GO PANDA

chapter one | continued

Still, I recognized the look in Fred’s face.  I saw myself. 

I was six when I walked into my first classroom.  Paul and Rachel enrolled me at Burgundy Hills Elementary, the only school in the county that, after an eternity of screening, was willing to take me.  I recall initially sharing Rachel’s excitement when she showed Paul and me the welcome letter from the principal.  But, in the days that followed, I became less and less excited.  It was an odd sight, seeing so many kids all at once for the first time as Rachel and I shopped for school supplies.  We pushed our cart through an aisle when a parent made eye contact with me, and suddenly dropped her supplies to pull her daughter back “a safer distance” from me. Most children at that age believe everything their parents tell them.  Everything.  As encouraging and supportive as Paul and Rachel have repeatedly proven themselves to be, even their persistent “sit-down-let’s-talk” conversations about how I’m special and how I’m a good person couldn’t erase that moment in the store.  For the first time, I felt how thin my gullibility, my innocence, was—no denser than wallpaper, layered across this hard wall I raised from feeling confused and rejected. 

The morning on the first school day of my life, I reluctantly walked up the freshly wet steps of Burgundy Hills, my hand tightly squeezing Rachel’s.  “If you need us, just go to Principal Cartwright and ask him to call us,” she instructed.  My focus was fixed on the fallen leaves of orange and yellow, wondering how this school was called Burgundy Hills. 

Paul couldn’t join us.  He was at home, cleaning up the coffee table I smashed when I threw my last, futile, tantrum before conceding to get in the car.

After what seemed a long distance, Rachel let go of my hand and nudged me to go on in when she opened the door to the classroom to let me in.  There I stood, just one step in, my claws clutching onto a half-torn paper lunch-sack.  My white fur, my spotted ears, and the black patches surrounding my eyes weren’t distracting enough for one of my new classmates, a cheerful Jocelyn Dunn, who yelled, “You have the same glasses I do!” 

Remember that wall I built?  I felt it crack when she said that.

Twelve years later, I sensed I was looking at another wall.  This time, it had a different exterior.  All my life, I compared my appearance with normal humans, sometimes in longing, other times in gratitude. I found myself once again automatically registering every detail I could mine from the new kid standing in front of me.  He was covered in grey and white fur.  Even our ears, though human in assembly, were lined with excess fur, except his were pointed at the top.  My nose looked human; the bridge of his ended with a strange point.  His sideburns rounded his sharply raised cheekbones, extending to the bottom of his jaw.  He was definitely taller than me, maybe six-four, as he stood with military posture and one “hand” in his jeans pocket.  The other exposed elongated fingers with claws at the tips, longer than mine.  Furry, yet fashionable, one could say.  Definitely half-human, his clothes could fit any person.  He sported a yellow tee and had a leather messenger bag slung across his torso.  His shoes were some beat-up Superstars.  He doesn’t dress like a Montgomery, I thought.  Through all this, my longest glimpse was spent on his commanding yellow eyes.

“That’s a wolf,” I said.  Simon was so jumpy he was no longer interested in what I had to say at that point, but I had to say it out loud for myself.  I had to convince myself this was really happening amidst all the questions and thoughts turning in my mind.  Who is this guy?  How is this possible?  What’s his deal moving here?  Paul and Rachel better have answers.

Fred, without a word, took his seat by the window two rows directly parallel to mine.  He shuffled through his leather messenger bag, taking out a pen and a yellow notepad.  He grabbed our class textbook from under his seat, and opened it, trying to locate the current chapter.  He didn’t raise his head until he finished scribbling on the notepad, tearing the sheet off and folding it, before returning it neatly inside his messenger bag.  He converted his gaze out the window.  The classroom went wild, so to speak.   Mr. Sellers endured in trying to keep the noise down, but to no avail, as my classmates couldn’t care any less about the political disputes surrounding manifest destiny.  They wanted to see a different kind of fight.

Heads kept shifting from me to Fred and back, like a tennis match, accompanied by a commotion of juvenile remarks.

“Werewolves ARE real!”

“Fred’s gonna fight Fran to usurp his territory!”

“Where the heck are these creatures coming from?”

“Panda versus Wolf!”

“Fran’s too chubby.  My money’s on Fred.”

I looked down on my muffin top belly and vowed to myself I’d eat healthier.  I checked on Mr. Sellers, who was busy gathering himself by employing breathing exercises he learned during his summer yoga program.  I looked back down and took out my phone, concealing it under my muffin top.  I had to text Jocelyn.

FM:  OI!!!!!! THERE’S A NEW KID IN CLASS. HE’S A WOLF!!!!!

JD: SHUTTHEFRONTDOOR. SEND ME A PHOTO!

FM: I CAN’T! HE KEEPS STARING AT ME!

JD: wolves eat pandas, u kno?

FM: GAH! YOU’RE USELESS!

JD: hahaha but u still love me right?

I pictured Jocelyn, four classrooms down the hall, giggling it up. 

“Pay attention!  Phones away!” Mr. Sellers shouted.  Thankfully, his reformed voice wasn’t directed at me.  I raised my head and saw everyone snapping their last photos and making their final contributions to what would now be the biggest story in Byrne since my enrollment.  This guy’s gonna steal my thunder, I thought.  That is, whatever thunder I had left.  I’ll admit the magnitude of my reputation diminished over the years, along with the rumors that circulated around me.  At the end of the dark tunnel, the light of normalcy shone more and more brightly.  Until today.  I put my phone away, and resented Mr. Sellers for making me do so at the worst possible time. 

Monica Penfold, who sat in front of Fred, was the first in the class to talk to him.  This came as a surprise to many of us, given her timid temperament.  But we also knew she was a curious girl with curious hobbies. 

“Hi Fred, I’m Monica.”  She extended her hand.  He returned her handshake, tactfully avoiding scratching her with his claws.  He nodded without returning the introduction. 

“Where are you from?” she asked. 

Fred slowly leaned in toward Monica, who started to tremble.  He grinned, exposing his sharp canines, and whispered, “I think you should turn around.” 

Her eyelids dropped a little, and as if under a trance, she smiled and turned back to pay attention to the lesson.  I wasn’t sure how, but Fred felt my super-panda eavesdropping skills, and with a twitch of my ears, I sensed his eyes turn in my direction.  I took a deep breath.  His next words were articulated in a volume so low; my ears had never before concentrated so intensely. 

“I know you can hear me, Fran.  I also know you have questions.  About me.  About us."

He interrupted before I could respond. "We have to meet tonight.  I'll give you further instructions. In the meantime, keep your distance from me..."

His last words hit me hard.  "We are in danger."