Of Misfits and Wolves (Pansexual Werewolf Story)

The Irony of the Full Moon

Author's Note:

Hi! I explained why I took forever to update in the last chapter (if you can call it that), again: sorry!

Anyway: enjoy!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"So how was school?" my mother asks as she scoops peas onto my plate.

I recount the events of the day, leaving out the werewolf things and the conversation with Sky in art.

"That's wonderful, sweetie, I'm glad you made some friends. And what about you Jason?" mom continues as she passes my plate back to me.

"It was alright, I have some homework though," Jay tells us.

"Good, good," mom mutters, "more peas?" she asks, gesturing at Jay's plate.

"No thanks," he repies, "where's dad?"

"He has to work late tonight, he might not get home until 8 o'clock," mom informs us, frowning slightly.

Shit, that means they'll be up late. How in ten Hells am I going to sneak out if that happens?

My mother scoops some peas onto her own plate and we all begin to eat.

As per usual, my mashed potatoes remain untouched.

"What's wrong, sweetie? Don't you like potato?" mom asks me.

"I like potato, just not mashed potato," I tell her.

"What's wrong with mashed potatoes? Did mashed potatoes hurt you as a small child?" Jay interjects.

"In a matter of speaking: yes, mashed potatoes did infact hurt me as a small child,"

"Oh, do tell," Jay says.

"Well, it all started several autumns ago-"

"Autumns?!" Jay exclaims.

"Yes, Autumns, now, where was I? Oh yes, on a cold winer evening at Domus and Dinner Ladies decided to try something new on the menu, no prizes for guessing what that something was. And so, it was on that night that the Ladies served us what to the unassuming was mashed potatoes. However: this seemingly innocent food was decieving, as as the first few children began to eat, a terrible truth was discovered. These so-called mashed potatoes were, in fact, not mashed potatoes at all, but instead ectoplasmic goo that had been found in a swamp and then oh-so-unlovingly canned by a factory worker, sent to Domus Infernus by a truck, and then scooped out of said can by Dinner Ladies that had been up-to-date with nutrition 200 years ago. And that, dear family, is why I do not trust mashed potatoes of any variety," I explain in my best Story Time voice.

My mother laughs openly at the obsurdity of my story.

Jay, on the other hand, keeps his face completely deadpan, saying: "Ah, such a travesty,"

I try to keep a straight face as I meet his eye, I can see him struggling to not smile as we look at each other. This shared internal struggle lasts for a mere three seconds before we both crack at the same time and end up laughing as well.

"Well, I can assure you that these mashed potatoes are actuall mashed potatoes and not ectoplasmic goo," my mom says in between laughs.

There is a momentary hush as I grab my fork and lift a small chunk of mashed potatoes to my mouth. Like a child trying something new, I dart my tongue out, barely touching the white mush. I hesitantly open my mouth and dump the contents of my fork inside. I chew and swallow.