CHAPTER 6

I stood before the door to my new apartment, staring. I had no idea how I got there. The last thing I remembered, I’d been in the alley. Somehow, I’d got myself back home.

I remembered, though, every second of what happened in that alleyway. I looked down at my arms and hands, expecting to see them look different—but they were normal. The rage had swept through me, transforming me, then had just as quickly left.

But the after-effects remained: I felt hollowed out, for one. Numb. And I felt something else. Images kept flashing through my mind, images of those bullies’ exposed necks. Of their heartbeat pulsing. And I felt a hunger. A craving.

I really didn’t want to return home. I didn’t want to deal with my mom, especially today, didn’t want to deal with a new place, with unpacking. If it weren’t for Sam being in there, I may have just turned around and left. Where I’d go, I had no idea—but at least I’d be walking.

I took a deep breath and reached out and placed my hand on the knob. Either the knob was warm, or my hand was as cold as ice.

I entered the too-bright apartment. I could smell food on the stove—or probably, in the microwave. Sam. He always got home early and made himself dinner. My mom wouldn’t be home for hours.

“That doesn’t look like a good first day.”

I turned, shocked at the sound of my mom’s voice. She sat there, on the couch, smoking a cigarette, already looking me up and down with scorn.

“What, did ya ruin that sweater already?”

I looked down and noticed for the first time the dirt stains, probably from hitting the cement.

“Why are you home so early?” I asked.

“First day for me, too, ya know,” she snapped. “You’re not the only one. Light workload. Boss sent me home early.”

I couldn’t take my mom’s nasty tone. Not tonight. She was always being snotty towards me, and tonight, I had enough. I decided to give her a taste of her own medicine.

“Great,” I snapped back. “Does that mean we’re moving again?”

Her mom suddenly jumped to her feet. “You watch that fresh mouth of yours!” she screamed.

I knew my mom had just been waiting for an excuse to yell at me I figured it was best to just bait her and get it over with.

“You shouldn’t smoke around Sam,” I answered coldly, then entered my tiny bedroom and slammed the door behind me, locking it.

Immediately, my mom banged at the door.

“You come out here, you little brat! What kind of way is that to talk to your mother!? Who puts bread on your table….”

On this night, , so distracted, I was able to drown out my mom’s voice. Instead, I replayed in her mind the day’s events. The sound of those kids’ laughter. The sound of her own heart pounding in her ears. The sound of her own roar.

What exactly had happened? How did I get such strength? Was it just an adrenaline rush? A part of me wished it was. But another part of me knew it wasn’t. What was I?

The banging on my door continued, but I barely heard it. My cell sat on my desk, vibrating like crazy, lighting up with IMs, texts, emails, Facebook chats—but I barely heard that, too.

I moved to my tiny window and looked down at the corner of Amsterdam Ave, and a new sound rose in my mind. It was the sound of Jonah’s voice. The image of his smile. A low, deep, soothing voice. I recalled how delicate he was, how fragile he seemed. Then I saw him lying on the ground, bloody, his precious instrument in pieces. A fresh wave of anger arose.

My anger morphed into worry—worry if he was all right, if he’d walked away, if he made it home. I imagined him calling to me. Caitlin. Caitlin.

“Caitlin?”

A new voice was outside my door. A boy’s voice.

Confused, I snapped out of it.

“It’s Sam. Let me in.”