Bookshelf Battle

A pencil, a few sheets of paper and a piece of licorice sat on the Andersons’ counter. Miles counted out his coins.

“Is this enough?” he asked.

Mrs. Anderson pushed three pennies back. Miles grabbed his purchases.

“Thanks,” the boy said.

“I think it is so wonderful that negroes are allowed to use money now,” Mrs. Anderson said as she turned to her husband. “Don’t you, dear?”

Mr. Anderson was much too engrossed with his newspaper to pay attention to his wife’s prattling. “Huh?”

“Negroes!” Mrs. Anderson said loudly to compensate for her husband’s hearing loss.

“What about ‘em?” the shopkeeper asked.

“I said I think it is wonderful they’re allowed to use money now!”

“Nah,” Mr. Anderson said. “If they have money they probably stole it.”

Embarrassed, Mrs. Anderson flicked the back of Mr. Anderson’s paper with her finger.

“What?” Mr. Anderson asked. The old coot lowered his paper and caught a glimpse of Miles. “Oh.”

Per his father’s advice, Miles was making an effort to understand that comments like that were always going to be a part of his life, and if he fought every rude person, he’d be fighting forever.

Two years earlier, Miles became aware of his alternative form when, to his great surprise, a similar comment caused him to wolf out in public. Miles and his father had been moving about the country ever since, picking up and leaving one step ahead of a torch and pitchfork brigade whenever the lad lost control.

Miles was getting older now and was determined to keep his cool. If he was ever going to stay in one place for any considerable length of time, he needed to learn to hold back the beast within.

“I don’t mean you,” Mr. Anderson said. “You look like a good one. The kind you’d trust to come into your house and clean up without stealing anything.”

Oh, how Miles felt the beast surge. He gnashed his teeth and choked his feelings back.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Come again,” Mrs. Anderson said.

Miles put his hand on the door knob.

“What a nice young man,” Mrs. Anderson said.

“For Christ’s sake, Muriel!” Mr. Anderson said. “Stop being so nice to them. They’re like strays. Pay them attention and they come back in droves.”

Miles sighed. He opened the door and stepped into the road. He bit off a piece of licorice and chewed.

Earlier that afternoon, he changed his clothes and took a bathe in a creek. The stink was gone. Avoiding Becker and Hewitt had bought him some time, but he knew he’d have to face them sooner or later, since he was determined to disobey his father and stay in town.

Miles blamed himself for his father’s predicament. Had he not wolfed out in Kansas, he and Joe would have never moved on to Missouri. Inside, the boy was scared and convinced Becker and Hewitt would shred him to bits in an instant.

But he wasn’t budging. He knew he’d never forgive himself if he left his father behind.