Nerd's Badboy Alpha novel Chapter One

I narrowly avoided getting my eye taken out today. A rumble between a werefox and wereleopard over a stupid werewolf jock broke out in the cafeteria and I had to hide under the table the whole time or risk getting my jaw dislocated again. During the last scuffle, I somehow got a stray kick to the head and the lower part of my face got loose. It never seems to matter how far away I am from the fray. For some reason, if there's a fight nearby and I happen to be in the vicinity, I always get caught in the crossfire.

My Aunt Ruffia says it's because I was born on the "wrong side of the moon," whatever that means. She has a lot of weird sayings like that. She is my father's older sister and their family is originally from Lithuania, the country with the highest suicide rate in the world. They are not happy people. Sometimes she says I attract trouble because I was born under a "bad moon rising." I'm pretty sure the other females of our pack believe this nonsense because I sometimes catch them crossing themselves when I walk by. But the fact of the matter is, my birth was not a fortuitous one because my parents weren't actually meant to meet and get together.

I'm the runt of our pack, which is to say, I have almost zero wolfiness. There are pups younger than me with stronger survival instincts and enhanced senses Nature imbues every werewolf at birth. I must have been skipped over in the queue because I'm not fast, strong, and I cannot shift. For most of our young, shifting becomes as easy as breathing by age eight.

Apparently, it's just a matter of putting yourself in a "wolfy" state of mind, and voila! Instant transformation. There's a human movie called "An American Werewolf in London" that I saw as a child and it terrified me. In it, the human to wolf transformation involves bones breaking and reforming, shredding of clothes, fur growing on skin, and agonizing pain. My Uncle Alfred, the Alpha of our pack, assures me it's nothing like that, and humans know nothing. But for me, transformation is like being perpetually constipated and nothing ever comes of it.

I was supposed to be special. My mother was in her human form when she gave birth to me and I came out as a wolf pup, which means I am a true wolf, and that's a rarity these days because of all the intermixing with the humans and other shifters (my friend Lucy is half weredog and half werecat, but she's my age and has never been able to shift into anything, so even her parents don't actually know what she is). I spent the first year of my life as a wolf, then sometime during my sleep as a toddler, I transformed into my human form and haven't been able to shift back, since.

I HAD TO stay a little after school today because choir practice ran late and I play the piano for them. Naturally, I missed the bus. I hate having to walk home alone back to my uncle's compound at night because most folks around here see me as my pack's punching bag, so whenever someone a little higher than me on the totem pole decides to have fun, I can't exactly defend myself.

When I hear someone say, "Ruff-ruff-ruff!" like someone imitating the barking of a dog, my stomach jumps up to my throat. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand up like fear ganglia and I freeze. I chance a peek over my shoulder and see three were-hyena males sneering at me. Shit. Not these assholes again.

The Winslow Triplets are medium-height, compact boys in the tenth grade with red-brown hair and yellow eyes. I've never seen them without the other and at lunch they hang out on the grassy knoll by the Sanctuary with the other Mezos, hassling ninth grade females. For some reason, their favorite game involves me and chasing me ragged. They haven't caught me yet, but I live in fear for the day they do.

"We'll give you a three-minute head-start, puppy," the one in the middle snarls. "Make it a challenge this time, will you? You're starting to bore us."

"I pray for the day that happens," I shoot back.

Shinji, the eldest one, flashes me an ugly grin full of sharp teeth. "No, you don't. That's the day we end you. Get going, puppy. Go!'

I don't hesitate. I drop my backpack on the ground and run like I stole something. I dash down the street toward the intersection where people are and would have kept going till I caught a bus to the next town over, except I get a stitch in my side that robs me of my breath and saps my strength within a quarter mile.

Doubled-over in pain, I tell myself, "Keep going. You're gonna die if you stay here and you won't even have fleas to mourn you."

I dig deep and manage a few more yards until I have to stop again, clutching my stomach. Behind me, I can practically hear the baying and the yipping of the were-hyenas.