So mum sat me down and put my hand in hers and she said, baby it’s time we had a talk. She said, baby you’re a werewolf. She asked how I felt about it. I said that I guess I’d kinda figured it out already.
At first I hadn’t thought too much on the hair. I knew it was 100% natural for my body to change with the puberty and all that. Besides, hairy ladies were pretty common in my family. My grandmother had a moustache. My aunt has a monobrow and, I’d even begun to suspect mum of plucking her chin in recent years. It was inevitable, I knew it already, so when the first fuzzy hairs had sprung up between my legs they didn’t freak me out at all.
But then they hadn’t stopped growing.
The fuzz began to creep down my thighs, soft dark ringlets spreading across the expanse of my body. I told a friend about it and she said gross. I didn’t say anything about the hairs on my chest.
And then one night I woke up with a strange feeling in my stomach. I went downstairs to the fridge and stared into it. I scratched myself. I yawned. I was hungry but I didn’t want to eat anything we had. Through the window, outside in the garden, there was the shed falling down. There was the chicken coop with Betty and Veronica sleeping on their roost. The moon was big and almost full. I stretched my back. I thought I should howl. The noise bubbled out of me more like a girlish squeak than anything though, and the next morning my throat was like I’d been scraping it dry.
I told mum all this and she patted my hand, said, don’t worry baby. We’ll make a wolf of you yet.