“Good luck, Wolf Pack!” Matt says, and the auditorium erupts into a loud, anxious howl before we jump to our feet and race to the auditorium doors.
In the lobby, Nisha ties the blue bandanna around my upper arm. “Good luck,” she whispers as I get my slip of paper from Olivia.
My stomach plummets when I see my first target: Spencer Sugiyama.
* * *
Outside the theater, everyone splits off in different directions, some in clusters, some alone. The list of clues is daunting. A handful of them are obvious, but I’m stumped on at least a couple.
Kirby, Mara, and I linger at Cinerama’s Lenora Street entrance. Now that we’re alone again, the car conversation feels like a physical barrier between us.
“Our five minutes are almost up,” I say, staring at my phone before sliding it back into my dress pocket.
“Right.” Kirby toes a dent in the sidewalk with her sandal. “And any one of us could have the other.”
I do a quick mental calculation. “There’s a two percent chance.”
“No math. School’s over,” Kirby says with a groan. “I’d tell you if I had you.”
“Really? Because I wouldn’t.” Mara tucks a strand of blond hair behind one ear, smiling innocently
“Oh my God, I don’t trust either of you!” Kirby says when I don’t volunteer my target either.
There’s a stiltedness that’s never cloaked our interactions before. I tug on my bangs, my perennial nervous habit. The street is busy, downtown corporate types heading back to their offices after lunch.
My phone buzzes. “That’s five minutes,” I say quietly, unsure where to go from here. Both literally and figuratively. “I guess we should split up until the first safe zone?”
I didn’t think we’d become Howl enemies so quickly, but I need some time on my own to figure out how I feel about all of this.
Mara nods, her mouth threatening to slide into a devious grin. Competitive mode. “If you guys last that long.”
They already apologized. They shouldn’t feel bad about wanting to go on vacation together. It’s that they didn’t tell me. They’ll have this entire year to be together, whereas my days with them are, quite literally, numbered on the calendar in my room, my end-of-August Boston move-in date circled in red.
“Good luck,” Kirby says. Mara stands on her toes to kiss Kirby, and they squeeze each other’s hands, a small gesture that communicates one thing: you are loved.
“See you guys at the safe zone,” I say.
Then I take a deep breath, tighten my armband, and start running.
HOWL CLUES
A place you can buy Nirvana’s first album
A place that’s red from floor to ceiling
A place you can find Chiroptera
A rainbow crosswalk
Ice cream fit for Sasquatch
The big guy at the center of the universe
Something local, organic, and sustainable
A floppy disk
A coffee cup with someone else’s name (or your own name, wildly misspelled)
A car with a parking ticket
A view from up high
The best pizza in the city (your choice)
A tourist doing something a local would be ashamed of doing
An umbrella (we all know real Seattleites don’t use them)
A tribute to the mysterious Mr. Cooper
12:57 p.m.
A FEW MOMENTS later, I stop running. Seattle has too many hills.
It’s not that I dislike exercise. It’s just that it’s frowned upon to read books on the soccer field… which is what I did when I was eleven and my parents stuck me on a team called the Geoducks. I tucked a paperback in my waistband and, when the ball was on the other side of the field, pulled it out to read. I always put it away before the other team headed our way, but needless to say, it was my first and last season of soccer.
I check the clues again to assess what’s in my immediate vicinity. If I go to the coffee shop across the street, I could get the cup with someone else’s name on it and devise a strategy for the rest. Most people likely ventured much farther, so I’m probably safe here.
The coffee shop is playing folk music with airy female vocals, and I inhale the scent of chocolate and coffee beans. My vision of a Real Writer is someone who haunts coffee shops and wears chunky sweaters and says things like, “I can’t; I’m on deadline.” Most of my writing happens late at night, sitting in bed with my laptop warming my thighs.
“Riley,” I tell the barista when I order my second latte of the day.