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Ben shoveled cereal into his mouth.

The clock on the wall read 6:37. His alarm had snapped him awake at 6:25, which was the latest he could sleep in without being late. He had rolled out of bed, stumbled into the shower, picked a random outfit from the pile of clothes scattered across his messy room, and shuffled into the dimly lit kitchen, where a bowl of cereal represented the absolute easiest way to force feed himself with some kind of nutrition. His morning routine was all about economy.

Today, he was eating honey nut Cheetos, made with savannah grains and spots of real chocolate. His dad usually got the generic brand from the Shop ‘N’ Save. He knew, for a fact, that this was supposed to represent some kind of peace offering after two weeks of Ben being grounded.

Not like I go out much, anyway. I can stay grounded a lot longer than he can stay mad.

What a treat, though.

Thanks, Dad.

He shoveled Cheetos into his mouth like a train conductor scooping coal.

To his left, the light from his dad’s office creeped across the hall. Ben was watching for signs of movement. Once he saw the shadow of a wolf’s ears, the light would snap off. There would be the sound of a door clicking shut, followed by a key rattling into its lock. There would be a soft padding of digitigrade loafers across the hall carpet. At the end, his dad would enter the kitchen, and the morning peace would be over.

The clock now read 6:42.

It was three minutes until they had to leave.

Ben had always wondered what was so important about his dad’s office that he felt the need to lock it. Probably, he thought, there were stacks of ungraded worksheets from the AP Bio classes, as well as lesson plans, midterm drafts, internal memos from the school, and whatever else a high school teacher would have. It was also the only room in their suburban home which had a computer, which Ben had never been allowed to use.

He couldn’t think of a good reason to keep it locked. At least, not unless his dad was secretly into some weird shit.

Benjamin Phoenix kicked in the door, spraying wood chips beneath his heel. The door knob tumbled to the carpet, bouncing like an egg. Deeper inside, a mysterious glow fell across his face. The banks of a massive, eldritch computer leered out from the darkness.

He stepped inside. . . .

From his dad’s office, there came a sound of shuffling papers. Ben looked away.

Whatever.

He devoured the last of his cereal. He pushed the empty bowl away. He sat at the table, arms folded, watching through the window as orange sunlight creeped across the face of their neighbor’s house. Anxiously, he tapped his foot against the kitchen tiles.

Today, he was ready to ask Lynn for a favor.

It had been almost three weeks since the start of senior year, and Ben had spent that time mulling things over, trying to figure out what would be a cool enough request to ask of his new punk rat friend . . . or acquaintance, or partner in crime, or whatever exactly they were now. He didn’t really feel comfortable putting a name on it yet. Like, sure, she had kissed him twice, but, at the same time, they hadn’t really talked much since the first week of school.

Not since she’d pulled a knife on him.

Even still, he felt. . . .

. . .

Anyway.

He knew what he wanted to ask her. It made his heart flutter in his chest whenever he thought about it a little too much, realizing what he would need to do first before the favor was even possible. He felt very alive, sitting alone in his kitchen on a Friday morning. He could not stop tapping his foot.

No sign of his dad’s shadow. The clock now read 6:44.

Ben peeled his gaze from the morning sun all the way over to the kitchen counter, where a drip coffee machine was whining and croaking with a freshly brewed pot. A rich smell wafted through the air.

I’ve never had coffee before.

Hm.

He looked at the hall carpet again, seeing no sign of his dad’s shadow.

Fuck it.

He stood up from the table, pulled a small mug from the hanging cabinet, gingerly picked up the pot, and poured himself a cup of coffee. Steam rose like a witch’s cauldron. For a moment, he stared dumbly at the drink, as if he was already doing something wrong.

No cream or sugar. Only black.

A man’s drink.

Yeah.

He took the mug and sat down at the table. He took a single baby sip. Immediately, he burned the tip of his tongue, flinching so hard that he spilled a quarter of the mug across the table itself, which he quickly mopped up with the sleeve of his hoodie. A bitter sliminess coated his mouth.

Ben sat there, making a face. He thought about dumping the mug. After about twenty seconds, he dared another sip, and this one went down a little smoother, though it was still way too hot to drink. The taste also sucked.

He waited again. He took a third sip, swirling his tongue.

He mulled it over.

It wasn’t bad.

Maybe I should use some cream. I don’t have to pretend—

“Elbows off the table.”

Quickly, Ben pulled his arms away, like he was dodging a cane. His dad loped across the kitchen. He turned on the light, which Ben had deliberately left off, and slung his briefcase across the kitchen counter, absently pouring himself a cup of coffee. He glanced at his son a second time.

“Wash your dishes, too,” the wolf said.

Ben grabbed his empty cereal bowl. “Good morning, dad.”

“Good morning.”

Ben pivoted around the bushy tail peeking from his dad’s slacks, scrubbing his bowl in the sink. The clock read 6:51. They were behind schedule. Ben wanted to get to school as soon as possible, because he always used the fact that his dad dropped him off early to do his homework in the school library. Of course his dad chose today to not be a stickler for schedules, when he had an assignment due first period.

He got angrier the more he scrubbed the bowl.

“Are you drinking coffee?” his dad asked, clearly surprised.

“Trying to.”

“Really? Hm.”

Am I being weird or something?

Fuck off.

He scrubbed the last of the cereal stain, really digging in with the sponge.

“You just—” his dad began, breaking the silence. “You never showed interest before.”

“Gotta start some time.”

“Well, good.”

“It’s just coffee, dad.”

“Still. You know.”

There was another silence. Ben stuffed his bowl into the dishwasher and roamed back to the sink, choosing to wash the rest of the dirty silverware as well.

“You know,” his dad said. “You should . . . use some cream. It’s hot. You’ll burn your tongue.”

Ben rubbed his burned tongue against the back of his teeth. He threw a handful spoons into the dishwasher tray, ignored the clanging rattle, and turned toward his room.

“Hey, Benjy.”

Ben stopped. His dad was leaning against the counter, dressed in slacks and tie, staring at his reflection in a cup of black coffee. His fur puffed from the sides of his collar.

“I was thinking,” his dad said. “And. . . .” He swirled a finger around the edge of his mug. “You’re not grounded, anymore. It’s alright. I shouldn’t be mad, for . . . what you said.”

Ben did not respond.

“I was thinking, too,” his dad continued, “that it would be good if we went to her grave. Mom’s grave.” He swallowed, still staring at his drink. “It has been a while. And that’s my fault. Frankly, I just . . . didn’t want to go.”

Ben did not answer. As the silence lingered, his dad raised his head, looking at him across the small length of the kitchen.

Next to them, the coffee machine hissed and rumbled.

“Do you . . . want to go today? After school?”

“Actually, dad,” Ben replied, “I’m probably gonna be hanging out with some friends.”

His dad blinked. Ears brushed up against the cabinets. The wolf hinged his snout a few times before words actually emerged. “Oh.” He blinked again. “Oh! Really? That’s—” His entire demeanor changed. “Benjy, that’s great!”

You don’t have to say that like having friends is a miracle.

You really do think I’m a loser, don’t you?

“Who are they?” his dad asked. “Are they in one of your classes?”

“Yeah,” Ben replied, trying to lie casually. He wasn’t going to hang out with anyone. He just wanted an alibi. “It’s a group essay thing, from AP Art History. We’re gonna work on it after class.”

His dad pushed off the counter, setting his mug to the side. He was positively beaming. “That’s good. Hey, that’s great! I mean, don’t get carried away. Play it cool. You know?”

“It’s just an essay, dad.”

“Sure, sure. Just—text me where you are? If you need a ride?”

“Yeah, alright.”

“Do you need some money? For snacks, or anything?”

“Sure, I guess.”

His dad quickly fished out a twenty from his wallet. Ben took it without a word, feeling slightly guilty. Before he could turn back to his room, his dad suddenly enveloped him in a hug, hooking his snout on the top of Ben’s messy blond hair.

“I’m really glad to hear that, Benjy.”

Awkwardly, Ben returned the hug. He almost sneezed through the neck fur tickling his nose. “It’s not a big deal, dad.”

“No, no, it’s—” His dad breathed out, patting his back. “No, actually. You’re right. Sorry. You know how I am.”

“Yeah. Um. No worries.”

They hugged for a few more seconds. Ben mostly waited for it to be over. When his dad finally pulled away, he kept a grip on Ben’s upper arms, looking down at him with a smile splitting through his snout. The display of teeth could’ve seemed threatening, but Ben knew his dad was just trying to mimic a human expression.

Ben also realized, suddenly, that his dad was close to crying.

“That’s really good, Benjy. I’m very glad to hear it.”

“. . . sure, dad.”

His dad squeezed him with both hands before letting go. He wiped around his eye. “Alright. Sorry. Just, um—” He grabbed his briefcase from the counter. “Let’s get going, huh?”

Ben nodded, stepping into the hall. His dad paced toward the front door. For a moment, Ben watched him go, feeling a sudden urge to say something. Eventually, the moment passed, and he went into his room.

He left his coffee on the table, steaming and forgotten.

---

Ben spent the entirety of first period in a state of mild panic.

He paid only the mildest attention to the lecture about the ending of As I Lay Dying, as well as the symbolism inherent in Dewey Dell’s pregnancy. Instead, he constantly picked at the edges of his desk, ripping out chips of imitation wood and scraping his pencil through the wads of flattened gum. Above his head, the clock seemed both painfully slow and unbearably fast.

The end of the period came closer and closer.

He still couldn’t believe he was actually going to follow through with his stupid idea. It had all seemed very easy while he was sitting in his room, thinking about all the cool things he would do and how impressed everyone would be with him, but now that he was minutes away from actually doing it himself, the entire plan seemed to take on a layer of unreality, as if he was now trapped in the kind of dream that made people show up naked to class.

The goal was simple: pour a bucket of chum in Hannah’s locker. To accomplish this, he would need to find out where Hannah’s locker was in the first place, as well as get Lynn to help him break inside. If it all went well, the chum would sit and rot over the weekend, and the school would smell for weeks.

Was it the most original prank in the world?

Obviously not.

Would it be satisfying?

Only if I tell her that the fish smells better than her cunt.

Ben chuckled to himself, quietly.

The one thing that kept him focused was the feeling that he couldn’t ask Lynn for the favor without doing some of the legwork himself. He had to look somewhat competent if he wanted to try his hand at mischief.

That is, if he wanted to impress her.

Did he want to impress Lynn? The punk skater chick who had thanked him by shoving a knife in his gut?

I mean, yeah.

Obviously.

What else am I gonna do? Be a loser? Sit around all year, being miserable, wondering why I can’t do what I want?

Been there, done that.

Not anymore.

He remembered what he told Lynn a couple weeks ago, when she asked him why he had gone out of his way to help her_._

I wanted to feel like I was living my own life.

When the clock struck one minute before the bell, Ben attempted to steel himself.

The bell tolled. Somehow, it seemed twice as loud. Ms. Kimathi stopped in the middle of her monologue about Anse and southern patriarchal figures, her serval tail giving a long swish in surprise.

“Ah, fine. Class dismissed.”

The room became a flurry of packing books and rising bodies, with kids of all species racing for the door.

Ben didn’t move.

“Remember!” Ms. Kimathi called. “The rough draft is due Monday! Happy weekend!”

People poured away. Conversations swelled. Through the din of footsteps and dragging chairs, Ben focused on the sounds directly behind him, trying to pinpoint the sandpaper rasp of Hannah’s voice. Several girls were chittering.

“—I mean, OMG, he’s so—”

“—tta try the new chicken frittata, it’s so good! I’ll text—”

“—it’s like, yeah? Obviously? You know? Like, I can’t believe he doesn’t—”

Ben quickly decided to tune out.

Listening to girls makes me wish I was gay. Maybe I could designate Lynn as an honorary dude. But, then, I’m not gay.

Uh.

Nevermind.

He felt a vibration. Movement flashed in his periphery. Ben pretended to write something in his notebook. As he scribbled nonsense onto the sheet, he felt a callused hand sweep through his hair, ruffling his scalp like a scratch-away lottery ticket.

“Don’t work too hard, Benjy,” Hannah said.

The shark sauntered up the row of desks, giving him a flirtatious waggle of fingers. Her muscular tail dragged behind her skirt. Ben grimaced, slapped his hair into place, and quickly stuffed his notebook into his backpack. He waited until Hannah was halfway across the class before shooting up from his desk.

Mission is a go.

He weaved his way through the lingering students, intensely focused on Hannah. Just before she exited the door, he managed to memorize her clothes, hoping that, if he lost her in the crowd, he’d be able to find her again.

A red, unbuttoned cardigan.

A short gray skirt.

A white, sleeveless tank top, bearing the symbol of a Saint Carver beetle surfing on top of a gnarly wave.

Go Carvers!

More like, go fuck yourself.

You bitch.

Hannah turned left out of AP Lit, heading straight through the intersection that led back to the main atrium, and continuing on toward the science wing. Ben followed at a distant pace, trying to keep at least a dozen people between him and the shark at all times. Fortunately, passing period was now in full swing, and the halls were gorged with students. He became another face in the crowd.

Despite this, he found that shadowing a person was actually pretty hard. Even though Hannah was on the taller side for an anthro, and had a very large fin sticking up from the back of her neck, there were a lot of other kids crossing Ben’s path, loping off to class or otherwise forming a blood clot conversation in the middle of the hall, which quickly got to the point where Ben had to start dodging and weaving. He ended up jostling more than a few people.

He didn’t apologize to anyone.

In fact, he felt kind of cool for doing so.

Over the course of several minutes, Hannah took only a few turns through the hall, which brought her to the edge of the science wing. It didn’t seem like she was hurrying to third period, but she also wasn’t wasting time, either. She walked like someone who didn’t expect anyone to get in her way.

Until now.

Ben glared at her upturned dorsal fin, watching it bob among the heads of a dozen different species. The longer he stared at it, the more he wanted to serve it for soup.

Show me your locker.

Come on.

Hannah stopped at a water fountain. Ben leaned against a janitor’s closet, pretending to text on his phone. When the shark continued on her way, he waited a few moments before dashing ahead himself, pressing his body into the edge of a T-junction in the hall, barely a few moments after Hannah had taken the turn.

They were now close to the school’s gym—or, at least, they were close to the ongoing construction project that had once been Saint Carver’s gymnasium, which was now a messy sprawl of scaffolding, industrial lights, hanging plastic sheets, and cautionary tape. Deeper inside, Ben could see half a dozen workers gathered around the center of the basketball court, using a jackhammer to break the concrete below the laminate wood paneling. Electrical wires dangled from the rafters above.

It seemed like they were about to do a fresh pour. It was the most progress anyone had seen in months.

Every year, the vice principal promised they would have the gym finished by winter ball—every year, the opening was delayed by another semester, and the funds that might have been used for actual school programs were instead siphoned into the ravenous pit of money the renovations had become. No one could even tell what was being done, most of the time.

Ben shook his head.

He was just about to peek around the corner when he heard the distinctive rasp of Hannah’s voice, barely a few feet away. She was talking to someone. The shadow of her tail danced on the brightly lit tile.

Ben froze in place.

“Tonight’s the night,” Hannah said.

A male voice spoke in reply. It sounded human. Ben thought it was vaguely familiar, but didn’t risk a peek.

“Look, Hann,” the human answered. “Gimme a few days.”

Hannah did not reply.

“Look,” the human repeated, his voice rising an octave. Whatever Hannah’s reaction was, it made him audibly nervous. “I mean—goddamn, it’s hard to sell—”

His voice broke away. Inarticulate words filled the hall. Ben was so surprised by the change that he risked a peek around the corner, and he saw Hannah standing in front of a row of lockers, towering over a human boy, her roughly scaled hand sealing around his mouth.

“Keep your fucking voice down,” Hannah said, sweetly.

Ben ducked away.

There was a sound of scuffling. Metal locks rattled. After a few moments, Ben heard the sound of desperate breathing. Shadows flickered along the floor.

Holy shit, man.

What have I walked into?

By now, the hallway population had thinned. No one stopped to look. Ben felt the exact same call to action that had spurred him to jump in for Lynn’s defense, where he had the perfect vantage point to notice something wrong, as well as the opportunity to ambush the offending party. The sound of someone struggling rang loudly in his ear.

This time, he did nothing.

He was scared of Hannah. He always had been. She was bigger, taller, and far more socially adept. For years, she had whipped him like a circus animal, always steering his awkwardness into whatever embarrassing performance she wanted. None of this would change on a whim, no matter how much he wanted it to.

I hate myself.

I hate myself.

I hate my—

“Either sell your end,” Hannah said, her voice slightly strained, “or find some money. I don’t care which.” There was a sound of tearing fabric. The breathing increased. “Have it by tonight.”

“Okay! Jesus!”

Shadows moved again, seeming to separate. Ben saw Hannah’s tail give a sharp flick to the side.

“Look, look—” The human made a grunting sound. “It’s hard to move product. McNamara’s been—” A classroom door opened behind Ben, filling the hall with a burst of student chatter. He struggled to listen through the noise. “—and it’s gonna look good, trust me.”

“I trust you,” Hannah said, like she really didn’t trust him at all. “But they might not trust you. Which is why—”

“Yeah, yeah.” There was a pause. “Shit.”

“Make it fast, chum.”

“I know what to do, Hann.”

“Clearly, you don’t.”

“I know what to do.”

“No,” Hannah said, cooingly, in the exact same falsely sweet tone that Ben had come to hate. “You’re the corner bitch. I’m the one—”

Right when Hannah started to raise her own voice, the crew inside the gymnasium revved up the jackhammer, and the ear-splitting staccato immediately drowned her words. Ben couldn’t hear anything other than the vibration pulsing up through the floor. He glanced over his shoulder, realizing that the halls were now almost empty. Passing period was over. Not only was he now exposed, but he was practically on the other side of school from his actual class, and the bell was close to ringing.

I’m definitely getting a tardy slip for orchestra.

Jesus, man.

Fuck orchestra.

Goddamnit.

The jackhammer continued to spit and rumble. If Ben really tried, he could hear a couple murmurs from Hannah and whoever the human guy was, but it was practically impossible to make out what they were saying. It seemed like they were going to keep talking right through the start of third period.

Ben almost cut his losses. He hadn’t figured out where Hannah’s locker was, but he also hadn’t exposed himself, either. The longer he tried to follow her, the more he would risk getting discovered. He could always try this again some other day.

His legs urged him to run.

His mind kept him in place.

What is all this, Hannah?

Is the preppy shark bitch being a bad girl?

The jackhammer rattled through the hall. The fluorescent lights burned and hummed. Suddenly, he did not give two single shits about being late for orchestra. All the noise and violence swirled together until it was a whining drone in his ear, fueling the rage that had compelled him to follow Hannah in the first place.

He felt ready to dash out and punch her in the pussy.

Oh, this is war, bitch.

You don’t even know what’s coming.

I’m gonna expose—

Suddenly, a human ran down the hallway, causing Ben to nearly yelp in surprise. Instead of turning at the T-junction, he continued straight down the corridor, stepping over the beds of plastic sheeting that billowed from the gymnasium. If he had taken a single glance over his shoulder, he would have seen Ben standing completely out in the open.

He kept running until he was gone.

Now that he didn’t have a shark’s hand on his face, Ben recognized him as Ryan Pressly, treasurer of the student council. He sat a few seats down from Ben in AP Calc. They had spoken once or twice.

Interesting.

Student council treasurer, huh?

Ben waited until his heart climbed back down from his throat. He listened once again. There were no more sounds. He couldn’t see any sign of Hannah’s tail, or the shadow she had casted. As far as he could tell, both her and Ryan had gone their separate ways.

He waited another few seconds, just to be safe.

Let’s keep this going.

I wanna see what else you’re doing today, Hannah darling. I’ll follow you straight to final bell, if I have to.

Three.

Two.

One.

Ben dashed out from the side, prepared to slink across the lockers. He immediately ran into Hannah, who was still standing in the same spot she’d been standing before. With a spurt of adrenaline, Ben realized that he hadn’t seen her shadow because she had turned to open her locker.

Oh, my fucking God.

The reaction was immediate. A gray hand gripped his collar, yanking down, spilling him off his feet, forcing him to crash into an abdomen of muscle and sandpaper skin. Finally, the hand reversed course, jerking him so far up into the air that he had to stand on the tips of his toes, strangled by his own shirt.

Hannah looked him right in the eye.

Somewhere beyond, in a distant hallway, there was the sound of a classroom door slamming shut.

“Oh-ho!” the shark cooed. “Benjy!”

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck—

She jerked him up a little higher. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh,” Ben said, terrified. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Hannah asked, sweetly.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“No. No, no. I mean, yeah.”

“No?”

“Yeah, no.”

“Yeah?”

“No!”

She whipped him around, slamming him hard against the lockers. His backpack saved him from the hard wheel of a combination lock. He had just enough time to notice Hannah slamming her own locker shut, and just enough cognizance to see the number 609 listed on the copper plate, before Hannah was leaning in again, towering above him in the same way she had done to Ryan.

The first thing he noticed was that she smelled like the ocean, flowing out in small licks of salt and sand. The second thing he noticed was her rows of teeth.

The third thing was her fist, rising prominently toward his face.

“You know,” Hannah said. “I don’t really believe you.”

Ben fidgeted in place, trying to yank on the crook of her elbow. It felt like trying to bend the metal railings on the stairs.

“Last I checked,” Hannah continued, “orchestra’s on the other side of school, and you’ve got perfect attendance. So why’d you go this way?”

Ben blinked, his gaze flicking between her leering face and her knuckled fist. “How do you know what my third period is?”

“You’ve been playing fiddle since we were kids.”

“So?”

“So you just said so. I was right.”

“Yeah, but—” The realization sunk in a little more. “You knew what my third period was. That wasn’t a guess.” He felt completely bewildered, and also desperate to change the subject. “How did you know that?”

Hannah licked her lipless mouth. “I’ve got a friend, Layla, who sits third chair. She told me you’re in that class.”

“Were you asking about me?”

She blew a breath through his hair. “I also know your second period is AP Calc, and Home Ec is your sixth. You know Zack?”

“Uh, Zack Corbyn? The raven?”

“That’s the one.”

“Kinda, yeah.”

“Well, I know him, too, and he told me you stabbed your finger with a sewing needle on the first day.” Hannah’s expression grew generous, almost friendly. The fist began to lower. “It’s cute you’re in Home Ec, by the way.”

Ben blushed. “It’s not—”

“It’s a girl’s class,” Hannah said.

“It’s not a girl’s class!”

“It’s okay to be a house husband, Benjy. We do live in modern times.”

“I just wanted an easy A! And—and I wanna know how to cook! Men can be cooks, okay? There’s nothing wrong with that!”

“Oh, yeah. For sure.” Her smile was saccharine. “By the way, could you knit me a sweater?”

Ben thrashed at her arm again.

“Look,” Hannah continued. “In case you didn’t know, I’m kinda popular. People talk. And that’s how I heard about you. So don’t think too hard.” She raised the fist. “And don’t change the subject.”

Ben blinked up at her. “Are you following me?”

She exposed her back rows of teeth. “Are you following me?”

“What? No!”

Her grip on his shirt increased. Fabric tore.

“No!” Ben hissed, trying not to yell.

“Bullshit,” Hannah said, pressing in. “What are you doing by the gym?”

“I’m—I’m—”

He searched desperately for something to say, thinking back to everything he had managed to overhear. Ryan had mentioned some kind of product. He had said McNamara’s name. Hannah had called him a corner bitch, further insisting that some nebulous boss of theirs didn’t trust him as a worker.

Staring up into Hannah’s mean-mugging grin, the weight of her fist hovering inches from his face, he felt all the details suddenly swirl together.

Jesus Christ, she’s selling drugs.

“I-I wanted to buy some weed!”

There was a lengthy silence. It stretched and settled. For a long time, it felt like the only sounds in the world were the overhead fluorescent lights, beaming a harsh light upon the lockers and doors. As the seconds ticked away, Hannah’s grin began to retreat across her snout. When it was gone, all that remained was a flat, curious stare. She did not let go of his shirt.

Ben offered a smile of his own, his cheeks burning red.

Soon, the shark began to laugh.

It started as a snicker, grew into a chortle, and eventually erupted into a full-bellied laugh, all of which echoed across the hallway intersection. Her eyes became slices of black. Her gills flapped like open mouths. Eventually, Hannah’s fist turned into a finger pointing at Ben’s face, as if it was just like him to do something like this.

Ben awkwardly returned the laugh.

“Oh, Benjy,” the shark cooed. “You shoulda just said so.”

Ben’s laugh slowly petered away.

“Sure,” Hannah said, her laughter gone in an instant, her grin returning in force. “I’ll sell to you. How much you want, chum?”

“Uh—you know—”

Holy shit.

That’s right.

Thank you, Dad.

He desperately fished through his back pocket, pulling out his wallet and scrambling for the twenty. He offered the bill with a slight shake in his hand. “However much . . . this can get me.”

Hannah grabbed the twenty. A second later, she yanked his entire wallet from his hand, pawing through the rest of the pockets, folding it inside out without a care in the world. Ben decided not to complain.

“That’s all you got?” Hannah asked, shaking his wallet upside down, as if some coins might fall away.

“That’s all I got,” Ben confirmed, uneasily.

“No driver’s license, huh?”

“I don’t . . . have a car.”

“No learner’s permit? No ID card?”

“Uh, you know, I haven’t . . . needed one?”

That wasn’t true. He had been too scared to try and learn how to drive. More importantly, his dad had refused to give him any lessons, saying either that Ben wasn’t ready for the independence, or he just didn’t have time to spare.

Who am I going to drive with, anyway?

Why even bother?

“Oh my God,” Hannah said, pulling out a laminated card. “Are you a GameStop rewards member?”

“. . . yeah.”

“Ooooo. Rewards Pro, huh?” She held it up to the light. “Power to the player!”

“Um,” Ben said, fidgeting. “It’s got, like—forty bucks worth of rewards. I traded in a lot of games. If you want, I could try and . . . transfer the money. . . .”

Hannah broke into a snicker, as if this was just an utterly adorable thing to say. She pawed through the rest of his wallet, found nothing else of interest, slotted the card back inside, and tossed it at Ben’s chest. He didn’t catch it. The wallet bounced and fell to the floor.

“Okay,” the shark said, cheerfully. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a deal.” She leaned in, slackening the grip on his shirt. “Don’t move.”

Ben nodded, swallowing.

For the first time in what felt like hours, Hannah let go of his shirt, stepping back over to her locker. She dialed in the combination. Ben was too busy catching his breath to memorize the numbers. He looked down at the collar of his hoodie, which was still visibly mangled by Hannah’s grip, and felt a pit of dread open in his stomach.

I’m lucky she didn’t kick the shit outta me.

On one hand, I’ve almost definitely given away the fact that I was following her. On the other hand, I’m probably not gonna lose any teeth.

I really need to just take the victory.

. . .

Why did she know all my classes?

“Here you go, chum.”

Hannah held out a closed fist. Ben stared at it, noting the way the gray skin turned to a leathery white at the palm.

“Open your hand,” Hannah instructed.

“Oh, sorry.”

He held out his hand. A small plastic baggie fell in his palm. It was so folded and wrinkled that Ben almost didn’t see the kernel of green nuggets hiding in the center. He felt a sense of thrill at seeing actual drugs for the first time in his life.

“Put it away,” Hannah said, giving an amused look. “Don’t be a narc.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

He slung off his backpack and hurriedly stuffed the baggie inside, already beginning to catch a scent that resembled skunk. He grew terrified at the idea of sharing class with any dog anthros.

“I gave you an eighth,” Hannah said.

Ben stood up, adjusting his backpack. “Uh, thanks?”

The shark gave a thin, benevolent smile. “Do you know what an eighth is, Benjy?”

“. . . an eighth of a pound?”

“An eighth of an ounce.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “Okay.”

“That’s three point five grams.”

“Yeah, yeah, right, an ounce is twenty eight grams. I remember chemistry.”

“Good,” Hannah replied, her smile deepening. “You might also know that a gram costs ten bucks. That’s the market rate.” She leaned an elbow on a locker, tilting her nearly seven feet of height over his head. “So what does that tell you?”

Ben did some mental arithmetic. “Okay, so . . an eighth is three point five, which means thirty five, and I paid twenty, so. . . .”

Hannah looked at him expectantly.

“Oh,” Ben said. “That’s—yeah. Okay. You gave me a deal.”

“I gave you double, actually.”

“That’s, uh, that’s great. That’s really great of you, Hannah. Really cool.”

“Sure,” Hannah replied, warmly. Her eyes were lidded black, reflecting the white of the fluorescent lights. “Say, Ben. We’re chums, right?”

I fucking hate your guts.

“Uh,” Ben said. “Yeah.”

“Known each other a while now.”

“Since we were kids.”

“Oh, yeah. Sixth grade. Time flies, huh?”

“It sure does.”

They looked at each other. In the gymnasium, a powered saw began to whine.

“By the way,” Hannah said, still leaning above. Her white shirt poked out a Go Carvers! symbol between her cardigan. “Who told you I was selling?”

“Oh.” Ben desperately thought of a name. “You know. Zack Corbyn? The raven in Home Ec? We were talking the other day, and. . . .”

Hannah’s expression didn’t change. “He doesn’t know.”

“What?”

“He doesn’t know I sell.”

“Well, I . . . guess he must’ve heard it. From someone.”

“He shouldn’t have.”

“Well, he did.”

“Hmmm.”

Ben tried not to look frightened. He searched for a change of subject. “Does that—I mean, am I a preferred client, then? Is that why you . . . sold to me?”

Hannah shrugged. “Sure.”

“Really?”

“Why not? I mean, we’re chums, right?”

You’ve tortured me for years, you big dumb ugly bitch.

“Yeah,” Ben said. “I dunno. Nevermind.”

They looked at each other. The silence grew unbearable.

“Alright,” Hannah said, waving the back of her hand, like she was dismissing a servant. “Run along now. Go fiddle yourself.”

Ben fidgeted, tried to play it cool, realized that it was far too late to do so, and took some very uncoordinated steps toward the hallway intersection. He gave her a wave goodbye.

“Don’t forget your wallet,” she said, smiling.

Ben cursed, took a few steps back, picked his wallet off the floor, and took several longer steps away.

Hannah didn’t move.

Ben turned.

She rushed for him.

He took the corner at a dash, rapidly gaining into a sprint. Blood pounded. His shoes slapped the tiles. He felt a large presence at his back, closing in, chewing straight through the distance. Ben was a sedentary nerd. Hannah was a varsity athlete. The hallway was very long.

It was over before it started.

An arm locked around his throat. He stumbled, swayed, tried to stay in the fight, but Hannah lifted him off his feet, nearly suplexed him straight overhead, and slammed him back down to the floor, leaving his legs buckled and his entire weight hanging on her arm.

She sealed the choke.

The world became kicks and gasps.

He couldn’t breathe.

Slowly, she began to strangle him in earnest, squeezing her arm until his vision went black at the edge, until his own kicking legs stopped feeling like they belonged to him at all, and he was just a sack of meat staring dumbly at the strips of light in the ceiling.

Oh, my God.

I’m dying.

Dead.

I. . . .

. . .

. .

.

FUCK

The pressure eased. Ben gasped for air, feeling a small burst of clarity. Hannah squeezed him again, locking her elbow directly below his chin, and the feeling was gone.

He felt a raspy voice speak into his ear.

“By the way,” Hannah said. “If you follow me again, I’ll kick the shit outta you.”

Ben grunted and wheezed.

“Say it.”

He choked.

“Say it, Benjy.”

She eased the pressure. Ben took an embarrassingly loud gasp, his face burning as bright as a furnace. “You’ll kick the shit outta me.”

“Good boy.”

Her snout pressed against his head, rubbing through the hair. He could feel all the little skin-slicing scales. He could feel clothes and muscle and breasts.

He took a breath, gaining a taste of the ocean.

“I meant what I said,” Hannah cooed. “We’re chums. We’ve always been chums. And that means we should stick together. Right?”

He gave a very stilted nod.

“And I would really hate,” Hannah continued, “to think of what would happen if we stopped being chums. Wouldn’t you?”

With a gurgling wheeze, he managed to nod again.

“We are chums, aren’t we, Ben?”

Her breath tickled his cheek. Her teeth found the edge of his ear. Slowly, they began to nibble and pierce, each as sharp as a knife.

Ben nodded.

“Oh, yeah,” Hannah said. “The best of chums.”

She pushed him away. Ben collapsed to the linoleum floor, clutching at his freshly bruised throat. A few drops of blood cascaded from his ear.

“See you around.”

Half-conscious, Ben looked up from the floor to see Hannah strolling away. She strut across the hall, her hips swaying, her skirt riding mid-thigh, her tail flexing with a vigorous muscle. She knew he was watching, and she was enjoying every second.

After a moment, she was gone.

Ben leaped back to his feet, stumbling across the hall, hearing the sounds of classroom lecture murmur through the doors. In the distance, he heard the jackhammer rev up once again, filling the hall with a shrieking, rattling terror. It followed him all the way to the main atrium. It echoed in his ears as he sprinted across the school.

Eventually, he barged his way into a random bathroom, washing his ear in the sink until the blood finally stopped. His sweatshirt was stained. He splashed more water. He saw, in the mirror, that his face was very pale.

“Here’s to senior year,” he said.

He threw on his hood and slunk back into the hall, hoping that no one would see him again.