“Harlow?” My sister interrupted my thoughts.
I looked over at her. “Hm?”
By the way she bit her lower lip, I could tell she was debating her next words.
“Just spit it out, Beth,” I pressed.
She stopped and gently grabbed my arm to also halt me in my path. Even through the thick yarn of my oversized burgundy sweater, I could feel the warmth of her hand.
Her voice was hesitant and almost nervous. “Have you heard anything about the upcoming fall festival?”
Shrugging casually, I shook my head. “Other than it’s all anyone can seem to look forward to around here? Not really.”
I tilted my head at her curiously. “Why?”
Beth had a grating habit of shaking the charm bracelet on her wrist when she was nervous. The bracelet once belonged to our Aunt Laurel before she passed. Shewas our mom’s eldest sister, a free-spirited and spunky type who believed in all sorts of far-fetched ideas when it came to the supernatural.
Aunt Laurel was convinced that the moon’s energy could bring strength to whoever bathed in its glow, that herbs were more than just a way to flavor food, and that everyone had two souls inside them. One they were born with, and one they became one with.
Never made much sense to me. Like I said, she was super hippie and shit.
But it wasn’t until almost ten years ago, after she died, that I realized she may have been onto something more than I had cared to admit.
Things in my life started to take aninterestingturn when I was sixteen. At first, it was just little shit. Not stumbling in the dark on the way to the bedroom when I woke up in the middle of the night. A quiet confidence that I mistook for maturity. The way my eyes were a sharper shade of green when I caught sight of my reflection.
Then came the bizarro changes. I’m pretty sure it’s not normal for a high school sophomore to start openlypurringwhen your crush sits next to you in geometry class. Talk about mortification on a whole other level.
From there, it only got worse. The coroner had just declared all the findings of my Aunt Laurel’s autopsy and untimely death to be inconclusive. After three months of grieving her, not understanding the circumstances of why her death had been so mysterious, we were left withnothing. I remember the timing vividly, because that’s when all my changes came to a life-altering head.
While attending our school’s homecoming football game, I fell aggressively ill. At that time, I had sworn it had been the direct consequence of consuming one too many greasy pipes of funnel cake.
Dead fucking wrong.
By the time I had stumbled into the dimly lit parking lot, my stomach violently twisted, and the most horrid of sounds came out of me as I doubled over. It was a cross between a dying animal, wet gurgling, and mewling. Just about the point when I had sworn I was choking on a bile-soaked cotton ball, I collapsed bonelessly.
When I had come to, all my senses were heightened. I could smell every blade of grass, my vision cut through the darkness, and every nearby heartbeat had its own unique staccato rhythm.
Oh, and I had fur—shiny, black fur. I had passed out as a normal teenage girl and gained consciousness as an honest-to-God fucking cat. Unfortunately, I was nothing more exciting than a short-haired domestic feline, but still. Who could say that they could turn into a four-legged creature known for being an asshole but still undeniably lovable?
Beth was the only person I had confided in, simply because I couldn’t handle this fucker of a secret on my own. Looking back on my decision to entrust a nine-year-old with this? Not necessarily my best judgment call. Though other than a few slip-ups early on, Beth had kepther promise made under the iron-clad vow of ‘crissy-crossy her heart and hope to die.’
I didn’t dare clue my parents in on this transformation that blew the awkwardness of puberty out of the water. If I had shared my secret? I was certain that instead of living in the middle of buttfuck nowhere right now, I’d be in a padded cell being questioned by a therapist about my feelings.
Worse? Perhaps I would have been turned into the S.P.A.R.K.L.E. program’s poster girl.
After years of trial and error, along with Beth’s support, I learned how to control this particular side of me. I wasn’t going to lie, sometimes being able to turn into a stealthy furball had its uses. Sneaking in and out of the house at night, avoiding people you didn’t want to talk to, and the occasional eavesdropping to name a few.
Snapping out of my reminiscing about days past, I saw my little sister staring at me expectantly.
“Did you hear a word I even said, Har?”
I grimaced. “Sorry, something about the fall festival?”
Dramatically, she rolled her eyes and continued walking down the sidewalk. I quickly fell in step beside her.
“I was saying,” she speared me with a pointed side eye in my direction, “it’s a bit creepy. Everybody keeps acting like either it’s better than Christmas or it’s Doomsday.”
“So, people here love a good festival. Since when is that a crime?” I mulled over what I had observed over thepast few days while taking another long sip from my latte. “Besides, aren’t caramel apples your second-favorite treat in the world?”
