“It’s just...” It’s just I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t sound crazy.
“He’s not grounded, Karen,” my mother says, letting me go, and smiling maniacally at my friend. “But it’s a full moon.”
“Mom, I told you, it’s just waxing gibbous,” I say.
“Don’t get technical with me, Stanley.”
“A full moon?” Karen asks. “Waxing gibbous?”
“Waxing gibbous means the moon is still growing bigger,” I say.
“You know Stanley has problems with the full moon,” my mom says.
“No, Mom, she doesn’t know,” I say, feeling my face go red. “And you’re exaggerating. When was the last time I had a problem?”
“Hold on—what kind of ‘problems’ are we talking about?” Karen asks.
“Karen, really, it’s nothing.”
My mother shakes her head. “No. You know that’s not true, Stanley. There’s a pattern, ever since you were little. We don’t know what—”
“Mom,” I cut her off. “It’s not the full moon. Yet. For six days. That’s almost a week. Can I just take a little walk?”
“I’ll fix you guys something here in the kitchen,” she says. “Just stay here, Stanley.”
Karen looks away. There’s an awkward silence. I want to get out that door and run, run away from all this. But I wouldn’t get half a block before they’d catch me. Probably on the ground, moaning in agony.
“Look,” I say, finally. “I’ll be careful. I’ve got my brace. You know I’m supposed to exercise the leg. And I’m not going out alone, either.”
My mom doesn’t look too convinced.
“You know I was the trainer for the track team at Walters, right?” Karen says. “I’ll keep an eye on him, Mrs. Hoff.”
“Is she going to catch you if you fall over?” my mom asks.
“Jesus, Mom, that was one time.”
“No,” she says. “It wasn’t just ‘one time.’ And I have a really bad feeling—”
“You know,” Karen says, “I throw the shot put. I’m pretty strong, Mrs. Hoff. And I’ve got a cell phone.”
“Yeah, Mom. We’ll be fine. Not a full moon. I’m not alone. Not a problem.”
She shakes her head. “Just promise you’ll be back before it gets colder. I don’t want your knee to lock up.”
“I promise.”
“I’ll make sure he makes it back in one piece,” Karen says.
“You do that,” my mother says. But then she pauses and stares at Karen, squinting.
“Mom,” I groan. “Not now, Mom.”
“What,” Karen asks. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say. “She’s just looking at your aura.”
“My aura?”