. I get my hair color and freckles from her, along with pale skin prone to flushing at the drop of a hat. Happy? I turn red. Mad? I turn red. Doing even the slightest physical exertion? Yep, you guessed it. I turn red.
“You been filming again?” she asks, eyeing my pretty dress.
“Yep. My pumpkin spice latte soap. I think that one could be a really great seller.”
She lets out a little sigh and tugs at the collar of her denim shirt. “We talked about this, honey. Our customers don’t want fancy. That time we tried, it didn’t work.”
“Ourcurrentcustomers might not,” I say. “Specialtysoaps will attract new customers. If people could just smell them and see how pretty they are—”
“But they can’t.” Mom grabs my shoulder and gives a tiny shake. “The internet’s amazing, but no one’s going to smell your soap from a phone screen.”
“They could if we had a shop.”
“You know there’s no money for that. Now go and getthat goatso you can come back and help me finish this batch of lavender.”
Lavender. The “fanciest” soap we make, along with peppermint and unscented. That’s it. That’s the extent of our soap line. It does well, but just barely. Our numbers are starting to slip. I think we have to invest in something new to help the business. Mom and Dad argue that there’s no cushion for any kind of risk. Yet there’s no point in going over the old debate right now.
“Where’s Babybelle gone this time?” I ask.
“Off across the pasture, straight over the fence, and into the woods.” Mom points.
I squint at the goat-proof fence, which is a bit of an oxymoron, especially where Babybelle is concerned. How can a mini-goat get over the fence that keeps the regular-sized ones in?
As I cross the empty pasture, my boots crunch the browning grass, grazed low by the goats over the last few weeks. This is the flattest area of the farm and where my grandparents always set up the hay maze for the Ferndale Falls Fall Festival when I was a child. It’s time we got to host it again. “This year,” I whisper, a promise to Nana and Pop’s memory.
A few baas float through the air from the other field, and this year’s kids go bounding across the open space in a series of energetic hops that always make me smile.
A more insistent bleat comes from the woods ahead of me. Babybelle. Oh, no. Has she gotten in trouble already?
My fingers feel clumsy as I fumble with the goat-proof latch on the gate. Then I slam it shut behind me, sprinting into the forest, already breathing hard. My cranberry-red cowboy boots are cute as heck, but they’re not made for this. Hell,I’mnot made for this. I’m not in bad shape—I do a lot of yoga—but heavy cardio like running is so not my thing.
“Babybelle!” I yell. “Babybelle, where are you?”
