PRINT HERE, sang out the first display. Zena put her hand on the screen and it read her quickly. She knew she didn’t have to worry. Her record was clear—no drugs, no drags. And her mom kept her creddies high enough. Not like some kids who got turned back everywhere, even off the torp trains. And the third time, a dark black line got printed across their palms. A month’s worth of indelible ink. Indelis meant a month full of no: no vids, no torp trains, no boo-ti-ques for clothes. And no Wilding. How, Zena wondered, could they stand it?
Nick was waiting by the Wild Wood Central out-door. He was talking to Marnie and a good-looking dark-haired guy who Marnie was leaning against familiarly.
“Whizzard!” Nick called out when he saw Zena, and she almost blushed under the green powder. Just the one word, said with appreciation, but otherwise he didn’t blink a lash. Zena liked that about Nick. There was something coolish, something even statue about him. And something dangerous, too, even outside the park, outside of Wilding. It was why they were seeing each other, though even after three months, Zena had never, would never, bring him home to meet her mother.
That dangerousness. Zena had it, too.
She went over and started to apologize for being late, saw the shuttered look in Nick’s eyes, and changed her apology into an amusing story about her mom instead. She remembered Nick had once said, Apologies are for woggers and kids.
From her leaning position, Marnie introduced the dark-haired guy as Lazlo. He had dark eyes, too, the rims slightly yellow, which gave him a disquieting appearance. He grunted a hello.
Zena nodded. To do more would have been uncoolish.
“Like the mean green,” Marnie said. “Looks coolish on you, foolish on me.”
“Na-na,” Zena answered, which was what she was supposed to answer. And, actually, she did think Marnie looked good in the green.
“Then let’s go Wilding,” Marnie said, putting on her collar.
Nick sniffed disdainfully, but he turned toward the door. The four of them walked out through the tunnel, Marnie and Lazlo holding hands, even though Zena knew he was a just-met. She and Marnie knew everything about one another, had since preschool. Still, that was just like Marnie, overeager in everything.
Nick walked along in his low, slow, almost boneless way that made Zena want to sigh out loud, but she didn’t. Soundless, she strode along by his side, their shoulders almost—but not quite—touching. The small bit of air between them crackled with a hot intensity.
As they passed through the first set of rays, a dull yellow light bathed their faces. Zena felt the first shudder go through her body but she worked to control it. In front of her, Lazlo’s whole frame seemed to shake.
“Virg,” Nick whispered to her, meaning it was Lazlo’s first time out Wilding.
Zena was surprised. “True?” she asked.
“He’s from O-Hi,” Nick said. Then, almost as an afterthought, added, “My cousin.”
“O-Hi?” Zena said, smothering both the surprise in her voice and the desire to giggle. Neither would have been coolish. She hadn’t known Nick had any cousins, let alone from O-Hi—the boons, the breads of America. No one left O-Hi except as a tourist. And woggers just didn’t look like Lazlo. Nick must have dressed him, must have lent him clothes, must have cut his hair in its fine duo-bop, one side long to the shoulder, one side shaved clean. Zena wondered if Marnie knew Lazlo was from O-Hi. Or if she cared. Maybe, Zena thought suddenly, maybe I don’t know Marnie as well as I thought I did.
They passed the second set of rays; the light was blood red. She felt the beginnings of the change. It was not exactly unpleasant, either. Something to do, she remembered from the Wilding brochures she had read back when she was a kid, with manipulating the basic DNA for a couple of hours. She’d never really understood that sort of thing. She was suddenly reminded of the first time she’d come to Wild Wood Central, with a bunch of her girlfriends. Not coolish, of course, just giggly girls. None of them had stayed past dark and none had been greatly changed that time. Just a bit of hair, a bit of fang. Only Ginger had gotten a tail. But then she was the only one who’d hit puberty early; it ran in Ginger’s family. Zena and her friends had all gone screaming through the park as fast as they could, and they’d all been wearing collars. Collars made the transition back to human easy, needing no effort on their parts, no will.
Zena reached into the pocket of her coat, fingering the leather collar there. She had plenty of will without it. Plenty of won’t, too! she thought, feeling a bubble of amusement rise inside. Will/won’t. Will/won’t. The sound bumped about in her head.
When they passed the third rays, the deep green ones, which made her green face powder sparkle and spread in a mask, Zena laughed out loud. Green rays always seemed to tickle her. Her laugh was high, uncontrolled. Marnie was laughing as well, chittering almost. The green rays took her that way, too. But the boys both gave deep, dark grunts. Lazlo sounded just like Nick.
The brown rays caught them all in the middle of changing and—too late—Zena thought about the collar again. Marnie was wearing hers, and Lazlo his. When she turned to check on Nick, all she saw was a flash of yellow teeth and yellow eyes. For some reason, that so frightened her, she skittered collarless through the tunnel ahead of them all and was gone, Wilding.
The park was a dark, trembling, mysterious green: a pulsating, moist jungle where leaves large as platters reached out with their bitter, prickly auricles. Monkshood and stag bush, sticklewort and sumac stung Zena’s legs as she ran twisting and turning along the pathways, heading toward the open meadow and the fading light, her new tail curled up over her back.
She thought she heard her name being called, but when she turned her head to call back, the only sounds out of her mouth were the pipings and chitterlings of a beast. Still, the collar had been in her pocket, and the clothes, molded into monkey skin, remained close enough to her to lend her some human memories. Not as strong as if she had been collared, but strong enough.
She forced herself to stop running, forced herself back to a kind of calm. She could feel her human instincts fighting with her monkey memories. The monkey self—not predator but prey—screamed, Hide! Run! Hide! The human self reminded her that it was all a game, all in fun. She trotted toward the meadow, safe in the knowledge that the creepier animals favored the moist, dark tunnel-like passages under the heavy canopy of leaves.
However, by the time she got to the meadow, scampering the last hundred yards on all fours, the daylight was nearly gone. It was, after all, past seven. Maybe even close to eight. It was difficult to tell time in the park.
There was one slim whitish tree at the edge of the meadow. Birch, her human self named it. She climbed it quickly, monkey fingers lending her speed and agility. Near the top, where the tree got bendy, she stopped to scan the meadow. It was aboil with creatures, some partly human, some purely beast. Occasionally one would leap high above the long grass, screeching. It was unclear from the sound whether it was a scream of fear or laughter.
And then she stopped thinking human thoughts at all, surrendering entirely to the Wilding. Smells assaulted her—the sharp tang of leaves, the mustier trunk smell, a sweet larva scent. Her long fingers tore at the bark, uncovering a scramble of beetles. She plucked them up, crammed them into her mouth, tasting the gingery snap of the shells.