Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
So after I was politely asked to stay closer to the den until Alec got the pipes fixed, Nia volunteered to take me “marshalling.” This entailed hunting down folks and interrogating them about things they haven’t done yet. The high-ranking folks from Moon Lake didn’t like being called on the carpet, but at least they stayed put and answered her questions, albeit grudgingly. The ones called scavengers back at the Academy scattered as soon as they saw her coming.
After I admitted marshalling wasn’t for me, I watched the pups in the nap den with Rosie’s sister Drona and went on patrol with Lowry, the female who had to move her stuff when I moved into the dorm. Alec nearly blew a gasket when I came back that day, and Cadoc asked me to find something at the den “for the good of the pack’s infrastructure.”
I’ve enjoyed it all, but my best days so far have been with Rae, an older female who lives with Rosie’s Uncle Dewey even though they aren’t mated, and he doesn’t spend much time in his human skin. She says she likes a warm ball of fur to curl up with on a cold night.
Anyway, Rae takes care of the elders, serving meals and running errands, combing burrs out of their wolves’ fur, and chatting with the ones who seem lonely, or just reading to them, or helping them to the television area so they can be with the pack and enjoy the laughter and the raucousness.
Alec swallows a mouthful of eggs and asks, “What are you doing with Rae?”
“The usual. Oh, and we’re getting ready for a game we’re playing after lunch. It’s called bingo.”
“Haven’t heard of it.” He pokes at my leftover sweet potatoes with his fork and raises an eyebrow. I give him a nod, and he sets to scraping my leftovers onto his plate. He’s not the best judge of how much I eat. I was insulted at first—embarrassed that he thought I ate so much—but I’ve been starting to suspect that he loads my plate so he can get seconds without getting back up.
“What kind of game?” he asks.
“A human one. There’s a wire cage and everyone gets a card and someone calls letters and numbers.”
“Who goes in the cage?”
“No one. It’s like a tumbler with a crank. It’s for the balls.”
His eyes light up a little at the word balls. “Is it a throwing game or a hitting game?”
“It’s a sitting and listening game. For the elders.”
His shoulders sink. “You’re staying in the den all day, though?”
I nod. “We’ve got everything we need except daubers. Rae says we’ll just have to use crayons.” Out of politeness, I ask, “What are you doing today?”
“Work.” He begins to stack our dishes. I could ask follow-up questions, but I won’t get much more out of him.
I used to think I knew him from watching him all those years, and we had nothing in common, but now that I’m really getting to know him, I realize how similar we are in some ways. Like me, his default mode is bracing for a hit, and he wakes up expecting a drubbing.
He’s always grim in the morning, but as the day goes on, each time I see him, his jaw is a little less tight and his eyes are a smidge less creased at the corners, as if every time he comes around, and no disaster has struck, he allows himself to feel a bit less wary. Then, the next morning, he’s wound up tight as a drum again.
That’s how I feel every day that passes here without getting called fat or having to ignore some snide remark. Relieved, but also, ironically, more and more tightly strung. The blow, when it comes, is gonna hurt. The Old Den folks really don’t seem to care about my size, but I haven’t made anyone angry yet, either. That’s when folks always let you know what they really think—when you step on their toes.
Alec and I both stand, and I scan the hall for Rae. She’s already over where the elders gather. I make to join her, but before I go, Alec grabs my arm. His gaze darts from my eyes to my mouth to the place where his fingers circle my wrist, like he’s waiting for me to do something. Or he wishes I would. Or maybe he wants to say something. He’s done this the past few mornings. I don’t know what he wants, so I kind of smile.
Just like those days, eventually, he takes a breath of bleak determination and lets go, clenching his fists at his sides.
“I’ll be around,” he finally growls, turning on his heels and stalking off for the tunnel he’s been working in. To anyone’s ears, it would sound like a warning, but I don’t think he means it that way. I can’t guess how he does mean it. Maybe as reassurance?
I wander over to the elders, bemused. He’s really nothing like I thought. His coldness isn’t callousness at all. It’s one hundred percent quills and spines. If he were a different animal, he’d be a prickly one. If he were a building, he’d be a tower. The male walks around with an invisible moat. The image makes my lips twitch.
When I get to Rae, she explains that she wants the chairs paired with tables and facing the stacked pallets we’re going to use as a stage for the bingo caller. It seems simple enough, but a half hour later when I’ve only moved Old Uncle Nestor and Bet Nevitts, I see what I’m dealing with.
It’s like one of those slider puzzles that’s missing a piece. First, I have to fetch and arrange a table, finding a place to store whatever the table’s holding. Then, I have to move each elder to a placeholder seat so I can move their chair. The elders are very particular about their chairs, so I have to return them to the right one. Finally, once I resettle them, I’ve got to retrieve their bags and pipes and ashtrays and drinks and sweaters and various other belongings.
It’s all on me since Rae’s fussing with the bingo supplies and generally avoiding work.
It’s not until I’m huffing and puffing and not even half done that I notice that there are also a ridiculous number of males hanging around, doing nothing.
Given, work is done differently here. Cadoc doesn’t dictate an eight to five day with lunch at noon like Alpha Shaw. Crews begin their tasks either when their marshal hollers or when the group reaches a quorum of folks who are supposed to show up. There’s no whistle, and no one’s watching a clock. Still, there shouldn’t be so many idle males in the hall at ten o’clock in the morning.
I finish pushing a heavy metal and wood folding table in front of the makeshift stage and take a second to wipe my sweaty forehead on the shoulder of my shirt.
“How’s it going?” Rae asks, sorting the bingo cards like she’s got to get them organized. I do know the game a little. Our math instructor at the Academy had us play it a few times. I don’t remember the cards needing to be in any particular order.
“Slow,” I say. “It’d go faster if some folks would help.” I cast a meaningful glare at Conway Kemble who’s lounging on a stool over by Auntie Madwen, stealing sunflower seeds from the can she keeps in her camp chair’s cup holder. I’m not cheeky enough to glare meaningfully at Rae. Besides, she usually does the lion’s share of the work. She deserves to slack when she feels like it.
Rae glances up at Conway and snickers. “What, and miss the show?”
I scan the chaos before me. I’ve got a half dozen folks seated in a row, another handful in random clusters hither and yon, and two souls shuffling off toward the tunnels, bored with the proceedings. “What show?”
Rae lifts an eyebrow. “You know. The girls.” She gestures at my boobs. “And that bad boy.” She nods at my butt and winks.
“What do you mean?”
“Seriously?” Her fuchsia-colored lips purse, creating a thousand hairline fractures in her cakey foundation. “You aren’t doing it on purpose?” She makes a kissy face and mimes bending over, arching her back so her boobs stick out. “Oh, let me just pick up this heavy chair,” she says in a raspy falsetto. “It’s so big.” She cackles, grinning at me fondly.
“I am not doing that.” I’m just moving furniture. I’m not even sucking my gut in.
“Your butt’s doing that. That butt goes Boop-Oop-a-Doop every time you bend over.” She sings the boop bit in a squeaky falsetto. I have no idea where she came up with it, but the meaning’s clear.
“Nobody wants to look at my butt.” How many times have I been told to move my fat ass?
Rae snorts. “Honey, even I want to take a bite out of it.”
I twist and try to see what she’s talking about, but my neck won’t turn that far, and besides, she’s crazy. Folks don’t want to look at me.
I shake my head and go to help Miss Olwen up. As I return for her chair, I sneak a peek at the males. As soon as I squat to lift with my legs, the ones chatting by the tools pause their conversation. Conway Kemble stops chewing. As I haul Miss Olwen’s recliner to the table, their eyes are glued to my backside.
Well, damn.
I had no idea.
As soon as I put the chair down and turn, conversation and munching smoothly resumes, but it’s not a dramatic resumption of activity. If Rae hadn’t pointed it out, I would have never picked up on it. I can’t see folks looking at my rear. I don’t have eyes in the back of my head.
At first, I have the impulse to tug my shirt down, try to tuck my rump so it’s smaller, turn so that no one can see when I bend to lift.
Shame. That’s my first impulse.
But curiosity comes in hot on its heels. Are they really looking?
I push another table into formation. Yeah, they are. I walk slower and observe from under my eyelashes. They track me. When I’m about to bend, there is an almost imperceptible hitch in their breathing, the slightest straightening of their spines. The muscles in their necks ripple as they swallow. They tug surreptitiously at their pants, readjusting.
My mind is blown.
This is how the Salt Mountain males checked out the females sunning themselves on their towels by the river.
My wolf rolls on her side and yawns. She knows they’re watching, and she’s not the least bit surprised. Is this the first time? Or have they been looking since I got here?
I help elders and move furniture, my brain reeling, my skin prickling and hot, exquisitely aware of every swish of my hips and bounce of my breasts. They only steal glimpses of my boobs when I’m bent forward, quickly glancing away as soon as I stand up.
Ogling is obviously disrespectful. Females at Salt Mountain might have had to tolerate it, but they weren’t shy about complaining. Here at Old Den, I’ve seen more than a few males smacked upside the head for gawking.
Anger would be the normal response. Irritation. Discomfort.
I know this, but I cannot feel it.
I used to daydream that I’d get wasting sickness, lose all my extra weight, and somehow miraculously survive. I imagined what it would be like to walk out of the house and through the village in my new, perfect body. Everyone would stare in admiration, and it’d feel like triumph, like vindication. Like flight.
It’s not a dream. It’s happening. Right now.
How long has it been happening, and I didn’t notice?
I’m so caught up in the realization that when Alec emerges from a tunnel, wiping his hands on a dirty rag and scowling, my stomach doesn’t do its usual flip. I’m in the middle of resettling Gladys Goff, so I don’t immediately turn to him like I usually do when he comes around. He shoves the rag in his pocket and leans against a wall, directing his scowl towards the males congregated by the tools. They suddenly remember a place they need to be, as does Conway.
Some impulse prompts me to keep on with my work. I pretend I don’t see Alec and go to fetch Gladys’ knitting. She keeps it on the floor at her feet. I don’t move any differently than I always do, but I’m aware of every little contraction of my muscles. As I bend my knees and squat, my hips lift and my breasts dangle and sway. In a matter of seconds, I’m standing again, but I feel wobbly. I peek at Alec’s face.
It’s cold and hard like usual, but the severity doesn’t frighten me from looking closely anymore. I track his gaze, and my heart lifts as I realize it’s a fish at the end of my line. I move, and his gaze follows, a shadow, a magnet. He’s staring, too, he’s just better at hiding it than the others.
If he’s staring now, did he stare then? Back at Salt Mountain?