Page 16 of Wishing for a Werewolf
Blocking out my friend’s voice, I get to work. Hannah put the Ferndale Falls Fall Festival last on the agenda, so I’ve got a good ten to fifteen minutes. Leaning over, I take off the baseball cap and let my hair cascade down in orange curtains around me. Then I slip a pumpkin-colored binder out from under my top. This one’s the exact same color as Mrs. Greely’s, only it’s blank inside. It won’t stand up to serious scrutiny, but it’ll hopefully keep her from realizing anything’s going on if she glances at her purse.
Skye kicks her legs forward and sets her big library bag down to help block me from the rest of the room.
I “accidentally” drop my binder and double all the way over. Quick as I can, I snag the orange notebook from Mrs. Greely’s bag and slide mine in. When I straighten, I realize exactly how much minedoesn’tlook like hers. The real binder bulges with years of newspaper clippings and color-coded tabs, everything neatly labeled with the kind of precise penmanship you don’t see much these days.
My heart pounds. My binder’s not going to fool her afterall. She never lets anyone else touch this one, so I had no real idea what it looks like. I need to work fast and pray Rune can keep her distracted.
Turning away from the rest of the room, it takes me a while to rifle through the pages to get to the info for this year’s festival. Every second that ticks by makes my heart beat that much faster. If I get caught, I’ll become a social pariah to all the busybodies in town, forever marked as that “troublesome redhead” and never allowed to participate in any of the community activities so vital to small-town life. But if I don’t fix this mix-up, the family farm won’t get the boost it needs to turn things around.
Hannah stops talking about costume contests and starts fielding inquiries from various people in the room. Ugh, that’s another topic down!
Finally, I reach this year’s entries. I don’t have time to read, so I use my silenced phone to snap pictures of every page. When I get to the applications, the mailed-in copies have been pasted inside.
Skye leans close and whisper-hisses, “This is it. The last topic before the fall festival.”
I nod and start flipping pages faster, my thumb a blur as I snap pic after pic. I’m so caught up in the repetitive motions that it takes a moment to register when I finally turn to a completely empty page.
Triumph races through me. I did it! I got all the info!
Hannah’s voice rings out, “Anyone have any questions?”
There’s a stretched second of silence, then Mrs. Greely says, “I do. When are we going to talk about the most important thing, young lady? When are we going to talkabout the fall festival?” Her hand stretches toward her purse.
Oh, god! Oh, god! My hands go clammy. I’m never going to get the binders switched in time! I need a miracle!
“Can I get you another cookie, Mrs. Greely?” Rune tries to distract her. “Or would you like some coffee?”
Her hand pauses for a split second, and I dart forward.
Then she says, “I’ve had enough cookies,” and starts reaching down again.
“Me!” a high voice cries. “Look at me!”
There’s a loud clatter of hooves striking wood—a veryfamiliarclatter—and Babybelle races down the aisle of the room. She circles Hannah at a full gallop, then hops straight toward Mrs. Greely and bounds up onto the old woman’s lap. “Me! Me! Me! Pay attention to me!”
I havenoeffing clue what’s going on or why I’m hearing Babybell speak English, but I’m not one to look a gift horse—or goat—in the mouth. Leaning forward, I snatch the decoy from Mrs. Greely’s purse and slide her binder back into place.
When I straighten up, Babybelle’s mischievous eyes peer at me over the older woman’s shoulder. “I did it! I did it! I helped, too!”
I lean toward Skye and whisper, “Can you understand her?”
“Who, Mrs. Greely?”
“No, Babybelle.”
“No.” Then my friend’s eyes go wide, and she beams at me. “If you can understand Babybelle, she must be your familiar!”
“Yes!” Babybelle leaps onto Rune’s shoulder and uses itas a launch pad to dive bomb into my lap. She headbutts my chin. “I’m your familiar, and I helped you just like a good familiar should!”
“You sure did,” I whisper into the soft fur of her forehead. “How the hell did you get here? Did you hop the fence again?” The goat-proof fence.
“Yes! I knew you needed me. So I ran and ran, farther than I’ve ever run before.” Her amber eyes go pitiful. “I need goat cookies.”
A soft huff of laughter escapes me. “You’ll get them.”
Elation grips me as tightly as I hold my phone, eager to unlock all its answers.
CHAPTER SEVEN
