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Luke Thorpe is great at math and terrible at sports. He prefers to stay in the background when possible, but suddenly he’s found himself howling at the moon and doing a lot of really hairy things! Turns out Luke is going through a phase. Or more like a transformation. He’s a werewolf.
How does an average kid whose biggest problems until now have been avoiding the school bully and preparing for his end-of-the-year exams cope with these changes? (He really has to study, not chase cars!) He’s going to need help—a whole pack of it. But when war threatens to break out between the vampires and the werewolves, can Luke and a new pointy-toothed friend save the day?
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Notes from a Hairy-Not-Scary Werewolf
It’s five in the morning and I’ve just woken up to find my bedroom trashed. My bookcase is overturned, my games are scattered all over the floor, and my study notes are in shreds.
It must have been a burglar. What if they’re still in the house?
I should go and fight them. I should dish out some vigilante justice.
On second thought, I think I’ll just wait here a little.
This is weird. I’ve just been downstairs and found that nothing was damaged. No windows were broken, no locks were forced, and nothing was missing.
I think I did the damage myself. What other explanation can there be?
I’ve worked it out now. I must be a sleepwalker. Oh God, why is this happening now, so soon before my exams? Okay, I need to calm down. I’m sure this was a one-off incident brought on by exam stress. School starts again today. I need to forget about it.
This morning I strolled into school as though nothing had happened. I’m not the sort of weirdo who trashes their room in the night, I told myself. I’m a class monitor with excellent grades predicted for my exams, who has earned the respect of my peers. As I walked through the school gates, Tyson from my class shouted: “Ginger nut!”
Okay, that bit about the respect of my peers isn’t entirely true. But it should be. I’m president and founding member of both the chess club and the debating club. Yet my immature schoolmates insist on hurling abuse about the color of my hair.
We have a tradition at our school where everyone puts their hands around their necks and shouts, “Choke!” if you don’t reply to an insult quickly enough. To avoid this, I’ve prepared a number of comebacks:
Them: “Hey! Carrottop!”
Me: “Actually, the top of a carrot is green, not orange.”
Them: “You’ve been drinking too much Sunny Delight.”
Me: “Sugary drinks don’t affect hair color, although they can cause acne and obesity, so perhaps you’re the one who’s been drinking them.”
Them: “Is Ron Weasley your mum?”
Me: “No. Is Hagrid yours?”
Soon none of this will matter. My ignorant schoolmates will fail their exams and head for the nearest unemployment office, while I’ll go on to sixth-form college, university, and a glorious career in politics. And my first act will be to make teasing someone about their hair color an official hate crime.