Shara: Werewolf Saga, #1

By Steven E. Wedel

Shara Wellington has always been shy, but what happened on prom night drove her deeper into herself. Professor Josef Ulrik, however, sees something in the girl and believes he knows what she needs to unlock her inner power. But accepting Ulrik's Gift of lycanthropy only opens up a world of new problems for Shara. Alienated from her home and family, Shara must learn to life as a wolf in the wild and as a woman with the urges of a beast.

 

When it's learned that she possesses an ability no other werewolf in history has had, the Pack is divided, with one side seeing her as a savior and the other as an enemy that must be killed. Shara only wants to live a normal life with her new family

 

But the Pack is gathering ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: MoonHowler Press
• Release date: Dec 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215986943

Steven E. Wedel

Steven E. Wedel lives with his dogs, Bear and Sweet Pea, and his cat, Cleo. A lifelong Oklahoman, he grew up in Enid and now lives in Midwest City, with numerous addresses in between. He is the author of over 35 books under his name and two pseudonyms, but still has to rely on his day job of teaching high school English to keep himself and his furry dependents eating in air-conditioned comfort. Steven has four grown children and three grandsons. Be sure to visit him online and sign up for his newsletter.

Book preview

Prologue

Shara bowed her head , but it did not occur to her to pray. God would not listen. Shara lifted her eyes to face the innocent soul who suffered the consequences of her chosen sin.

The baby stirred in his sleep. His small head rose from the mattress of the crib and dropped back onto the padding. His tiny fists clenched and slowly uncurled – but not all the way. The little fingers remained partially bent, clawing at the capering figures of Bambi and Thumper printed on the crib sheet. Sunlight filtered through the cheery curtains of the windows; the bars over the apertures cast long, dark shadows on the pale carpet. Over the crib, a wooden plaque inscribed with ancient Nordic runes was meant to hold evil at bay. The room smelled of talcum powder and ointments, with the odor of dirty diapers underlying all.

Little Joey, I’m so sorry, Shara whispered as she looked over the rail of the crib. Why did I ever bring you into this world? I knew how it would be for you. I’m sorry. She pulled her rocking chair closer to the crib and sat so she could see through the bars. She watched her infant son and rolled the syringe between her palms. It wouldn’t be long before the fit overcame him. It wouldn’t be long before...

Shara’s husband put his hands on her shoulders and gently squeezed. Shara twisted her neck to look into his face as he stood behind her chair. His hair, nearly as dark as her own, was mussed from his nervous habit of running his hands through it. His brow wrinkled and his eyes squinted, his glasses forgotten in some other room. Are you sure about this? he asked.

You know I’m not, Chris. You were there. You saw the research. You know as well as I do what could happen. You know I could, I might – She couldn’t say the words.

I know. He nodded.

Shara followed his eyes to the changing table at the foot of the crib. Another syringe lay ready. Beside it were several grams of the dried root used in the serum. The plastic box of diaper wipes was open. Shara reached over and closed the lid.

Joey first. Then me, she said. You shouldn’t. If, if... She paused, sighed and tried again. If it doesn’t go right, you shouldn’t follow us.

We’ve been over this, babe. He smiled down at her. Do you really think I could live without you two?

Shara tried to return the smile but failed. She looked back at the scattered particles of root. There are more pleasant methods. I told you what to expect if you take that.

You told me. If it’s good enough for my wife and son, it’s good enough for me. He reached up to adjust his glasses, realized he hadn’t put them on and looked momentarily puzzled before dropping his hand to his side. The wrinkles in his forehead increased and Shara knew he was trying again to think of an alternative plan. Is he too young? Could he grow out of it?

I told you about Ulrik. Shara did not look at her husband as she answered. He was about this age when... when he was first infected. We’ll treat Joey at the same age. He’ll never grow out of it on his own.

The baby whimpered. He opened his eyes for a moment. Shara saw the madness was claiming him. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks.

It’s starting. Shara nearly choked on the words. Dammit, it’s starting. Damn it. Damn me. I’m... I’m – She hunched over in the chair and shook as the sobs overcame her.

Chris knelt beside her, tried to hold her.  Honey, are you okay?

No. I’m not. I may be on the verge of killing my son, then committing suicide. And if he dies, or if I do, you say you’ll kill yourself. No Chris, I’m not okay.

I’m sorry, Shara. I –

It’s not your fault. It’s never been your fault. I’m the one who was weak. I’ve always been weak.

You’re not –

I am. I always have been. Shara pounded a fist on her knee. I remember everything. I’ve always been weak.

No.

Shara silenced him with a dark, pleading look. I think it’s time you left us, she said.

No.

I won’t argue this with you again. You have to leave us, and promise not to come in for at least two hours.

I’ve already promised, he said, his voice sulky.

Promise again.

I promise.

Promise what?

He took a deep breath, looked her in the eye then averted his face. He clenched his jaw as he always did when he was frustrated. I promise to leave you and Joey alone for two hours. No matter what I hear or think.

Thank you, Chris, Shara whispered. She left the chair and took her husband in her arms. I love you.

God, I love you, he said, near tears.

Now go. Leave us alone, and lock the door on us. Don’t let us out, and don’t you come in.

Shara watched the man she loved leave the room. I might never see my husband again. Within a couple of hours, I might be dead, just the corpse of a woman clutching the body of a murdered baby. The door closed and Joey let out a long, pain-filled cry. Chris opened the door and poked his head through.

No! Shara looked over her shoulder at the door as she hurried back to the crib. Out. And lock that door! The door closed and she heard the bolts thrown: one, two, three and the key turned in the knob.

Mama’s here, Joey, Mama’s here. She took the baby from the crib, threw the single bolt on the inside of the door and sat in the rocking chair. Joey was awake now, his eyes wild and round as he stared up at her. His tiny body was stiff, rigid, as he struggled against the disease fighting to possess him.

My little Joey, Shara murmured over and over again. Chris was standing in the hallway, pressed to the door. Shara smelled his scent, felt his fear, heard the short, quick gasps of his breath. My little Joey. Mama’s sorry, so sorry. The baby began crying in earnest. Shara cried with him.

Why did I do it? she asked herself again. Why?

She knew why. She remembered every significant event of her life. Every incident that had any meaning led to this moment. Every decision she had ever made helped to bring her to this rocking chair, in this room, holding this beautiful, terrible baby in her arms.

Every movement was but one step in a long, savage dance...

Shara

R ight in here. You can park there.

I see it, Mother. If you’ll take your hand off the wheel I’ll park there. Slowly, carefully, fifteen-year-old Shara Wellington eased the small Buick into the parallel parking space in front of the bank. She killed the engine and gripped the steering wheel tight as her mother sighed and visibly relaxed.

Excellent. Her mother patted her on the leg like a dog that had pissed on the newspaper. You won’t have any trouble at all getting your driver’s license.

Did you think I would? Shara asked.

Of course not. I taught you everything you know. But you need to get a little closer to the curb next time. Do you want to go in with me, or wait out here?

I’ll wait.

I won’t be long. Don’t mess with anything.

Shara pulled a cassette tape from her purse and had Meat Loaf’s Bat Out of Hell thundering from the stereo before her mother crossed half the distance to the front doors of the Mutual Trust Bank building.

A man leaving the bank cast a backward glance at her mother. Shara hoped she would look so young at her mother’s age. But I won’t wear high heels and skirts all the time. All her mother needed to be in a 1950s sit-com was a string of pearls to wear while she vacuumed.

That’s what gentlemen want from a wife, Shara mimicked Sue Wellington’s voice. Quiet and demure, not wild and bothersome. Fiddle-dee-dee!

A red-breasted robin fluttered to the sidewalk and hopped to the small, empty flower garden beside the bank doors. Spring would arrive soon. And my sixteenth birthday and driver’s license. All Enid, Oklahoma, all the world, would be open for her. Shara would be able to drive herself anywhere she wanted to go. She could go anywhere to eat, go to concerts in Oklahoma City, hit the highway with the windows down and the stereo up.

Life will be good.

Shara’s music faded beneath the sound of a laboring auto. She reached to turn up the volume as a smoking, rusted, gold Chrysler pulled into the fire lane before the bank doors. The car was immense, something rom the early Seventies. The white vinyl top was torn and peeling away, the long heavy body badly dented. Blue smoke poured from the tailpipe as the car idled, killing the fresh smell of the early morning.

Two men climbed from the front seat. Both were tall, lanky, and dressed in tight black clothes. They had knit caps rolled to the tops of their heads. One man wore a denim jacket with the sleeves cut out; on the back of the jacket was a patch in the image of a snarling wolf’s head. The men rushed the front doors of the bank, drawing guns and unrolling the ski masks to cover their faces. The doors flew open, the men disappeared within, and the doors closed.

Shara sat motionless.

Mom! Shara grabbed the latch of the car door, ready to bolt into the bank. She stopped before her fingers pulled the lever. There was still one man in the driver’s seat of the gold car; he might shoot her.

Her mother was probably safe; Sue Wellington wouldn’t do anything to attract attention to herself. Surely nothing... no floor covered in blood and moaning bodies... Shara couldn’t think about it.

I should be doing something.

The engine of the rusty Chrysler revved, emitting another thick cloud of smoke. The breeze blew the smoke away and Shara noticed the license plate on the car. She jerked open the Buick’s glove box and threw objects to the floor as she searched for a pen and paper. Finding what she needed, she scribbled down the tag number just as the bank doors flew open.

The two robbers walked backwards, their masked heads turning from one side to the other as they moved toward the Chrysler. They held their pistols before them in both hands. A brown paper sack hung from each of their fists like bloated tails.

Shara’s eyes fixed on the wolf image the one man wore on his back; a predator, something wild, something dangerous. Visions of the three pigs, of Red Riding Hood, of Lon Chaney as the wolfman flashed through her mind. The man turned. Their eyes connected. Shara could not pull her gaze away. I’m like a deer in headlights. His wide, frenzied eyes flicked to the pen she held and back to her face. The urge to scream filled her brain as he turned and leveled his gun to point at her head.

Shara dove to the passenger seat. Like one sharp crack of damning thunder, the gun fired. A lead fist punched through the windshield. Fragments of glass rained onto her trembling body. Shouts. Somewhere in the distance several sirens wailed. Then only the noise of the getaway car roaring down the street.

Shara sat up and stared through the spider webbed glass. Something warm trickled down her face. She touched it and looked at her fingers. It was blood. There was a lot of it. Her face was hot, sticky, as if the blood was clogging her pores.

She sank to the floor of the car as the cassette player sang on. All the world went black and quiet.

HER MOTHER CALLED HER. Shara rose from the depths of sleep, wondering if it was time for school. A multitude of voices surrounded her. The late morning sun warmed her closed eyelids. Someone wiped water or tears from her face.

No, it’s blood. I’m covered in my own blood.

She opened her eyes and found that she was sitting up in the seat of the Buick. Her mother stood on the curb, leaning over her. Tears sprang to the woman’s eyes. Shara tried to smile and say she was okay, but could not push words from her parched mouth.

Police by the dozens were in and around the bank. Red and blue lights filled the air. Reporters and cameras converged on her and Shara shrank away from the attention. They all wanted to talk to her, they wanted a story from the girl who had been shot at and nearly killed by the masked robbers.

Shara buried her face in the thin fabric of her mother’s blouse. She breathed her mother’s fragrance of soft perfume and baking bread and remembered crying on the same shoulder the day a dog chased her home from grade school. Make them leave me alone, Shara pleaded. Please make them go away.

Her mother talked to someone but Shara didn’t listen to the words. A man’s voice made the people move away from the car. A new siren approached. Her mother said everything would be all right.

There’s an ambulance here. Shara realized the new siren had stopped. They want to take you to the hospital to remove the broken glass. Shara shook her head violently. Honey, you need to go. Her mother pushed her away.

No. Shara tightened her hold on Sue’s arms. They’ll take my clothes. I’ll be naked.

Shara, you have to. You’re still bleeding and you may be in shock. You need to see a doctor. You don’t want this to scar your face.

Shara stared at the blood-soaked shoulder of her mother’s blouse and slowly released her grip. You’re coming?

They won’t let me in the ambulance, Sue said. Your dad will be here soon, and then we’ll be at the hospital with you. Okay?

What will they do with me when I’m naked? Will I be unconscious?

Her mother’s hands held her firmly away. Shara slowly nodded her head.

Her mother and a tall black man from the ambulance helped her from the car. The black man talked constantly in a friendly tone. Shara couldn’t follow his conversation. They helped her into the back of the ambulance, laid her down, and pulled a sheet over most of her body. For one horrible moment, she believed the man would cover her face, too, and then she would be dead. He tucked the stiff green sheet under her chin and smiled at her.

Something tickled her palm. Shara sat up, ignoring the paramedic’s advice, and pushed the paper into her mother’s hand. Their tag number. Sue passed the number to a nearby policeman. The officer stepped to the ambulance and looked in at Shara.

This is the tag number of their car? he asked. She nodded. You’re going to be a real hero, young lady. The policeman smiled.

The ambulance door closed. The paramedic talked about the weather, the excitement over the robbery, and gave Shara an anesthesia that made the inside of the ambulance look fuzzy and black and quiet.

Please don’t take my clothes off me.

The last thing Shara saw was the picture of a snarling wolf on the thief’s jacket. He hadn’t been afraid. He hadn’t been hurt. He was roaring away in his rusty Chrysler.

Don

T his is the most uncomfortable chair I’ve ever sat in.

Don Wellington squirmed, shifted his weight, and occasionally glanced at the game show playing quietly on the television mounted to the wall. His daughter reclined on her pillows, a book held before her. Don found himself forcefully keeping his eyes off Shara.

When did she grow breasts?

He wondered why he hadn’t noticed them before, and where his little girl had gone.

Maybe they came with that driving permit.

They weren’t big breasts; not knockers. They were small, really. But still, when had they formed? She’s only fifteen, for God’s sake. How long ago was it that she had been a little girl who begged him to take her to Meadowlake Park to feed bread crumbs to the ducks?

We haven’t done that in six years, at least.

How many times have you read that book? he asked. Shara lowered the book and shifted to face him better.

Do those things have to press against the fabric like that?

I don’t know, she answered. Several. Sometimes I just reread certain stories.

Oh. Is the Big Bad Wolf still your favorite character? I remember you used to love it when he blew the pigs’ houses down. He lifted his eyes to Shara’s bandaged face and saw that she had noticed him looking at her developments.

Is something wrong? she asked.

Shouldn’t you wear a robe or something?

"Dad!" She dropped her book and snatched the blankets to cover her chest. Her face reddened and she wouldn’t look at him for a few minutes.

I’m sorry, honey, Don said. I just – I don’t know. You’ve grown up.

You never noticed before?

I guess not.

It happens. She held her book so he couldn’t see her face.

I know. I just miss my little girl. He glanced at the television, out the window, and back to the bed. Do you remember how we used to go downtown and park to watch the fountain with the colored lights? You called it the pretty water.

I remember.

We could do that again, Don offered.

I’m too old to go sit in front of a building and watch the water change color.

I guess. You were a good little girl. He looked at his watch and the clock on the wall without seeing the time. I think I’ll go see what the hold-up is. We should be getting out of here. The doctor said it’d be just a few minutes an hour ago.

When he returned a few minutes later Shara was reading again. Hey, honey, I found the doc. He’s got the paperwork ready. We can go as soon as you get dressed. Don plopped back into the chair and glanced up at the TV in time to see a red-haired, overweight woman begin jumping up and down as a sign flashed the figure of $100,000. Something fell into his lap.

I’m sorry. Shara laid her head on his shoulder and put her arms around his neck. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t grown up.

Oh, baby, don’t be sorry. Don hugged her. Her bare calves dangled from his lap. Those are the legs of a woman. Legs a boy would like. And her feet; gone were the short, thick feet with stubby little toes that he remembered toddling frantically after him whenever he had to leave for work. His hand brushed the open back of the hospital gown. Her flesh was warm and soft. Not the soft of a baby, but of a woman.

I feel like a pervert. I don’t even know my own daughter anymore.

He couldn’t decide which feeling was worse.

Get up, hon. He gently pushed at her waist. You’re too big for Daddy’s lap. He could see the hurt in her eyes when she raised her face from his shoulder. He wanted to say something, to apologize, but there were no words. You’re not my baby girl anymore. She got off his lap and started for the bathroom just as Sue entered the room carrying a fistful of candy bars. Don met her eyes, she looked to Shara, and back to him.

What’s wrong? she asked.

Nothing, Shara said as she closed the bathroom door. Don heard the lie in her voice.

I’ll go get the car, he said. We get to go home now. The door closed before he heard Sue’s reply.

Don waited in his Ford Bronco under the awning of the hospital’s main entrance. The electric doors of the building slid open and Shara emerged, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. A man with a camera sprang from a bench where he had been smoking a cigarette and rushed at Shara. Damn vultures! Don jumped out of the Bronco and got to his daughter before the reporter could.

No story, he said firmly as the twenty-something guy began firing questions. Go away. She doesn’t want to talk.

If I could just ask a few questions, the man said. All I –

Don stepped between the reporter and his daughter. Shara was sidling away from the man as if he held a poisonous snake rather than a camera. Her head was lowered, her hair hanging forward so that nothing showed but a flash of bandage. Don wondered how she could see where she was going.

I said no. She doesn’t want to talk about it. Not to you, and not to any other reporter, or anyone else, for that matter. Now, I think you should leave her alone.

Don took Shara by the arm, hustled her past the man and into the back seat of the Bronco. The reporter stayed right with them, still asking questions as fast as he could form the words. Don closed the Ford’s door and rounded on him.

Please, if I could just –

I said no, and buddy, if you don’t get away from this vehicle right now I’ll have a restraining order put on whatever’s left of you. He stepped a little closer to the man.

Hey, okay. The reporter stumbled back a few paces. All right, I get it. He took one last look at the dim image of the girl behind the darkened glass before hurrying away.

Don saw Shara trying to hide a smile. It was incredibly unlikely he would have laid a hand on the reporter, let alone really hurt him, and Shara knew it. The smile was gone when he got behind the wheel of the Bronco and slammed the door.

I swear, some people just don’t know when to quit, Don said. Hey, you want to go to Western Sizzlin’ for supper tonight?

I guess, Shara answered.

We’ll eat every bit of steak in the place.

Okay.

You gonna be alright, babe?

I’ll be fine, Shara answered. She seemed to force herself to meet his eyes. She gave a very brief smile that didn’t touch her eyes. I’m sorry I couldn’t go in and help Mom. There was the other man, the one in the car. I was scared of him.

Well, it’s over now and Sue’s okay. You did what you could.

Yeah.

After a few awkward moments of silence, Sue appeared in the doorway of the hospital. Her shoes sounded like pick axes on the brick driveway. She got in the Bronco and Don started the engine.

Dad, could we go home first? Shara asked.

Well, I guess so, Don answered. But you’re not getting any money. I’m paying.

I know that, Shara said. I’m not using my car money to feed you. I need to get something else.

Homeward bound. Don turned the Bronco into the street.

Will I have to go to court because of this? Shara asked.

It’s not likely, Don answered. That old car was spotted at Wal-Mart about forty five minutes after the robbery. The bank robbers had to stop to buy oil. I talked to a cop while you were in the emergency room and he said the three guys had already confessed. They’re hoping that’ll get ‘em a lighter sentence.

I wish they’d give me the bastard that took a shot at my baby girl!

Shit! Don bit his lip and ignored the harsh look of his wife. Two vans were parked at the curb of their house, both with logos of Oklahoma City TV news stations. Don hit the button for the automatic garage door opener and raced the Bronco under the door as soon as it was high enough, hitting the button to bring the door back down as he did. Take that, he said to the reporters and cameramen left standing in the driveway.

I never! Sue exclaimed.

Will you be very long? Don turned in his seat to face Shara.

Only a minute. Shara slipped out of the SUV and through the door into the house.

Her jeans are too tight. Doesn’t she have any that fit her better? Don asked.

Oh, you old fuddy-duddy, Sue said. That’s how they wear them now. Skin tight. The boys like it.

I don’t.

Shara returned a few minutes later wearing a green hat with a short, upturned brim and a black ribbon. Don stared at the hat for a moment, wondering if boys liked women with headgear as well as jeans that were too tight. Shara trying to attract boys... He shook his head and punched the button to raise the garage door.

They’re really going to make me mad, Don commented once he had the Bronco safely in the street and away from the disappointed reporters.

Maybe I should just go ahead and talk to them, Shara said. Maybe then they’d leave us alone.

Only if that’s what you want to do, baby, Don answered.

I don’t.

Then you won’t.

Shara, we can go to a salon tomorrow and have your hair done, Sue said. I’m sure there’s something they can do to cover the bad places. And you’ll get the day out of school.

Thanks, Shara answered.

And I’ll pay for it, Don added. We wouldn’t want you using that car money.

Don could only feel sympathy for his daughter as they tried to eat. It seemed everyone in the restaurant knew about Shara’s role in the bank robbery. People pointed her out to their friends and family.

We should have just stopped at McDonald’s and gone home to eat, Don said as Shara ducked her head closer to her plate.

At home, Don got them into the garage without stopping for the reporters. He went out later and informed them they should leave. After mentioning the police several times, the people got into their vans and drove away.

Before retiring for bed, Don knocked softly on Shara’s door. A strip of light still showed beneath the door, although she had gone to bed early. There was no answer. He gently turned the knob and peeked into the room.

She was asleep, her book of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales open on her chest. Don stole into the room and lifted the book, glanced for a moment at the open place and saw that she had been reading about the little mermaid who traded pain for love. I remember reading you that one. He put the book on the nightstand.

For a long time he stood looking down at his daughter’s peaceful face, wondering where the little girl had gone.

Shara

Shara entered her bedroom and breathed deeply of artificial wild flower air freshener, makeup, and Avon’s Candid perfume. Her shelves of dolls and stuffed animals all seemed to smile at her.

Dorothy was right. There’s no place like home.

She looked into a mirror and raised a hand to her hair. Ruined. Her face was a patchwork of tiny bandages; the doctor had promised none of the cuts would leave scars. But her hair... The emergency room attendants had shaved her to the scalp in several places to remove the bits of broken glass.

I can’t go to school looking like this. The bandages on her face didn’t bother her so much; a week and they would be gone. But her hair? It would take months for it to look normal again. Unless Mom’s beautician can work miracles.

Everyone would laugh at her. There would be jokes about her stupid-looking hair. Angry tears filled her eyes and she quickly rubbed them away with the heel of her hand. Those people aren’t worth crying over!

She started to turn away, then hesitated. She looked closer at the image in the mirror. Could it be true her father had never noticed her breasts until yesterday? They weren’t much, but could he really not have noticed at all?

Shara couldn’t stop thinking of the way he pushed her off his lap in the hospital, as if she hurt him. Or he was ashamed of her. It’s not my fault I’m not a little girl anymore. I never wanted to grow up.

An hour later, as Shara and her mother prepared to leave for the beauty salon, a van pulled into their driveway. A woman carrying a vase of tall, pink roses got out of the vehicle and started toward the front door. Shara flipped the curtain shut and backed away from the window.

For Shara Wellington, the perky young red-head announced when Sue opened the door.

Ohhh, Shara, Sue sang, This card’s addressed in a boy’s handwriting, or I’m a toad.

Shara took the flowers in trembling hands. She sniffed the delicate blossoms quickly, and tore open the card. She smiled at the familiar penmanship and turned so her mother couldn’t read the note over her shoulder.

Shara, I’m sorry I couldn’t get these to you in the  hospital. See you soon. –Mark.

Well, come on, who are they from? Sue asked.

Just a boy at school, Shara answered. I’ll go put them in my room. She ran up the stairs and put the roses on her dresser where the morning sun would shine on them. She drew in a deep breath of the sweet fragrance, real flowers, then hurried back to her mother.

Your face is flushed as pink as those rose petals, Sue said as they drove downtown. Is this boy anyone special?

No, Shara answered, then more slowly, I don’t know. He always talks to me at school. He opens the car door for me in driver’s ed class. She smiled and gazed out the passenger window. She hadn’t asked to drive this morning; her thoughts had been elsewhere.

You know, you can invite him over anytime you want. Does he drive yet?

No, his birthday is a month before mine.

If you want to invite him to a movie or something, I’d drive you to the mall.

Girls aren’t supposed to ask boys out.

Oh Shara, this is the Eighties, Sue laughed. A woman can ask a man out. Sometimes you have to just to get the ball rolling. They drove in silence for a while. Has he asked you out?

Well... Shara fiddled with her hands in her lap. I guess so.

Couldn’t you tell if he was or wasn’t?

He did, but I told him I didn’t think I could, Shara said in a rush.

Why did you tell him that? You didn’t think we’d let you?

I don’t know. I don’t even know if I want to go out with him. What if he turned out to be one of those boys that just wants to... to get handsy? And besides, Dad said I couldn’t date until I’m sixteen. At least.

Does this boy seem the type that would ‘get handsy’?

No.

Do you like him?

I don’t know. I guess. He is kind of cute, Shara admitted.

Then go out with him, Sue said. I’ll take care of your father. You gotta lighten up, kiddo, have some fun. Take it from an old lady, you’re only young once. You’ve got to get the best man you can because if you wait too long, all the good ones will be gone.

It’s not like he’s asking to marry me, Shara said.

Maybe not yet, but play your cards right, and he will eventually. What does he want to do with his life?

I don’t know, Mother.

You need to find out. You don’t want to help put him through college without having a goal in mind for his graduation.

"His graduation? I’m just worried about mine."

Oh yeah, the veterinarian thing. Well, marry a rich man, or a man who will get rich, and you won’t have to worry about that.

"Mom, I want to be a veterinarian."

Well, we’ll see how you feel when the time comes.

Shara groaned and gritted her teeth to keep from saying more. They pulled into the parking lot of the salon and her mother let the argument drop. Shara spent an hour with the stylist, studying fashion catalogues, listening to the woman describe how different cuts could cover the bald patches but not look too outrageous. Finally Shara decided on a cut, and the middle-aged woman went to work on her head.

You look good, Shara’s mother said as they left the salon.

Shara gently touched her hair. The layered cut and body wave had covered the shaved places and given her hair a fuller, more bouncy look.

Sue bought lunch at McDonald’s. Shara believed the other customers weren’t noticing her as much as they had at the Western Sizzlin’ the night before.

What did you say that boy’s name was? Sue asked casually as she put a french fry into her mouth.

I didn’t.

I know, Sue answered. But you will now. I won’t have my daughter dating a boy whose name I don’t even know. Come on, out with it.

Mark, Shara answered. Mark Dixon.

What does my maybe-future-son-in-law look like?

Shara ignored the implications of the remark and took a photograph from her wallet. She pushed the picture across the table. It’s from last year. He put it in my locker, with a note.

In your locker with a note. Sue shook her head. He sounds as shy as you. But he’s a nice-looking boy. She handed the picture back.

Before she put it away, Shara glanced at the smiling face with its eyes like a summer sky and sun-bleached hair. He is cute.

You’ll have to give him one of those pictures we had made of you at Christmas. Sue said around the straw of her Diet Coke.

I already did. Shara couldn’t admit she hadn’t even had the nerve to approach his locker, but had mailed the picture. Without a note.

How did you two get together?

We haven’t ‘gotten together’, Shara said.

You know what I mean.

He just started picking on me. Not mean stuff, really. He’d close my locker, or grab my books. He just kept doing that, and then he started opening doors and bugging me to go out with him.

Ah, the persistent kind. Sue nodded.

I guess.

Are you going to call him tonight and thank him for the roses?

You’re nosy today, Mother.

Well, you should call and thank him.

I guess so. I’ll call him from work.

Work? You plan to go to work tonight?

Of course, Shara replied. I need the money if I’m going to have enough for a down payment by my birthday.

The car again. Sue shook her head. If his birthday is before yours, you can just have him drive you. You won’t even need a license.

I’m getting my license, Shara said. I’m not depending on any boy to drive me around when I can do it myself. You don’t wait for Dad to take you everywhere.

But I’m already married. I have to drive to get groceries and run errands. Where will you drive? To school and work. Besides, you know we won’t let you go out of town alone, and you do have a curfew.

Even if I can only drive to the quick shop, I want my own car. Shara wound the strap of her purse in her hand as her frustration mounted. I’m not Gidget. You just said this is the Eighties and a woman can do what she wants. Remember?

Well, this is different. You have to make sure a man is willing to do these things for you. Even if you’d rather do them yourself.

I’m not talking about this anymore. Dad won’t let me date, and you don’t want me to drive. It’s not fair.

Watch yourself, Shara Elaine. Sue’s eyes glinted as she looked around the restaurant. Don’t sass me, young lady. I can still ground you. You not only won’t date, you won’t leave your room for a week.

One minute you’re telling me to get married and then you’re threatening to ground me. Why can’t you –

"That’s enough!"

More words filled Shara’s mouth. She fought to hold them back. Her mother’s face showed she meant what she said about the grounding. It’s not fair! Why can’t you let me decide something? Anything! Shara tore a bite from her hamburger and refused to look back at her mother, even when Sue tried to change the topic of conversation.

If you think you have to go to work tonight, then go. Your dad will have to take you. I have my aerobics class.

They left the restaurant. Shara drove. Neither of them said much.

Shara spent most of the afternoon in her room, alternately reading, sniffing her roses, and wishing she could live alone.

There’s got to be someplace better than home. Dad doesn’t love me anymore just because I grew up and Mom won’t let me decide anything for myself. There’s got to be something better.

Shara

H i Shara.

Hi, Shara answered. She glanced quickly around the insurance office, noting the scraps of paper and tracks wet shoes had made on the tile floor.

Marny Crow twitched her nose to adjust her thick glasses and smiled. Her teeth were stained pink. Shara knew she would find at least two empty Red Hots boxes in the woman’s trashcan. How you doing today?

Okay, I guess.  You’re working late, Shara ventured. A quick look toward the back of the building told her that everyone else had already left for the night.

Yeah, I guess I am, Marny said. Your hair looks nice. Did you do that today?

Yes, Shara answered. "I had to have