The world is ending. At least, that's how it sounds at 6:30 AM when my phone alarm explodes right on my nightstand, buzzing so loud it practically jumps into my pile of overdue library books. I grope around for it, I knock over my water bottle, and finally hit the snooze button after, like, three tries. I just lie there, sprawled out like a sea star, and wonder what would actually happen if I just stayed here forever. Like, just wrapped up in my blankets and faded into a cautionary tale for future generations about chronic teen laziness. But I know Mom's going to be on my case any second anyway.
Snooze lies to you; it lasts eight minutes, but it feels like two. At 6:38, the alarm is back, and so is Mom, her voice going right through my door like a shot. "Kim, honey! Time to get up!"
I'm already up, even though my hair is a total disaster and I can barely walk straight, like some sleep-zombie. I look in the mirror: disaster confirmed. I try putting my hair in a ponytail, but it only kind of works; the top is okay, the rest is hopeless. I pull on leggings and a hoodie, and then spend, like, three minutes trying to make the scar over my eyebrow look less like a bad special effect. It never does. Dad likes to call it my "character flaw," which is kind of funny, considering he's the loudest soup eater on the planet.
Heading back to my room, I walk past the locked guest bedroom—the weird one—and, out of nowhere, imagine Tyler Matthews in my hallway. He's got no shirt on (why?), and he's smiling that lazy smile he always does, right before flexing. I immediately trip over a laundry basket and stub my toe so hard I nearly black out.
Breakfast is as awkward as ever. I run down the stairs, two at a time, and try to do a chill "good morning" past Dad, who's already dressed for work and glaring at his Greek yogurt like it's out to get him. Mom is at the stove, hair up, sleeves rolled, looking like she's about to do brain surgery, not scramble eggs.
"Did you sleep okay?" she says, sliding a plate my way. I just sort of grunt; my brain hasn't loaded yet.
Dad puts down his yogurt and squints at me with foggy glasses. "History teacher emailed us. Something about a big project?"
Great. Ms. Graff and her obsession with "historical amnesia."
"Yeah, we're supposed to do a family history project. Interview someone ancient, write it all up, blah blah." I eat my eggs and talk at the same time, which Mom hates.
Mom shoots me a look. "Language, Kim."
Then there's this silent thing between Mom and Dad, like Mom wants Dad to say something. Dad sighs, checks his phone, and finally asks, "So, who are you interviewing?"
Only one real option: Grandpa Marc, who always smells like pipe tobacco (doesn't smoke, just smells like it) and says stuff like, "In my day, wolves respected the moon." Honestly, it's tempting just to record him being weird for future generations.
"Grandpa," I say. "His stories are totally wild. Should be fun, though."
Mom's face goes sour, but she tries to hide it. Dad puts his yogurt down like it's made of glass. "Your grandfather has a...vivid imagination. Just make sure you check the facts, all right? Family stories have a way of...growing."
Translation: don't tell your teacher we're descended from literal werewolves.
I almost want to say something, but the kitchen already feels like a powder keg and last time I brought up Grandpa's "transformation" stories, Mom went all-in on a lecture about brains and myths. So I just hurry up.
I rinse my plate and see my reflection in the window. My eyes are weird today; maybe a little too bright. Or maybe it's just the bags. I poke the scar above my brow, like maybe that'll help me remember how I actually got it. Nothing.
Before heading out, I run back to my room for my phone, headphones, emergency chocolate, and my black composition notebook, which isn't judging me (unlike, say, the school). My walls are covered in science fair ribbons, writing awards, and a zillion post-it quotes from people I may or may not have stalked online. Bookcase? Total mess: fantasy, graphic novels, random biology textbooks, and a couple of paperbacks where everyone seems to be dying, brooding, or both. On my dresser is The Box, locked up tight with a real key and labeled "open on your sixteenth moon." Mom gave it to me last birthday and won't tell me what's inside. I've tried all the YouTube hacks, but it won't open. Not even close.
I get downstairs and Dad's already at the door, briefcase in one hand, messing with his wedding ring with the other. "You got everything?" I nod and double-check my bag. "Be home before dark," Mom says, loud enough to follow me into the hallway. There's a note in her voice, kind of nervous. "I'm not a vampire," I say, but no one laughs. They just look at each other, doing their silent grown-up communication thing, the kind you only get after seventeen years of marriage, I guess. All I get is FOMO and endless anxiety.
Right as I'm heading out, Dad stops me. "Hey, Kim? Maybe try not to stare at Tyler so much at school, okay?"
My face is on fire. "I wasn't—"
He just grins. "You were talking about him in your sleep again."
I want to disappear.
On the way to school, I can't stop thinking about it, but something else floats up: Mom's favorite line. "Your time is coming soon." She says it all the time, always like it's a weather report or something. Usually when the moon's full.
Whatever. It's just another Monday.