Isaac rubs his hands up and down the sides of my arms. “What am I going to do with you?” he says. “Might have to conjure up a fitting punishment for that smart mouth of yours.”

I push myself up on my toes to kiss him. I meant for it to be a simple loving peck on the lips, but before I move away, he pulls me closer to kiss me more deeply. “But I happen to love that smart mouth,” he says now inches from my lips.

“Oh come on,” Nathan says. “Don’t make me get cliché and tell you two to get a room.” He’s holding Hannah’s hand, who seems to blush when her eyes meet mine. Someone as quiet and petite as Hannah seems unlikely in our oddly arranged group. They’ve been going out for about a month. And she’s tiny. She can’t weigh more than one hundred-two pounds. She’s pretty, in that cute Hailee Steinfeld sort of way.

We break off from the guys and cut through a small park from Market Street and head to the corner of Middle and Exchange Street to find a mandatory Starbucks. I’m trying to keep a mental map of these places in my head so we don’t get lost. It doesn’t matter that most of us have cell phones with built-in GPS systems; I like to take extra precautions and don’t want to be one of those people who depend solely on technology for everything. As Aunt Bev might say: “It’s casual-thinking like that, that ends up lost in the middle of nowhere with a dead cell phone and the only way back is to map your way out by the stars.”

Some kind of blues music carries through the streets like only live music can, the rawness of the guitar and accuracy of instruments that recorded music tends to modify and bury.

We hit several smaller stores tucked into side streets and alleys before finding a restaurant we all agree on and I finally get a chance to rest my feet. The picnic tables outside by the water are full, so we sit inside by a window to eat our food, watching tourists walk by on the side deck. Daisy and Hannah sit across from Zia and me and our shopping bags sit next to us. I only spent a total of $32 on a turquoise beaded necklace for Aunt Bev and a couple of knick-knack’s that’ll probably sit on a shelf and collect dust.

“I started to think you didn’t eat at all,” Zia says to Hannah who smiles almost childlike with her shoulders pushed up near her cheeks. She eats like a bird, pecking at the organic greens and mushrooms her salad had been made with. She does look like she could use a nice fat steak with a buttery baked potato on the side.

I really don’t know much about Hannah except that she is a werewolf. Newly Turned. Not even a year ago. I wonder how in the world someone as small as she is could’ve lived through the transformation. How she can continue to live through it. I guess it’s obvious that how small one’s body is has nothing to do with whether a female can survive it, or not. And I try not to think about the process much. Nothing about it exactly deserves my consideration. It would be kind of like sitting around daydreaming about horrific scenes from Dog Soldiers, or those two crazy chicks in those Ginger Snaps movies.

Not exactly my kind of daydreaming.

Hannah places her fork in her salad and daintily wipes one corner of her mouth. “I’ve never really had much of an appetite,” she says in a voice almost too soft to hear.

Daisy smiles over at her and says, “I think that’s one reason Nathan likes you, doll.”

“Because she doesn’t like food?” Zia says incredulously, stuffing a torn-off piece of flatbread in her mouth.

“No, honey,” Daisy says, “Nathan just has a thing for petite girls, and vegetarians tend to be smaller than meat-eaters, I guess.”

Personally, I’m not sure what it is about Hannah that Nathan really likes. Yeah, she’s really pretty, but he usually goes for fun, outgoing girls with loveable personalities. Hannah isn’t very fun, definitely far from being outgoing. And honestly, I think Daisy is just trying to be nice by helping Hannah to fit in with us. Because Daisy knows even better than I do that Hannah isn’t Nathan’s usual type.

That whole talk of being petite and of vegetarianism, it’s just Daisy’s way of including Hannah, as weird as the approach may be.

“You’re a vegetarian?” I say, surprised, yet at the same time, not so much.

“Yeah,” Hannah says coyly, “I’ve never eaten meat in my life. I was raised vegetarian.”

I feel my eyes get a little wider. Zia’s are as round as softballs and a piece of flatbread hangs precariously between her lips. “You’ve never had meat? Ever?”

I think Zia’s eyeballs are about to fall out.

Being a vegetarian really isn’t a big deal to me at all. Both of my best friends back in Georgia were vegetarians. What’s so hard to swallow about this information is the fact that Hannah’s a werewolf and the picture I’m trying to visualize isn’t coming together like I want it to. I keep seeing her all wolfed-out, chomping down on some poor human’s collarbone and stopping to throw up instead of finishing the job.

I lean over the seat so the couple sitting nearby doesn’t hear and I say to Zia, “But she’s…a werewolf.” The word ‘werewolf’ I forced through my front teeth.

Zia finally swallows that piece of flatbread hanging from her lips and throws her head back and laughs.

“Adria!” she says, “werewolves don’t actually eat people!” She pauses, looking upward and corrects herself, “Well, not intentionally, anyway.”

She had said it all so loud that the nearby couple looks over at us warily.

“Well I know that, Zia!” I say, still pushing the words harshly through my teeth. “Just that being one means you’re likely going to at least taste human flesh at some point—know what I mean?”

“I guess that’s true,” Zia admits, going back to her food. “She’s bound to wake up one morning with bits in her teeth.”

I shudder visibly and my face has scrunched up so much I know I look like one of those hideous troll dolls. “God, Zia! That’s gross. Seriously.”

Hannah looks pale now and the coy smile has fled from her face.

“Oh, doll,” Daisy says, reaching over and laying her hand on Hannah’s, “they didn’t mean to make you sick.” Daisy looks across at me and Zia with a cautionary expression. “Maybe we should talk about something else. Maybe a spinach garden, or those cute little shoestring carrots.”

I notice Zia roll her eyes, laughing quietly.

Something tells me that Hannah is going to have to get over that whole vegetarian thing now that she’s a werewolf. I can tell, just by looking at the way her scared, submissive eyes dance around on the table, that she’s just trying to hold on to anything she can of her humanity. Being a vegetarian all her human life and then suddenly she’s made into this flesh-biting beast, it must be traumatic for her. As if being a werewolf alone isn’t traumatic enough.

I’ve said over and over again that when it comes to this stuff, I’m no expert. But it doesn’t take an expert to see that someone like her won’t make it in this dark world.

I feel sorry for her.

“I’m starting to think I should’ve gotten the blue top instead of the red one,” Daisy says reaching inside one of her shopping bags. She pulls out the sheer red top she bought at one of the little shops earlier and holds it up for us to examine. “I wear too much red. I should try to diversify; what do you think?”

I swallow the last bite of my chicken salad and look at the top for a moment. “But you look good in red,” I say. “Goes perfect with your hair color.”

“Yeah, I didn’t like the blue one anyway, Daisy,” Zia adds.

“The red one is gorgeous,” Hannah says and I’m a little surprised that she offered her opinion at all. But Daisy has that effect on people; she can make anyone feel comfortable.

“Adria! Daisy!” I hear a familiar voice say from behind.

Before I even turn around, I know that it’s Cecilia from the skate park. And judging by the look on Daisy’s face, she expected to see her about as much as I did.

“Hi Cecilia,” Daisy says, smiling.

Cecilia literally reaches across the table to give Daisy a hug. As Daisy sits back down, I stand up and do the same, stretching over Zia sitting on the outside, to hug Cecilia. Zia just shrinks back into the booth, probably hoping that she isn’t next in line.

“This is my dad—Dad, these are my friends from Hallowell.”

Her dad, standing tall behind her with a pair of glasses pushed up to the top of his nose, smiles at all of us.

Daisy reaches out a hand for her dad to shake. “A pleasure,” she says.

“Nice to meet you girls,” her dad says with a customary smile and nod.

“Where are you guys staying?” Cecilia says.

“Near Scarborough,” Daisy says, but knows not to offer up any more detail than that.

“Oh, I’m over in Westbrook,” Cecilia says sort of disappointedly. I get the feeling that Westbrook must be in the opposite direction, or else her face might’ve lit up and her plan-making gears would’ve started moving around in squeaky little circles.

Another moment of awkward silence. I notice Cecilia’s dad touch her elbow to sort of urge her along, but all the while smiling back at us.

“Well, I gotta go,” Cecilia finally says. “It was good to see you. I’ll be back in Hallowell next week—oh, hey Adria, tell your boyfriend not to forget what I said!” She smiles a big, toothy smile.

“Uhhh, sure,” I say, feeling a little embarrassed that her dad is standing there, though really he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, I’m sure. “I’ll let him know—good to see you too.”

We say our quick goodbyes, feeling like we dodged a bullet.

“Isn’t that the obnoxious girl from the skate park?” Zia says.

She and Daisy go into a conversation about Cecilia, but my mind veers off.

A group of people walk past the window every few seconds and the crowds are beginning to thicken as the late afternoon wears on. I also notice that the later it gets, the more people our age start to come out of hiding. I could’ve sworn I saw that obnoxious guy screaming from the SUV on our way here, but I could never really know for sure. A group of girls pass the deck hand in hand with their boyfriends. They stop just feet from the window and I can barely hear their voices through the glass, two of the girls making food recommendations. One couple points toward the street, while another seems set on where we’re eating.

Something catches my eye. Just as the guy who had been pointing lowers his hand, I notice a small, eerily familiar circular-shaped tattoo just between his thumb and index finger.

He looks right at me and my whole body locks up in the booth. I don’t blink for the few seconds it takes him to look away and my gaze is starkly fixated on the window. The group slips down the walkway and out of sight, but I have become heedlessly determined to follow him and so I lean up and press my forehead against the glass. Absently, I hear my purse fall out of the seat and onto the floor.