The Shark Curtain. Chris Scofield

person just right.” Did Jesus wear a halo when I saw Him? I don’t remember. Still, Judy reads a lot; she probably knows. She’s taking two fat library books on her trip.

      I hear the front door open and Mrs. Marks step outside. “Rusty!” she yells for Judy’s little brother who’s playing across the street. “Stop wrestling with that dog! Do you hear me? Rusty!”

      He loves to play with Louis, the neighbor’s black lab; they even sleep together when Rusty stays over, which he’s doing again tonight because Mr. Marks’s back is acting up. Judy’s mom says Rusty is too loud and “active” to be inside when the weather’s nice. He and Mr. Marks fight a lot so it’s a good idea.

      “Look what I did,” Judy says, drumming Tiger Beat magazine with her pencil. “I filled out the contest form to win a ‘Dream Date with Singer Teen Idol Bobby Sherman!’ This and this are true,” she adds, pointing at her neatly printed name and address, “but I fibbed about my age.” She points at 18 on the Your Age line. “If you’re eighteen you don’t need your parents’ permission.” She hugs the magazine to her chest.

      I wish it were Mrs. Wiggins sneaking around the neighborhood. The bump, where my tail grows, itches. I try to sound casual when I ask, “Half-person, half-dog. That’s a werewolf, right?”

      Judy runs her finger over glossy Bobby Sherman’s glossy lips.

      “A dog bite, or a scratch . . . If its blood got inside you—”

      “You’re talking about a werewolf, right? There’s no such thing. You just got cut up when your dog drowned, and even if her blood got inside you, it still wouldn’t make you a werewolf. God, Lily!”

      “But I killed her!” Suddenly I can’t breathe.

      “Okay, you’re a dog murderer! Does that make you feel better?”

      I stare at Judy’s starched white dust ruffle.

      “Listen,” she says, “you’re not a werewolf. You’re nothing, just a dumb girl like me.” She throws her magazine on the floor. “I’ll never win a dream date with Bobby Sherman.” She sticks her fingertips under her glasses and presses her eyes. “I’m so stupid.”

      “No you’re not. I’m not either.”

      “You are if you think you’re a werewolf. Maybe you like Hoss so much because you’re both stupid.”

      Mrs. Marks sticks her head in Judy’s room and says, “Your father’s home. Sloppy joes in half an hour.” She doesn’t look at either of us. After Judy’s mom leaves, the room feels funny.

      “I’m sorry, Lily,” Judy says. She lies on her bed, holding her knees.

      I wish Mom didn’t send me over. I don’t need anyone to watch me. Be nice, I tell myself. “I like sloppy joes,” I say. Judy must have them all the time; she’s glaring so hard at the closed door she could burn right through it like Superman. “I wonder if Jesus ever ate a sloppy joe. I bet Hop Sing could make them. He could probably make a Baked Alaska too. And one of those fancy chocolate cakes like I get at Rose’s Delicatessen on my birthday. Does your dad like sloppy joes?”

      Now I’m talking too much.

      “He’s not my dad,” Judy mutters.

      “I know.” Judy’s real father died in Korea.

      “Hey, Judy,” I say, arranging the magazines by date, “was there Baked Alaska before Alaska was a state?”

      Judy turns red. “Shut up!”

      My skin starts to itch. I scratch hard, making my hand into Mrs. Wiggins’s claw.

      “Stop scratching!” Judy shouts at me. “Jeez! Have you got fleas?”

      Kind of. Only it’s Mrs. Wiggins this time. “The dead want to be remembered,” Frieda says when she explains why she talks to dead Grandpa.

      “I can’t help it,” I explain.

      Judy closes her eyes. “I’m too old to be your friend anymore. You’re weird.”

      I wish I hadn’t said I’d stay for dinner. “Stop being mean to me! I’m going home if you don’t stop!”

      “So go! I don’t care. Go home to your beautiful family! I don’t want to talk to you anymore! I don’t want to talk to anyone!”

      “I don’t want to talk to you either!” I yell, as I lock myself in the bathroom across the hall.