Page 95 of Raised By Wolves

THE CAR’S SO low to the ground that Waylon could probably park it underneath Chester’s pickup.

“So this islessdangerous?” I say doubtfully as I sink into the passenger seat. “It looks like it’ll barely go ten miles without falling apart.”

“You could be right,” Waylon admits. “Luckily school is only four miles from here.” He gets in behind the wheel and then cocks his head and looks at me.

“What?” I ask. His frank gaze makes me self-conscious.

“Usually people dress up a little for a school dance,” he says. “See?” He points to his shirt and smiles teasingly. “This is called a button-down, Kai. It’s different than a regular T-shirt. And by different, I mean nicer.”

“Sorry,” I say, flushing a little. “My wardrobe is… limited.” I don’t tell him that I tried on a dozen outfits. How I put my hair up, then down, then up again. How, in the end, it felt like trying to look nice and failing seemed worse than deciding not to give a shit in the first place.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway,” Waylon says, turning the key. The car sputters to life. “You’re more beautiful than anyone at that school. You could wear a garbage bag and you’d still look better than everyone else. You could put sticks in your hair. You could smear mud all over your fa—”

“Okay, I get it,” I say. “Thank you.”

The wind blows my hair into my face as we drive beneath the trees. Waylon reaches into the seat pocket and then holds up a plastic rectangle.

“Andthis, my feral friend, is what’s called a cassette tape.” He sticks it into a slot in the dashboard. “The singer you’re about to hear is Waylon Jennings.”

A deep mournful voice comes out of the car doors.Mama, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys…

“Were you named for him?”

“I tell people I was. But Waylon was just my grandpa’s name.”

When Waylon pulls into the school parking lot, the nervousness I’d been feeling becomes a heavy ball of dread. I basicallyhatethis place. Why’d I let him convince me to come here when I didn’t absolutely have to?

Waylon hurries around the front of the car, opens my door, and says, “Just remember, all you have to do is this.” And then he does the wild, idiotic dance he did in Lacey’s cafe, kicking out his legs and swinging his arms and tossing his head around like a maniac.

I laugh. “You look like you’re being electrocuted.”

“Thank you.” He holds out his arm. “Ready?”

I’mnotready, but I tuck my hand into the crook of hiselbow anyway and try not to think too much about how warm his skin feels beneath his nice button-down.

The dance is being held in the cafeteria, which has been decorated with strands of Christmas lights and blue and white streamers. Bouquets of blue and white balloons dot each table, and the floor’s covered with paper confetti.

The dance floor’s in the middle of the room and it’s already crowded. It’s hard to make out the other students’ faces in the dim, colored light—not that I ever bothered to learn their names—but they’re all doing versions of the stupid-looking dance Waylon demonstrated in the parking lot. The girls are in tight dresses or belly-baring tops. The guys look like they didn’t even change after school. A few teacher chaperones lean against the walls, looking at their phones.

“Let’s do what we came here for!” Waylon practically has to shout over the music. “You like this song?”

I shrug. I’ve never heard it before. It’s got a thumping bass line that’s making everyone just sort of bounce up and down… I guess I can do that.

“Sure,” I yell. “Yes.”

Waylon puts his hands on my shoulders and steers me into the crowd. Then he spins me around so I’m facing him, and he grabs my hands and starts jumping. “Pretend you’re on a pogo stick,” he yells.

“Awhat?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Never mind!”

I start jumping up and down with him. I feel dumb at first, but after a minute or two it starts to get fun. It feels good to let out so much energy—to fling my head around and swivelmy hips, to try to match my body to the rhythm of the song. When everyone starts pumping their hands in the air, I copy them. Waylon’s laughing and so am I.

“I’m doing it!” I yell.

“You’re amazing!” he yells back.

I’m not amazing, I’m ridiculous, but who cares?

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