Almost Final Curtain (2 page)

In my freshman year, Mr. Martinez caused a big splash with the production of
Jesus Christ Superstar
. He rented a couple of real helicopters, which landed on the school lawn and poured out actors dressed like soldiers, who proceeded to “occupy” the school as the Romans had Judaea. It was the kind of production that got everybody—from the cheerleaders to the dirtbags—jazzed about theater. “Great Goddess, I hope not. There’s only one female role in that whole stupid musical. Let’s hope it’s
Hair
.”

“Maybe he’s going to do
Rent
?” It was a well-known fact that Mr. Martinez was fabulously gay and liked to push the envelope a little, but even so, it would be a bit avant-garde for him to pick any musical written after the 1970s. “Can you imagine? Like, who would even try out to be the drag queen?”

“Lane might,” Bea suggested. “He likes to be out there and doesn’t care what people think.”

I shook my head. “The parents would totally freak out if Martinez really did
Rent
. Half the characters are HIV positive.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of retro when you think about it,” Bea said, pulling out a tuna sandwich from her bag. “Who worries about AIDS these days?”

“Well, they should. It’s not like they cured it,” I pointed out, digging through my own sack in search of a bag of carrots. “But the play is kind of dated, and I don’t know the music; do you?”

“Yeah, and here’s what’s weird: Mr. Martinez has only been showing us every production of
My Fair Lady
for a month. Why would he pull a bait and switch now?”

I shrugged. Bea and I had drama class together at the end of the day. Most of the theater types took drama as an elective, and well over half of us were in each school production, even if it was only as stagehands. In fact, it was sort of assumed that if you wanted to be in a play, you needed to take Mr. Martinez’s course. It wasn’t a requirement, you understand, just how it worked out, and Mr. Martinez made no secret of it. So he often spent class time reviewing recordings of professional versions of that season’s show. By this time last semester, I was so sick of
Macbeth
that I half considered being truant just so I wouldn’t have to see one more performance of it. “I kind of hope he’s decided on a rock opera of some sort,” I admitted.

Thing was, I couldn’t see myself as Eliza Doolittle, the lead in
My Fair Lady
. She was supposed to start off as all rough-andtumble and end up some kind of well-heeled British lady. So not me.

With my mismatched eyes and superpale skin, I had a much easier time with roles like one of the Wyrd Sisters in
Macbeth
. I was awfully freaky-looking to be romantic-lead material. The only other speaking female role in
My Fair Lady
was the nanny, who sings along with the song about dancing all night. My stick figure did not scream matronly either. Bea’s kind of did, but I knew better than to point that out.

That was just the way it always was, wasn’t it? Bea hated her curves and dark wavy curls; I envied them. She felt the same about my ramrod-straight hair and matching twiggy nonfigure.

But we didn’t talk about that. We didn’t talk about much of anything, in fact. Instead, she and I spent the rest of lunch lost in our own musings about the play, although as I ate my pastrami on rye, my mind wandered back around to Nik. Having a locally famous rock-star boyfriend did strange things to my ego. At the shows when he shouted out to me or came over to talk at breaks, I felt superspecial. I could sense all the eyes jealously staring at me, wondering who I was to garner such attention from someone as awesome as him. Meanwhile, while he sang, I had plenty of time to check out the competition and most of the time I fell short in my own estimation. There were college-age women drooling over Nik, some of them looking like rock stars themselves.

I figured it was only a matter of time before he dumped me for someone closer to his own age, someone more willing to, well, you know, help him live up to that rock-star reputation. Okay, just between us: we hadn’t had sex yet. I wasn’t ready. I was just sixteen, and really, we started dating only last fall, and trust me, with everything else going on while I was discovering that I was some kind of vampire princess, well, I was distracted.

Plus, there was Elias.

How do I explain him? He’s a vampire. But vampires are nothing like what you expect—they’re more like blood-drinking elves, except from hell. Literally. Only, the real hell isn’t the one in the Bible either. It’s older and stranger and, apparently, deeply hierarchical. Elias is a knight and acts like he’s from the Middle Ages too, with a lot of bowing and touching romantic gestures like that. My dad’s the local vampire ruler, but Elias is the one who makes me feel like a princess.

And thanks to this one battle between True Witches and vampires where I accidentally on purpose bit him, we were betrothed—which normally meant “engaged to be married” in medieval times. I had no idea what it meant to vampires. Luckily, there didn’t seem to be any rush in the vampire community to push Elias and me toward the altar. It seemed more like a peace-treaty thing that involved him “courting” me a lot.

Totally off the subject, but the whole courting stuff was made of win. It involved a lot of flowers and being the center of manly attention, minus any pressure. I don’t even know if vampires have sex like we do. Well, they must sometimes, or I wouldn’t be here. But they were kind of another species. Though I know they have all the same parts, since I’d seen Elias naked—a lot. See, vampires liked to run around in the buff. Weird. But even so, Elias never even kissed me once. Maybe the whole biting thing was their version of sex.

I’d eaten only half my sandwich when Bea pointed at the dashboard clock. “Oh noes!” she said in mock seriousness.

But we’d be tardy for real if we didn’t hustle. I jammed everything back into my bag, in the hopes that I might have time for a snack during free period. Otherwise, my stomach was going to be growling all through the rest of the day.

We got yelled at by Ms. Yang, the hall monitor, when she spotted us sliding in the side doors. But Bea was fast on her feet and came up with a convincing lie to keep her from sending us to the assistant principal’s office. Plus, as Bea talked, I felt a slight hum in the air. She’d cast a glamour spell to keep Ms. Yang off our case.

Parting ways in the hall, I headed off to history, which was on the second floor and way in the back. I thought I’d be able to make it in time, but I miscalculated, forgetting about my sudden popularity. Three cheerleaders stopped me by the water fountain. “So I heard—,” one of them started with a snap of her gum.

I cut them off. “Nik told me his band is going to do the music for the school play.” They started to open their mouths to beg for more details, and I waved them off. It wasn’t like they were going to try out for the play, was it? Or were they? OMG. What if all the cheerleaders and jocks auditioned? No, the thought was just too horrible, so I blurted out, “I’m sorry; that’s all he said. I’ve got to go.”

I scooted in the door a half minute after last bell, which meant I missed more class time going back down to the office to get a tardy slip. As I waited with the other deadbeats for the secretary to fill out the form, I sighed. Times like this, I wished I had Bea’s powers. Zap! No more tardy!

Mr. Shultz accepted my pass with a kind of suspicious grimace when I got back to class, like he thought that somehow I’d forged the note, even though he was the one who’d sent me off to fetch it.

I took my seat and tried to ignore all the irritated glances. This was honors history, after all. My colleagues had no patience for anything they perceived as bad behavior. As quickly and quietly as I could, I got out my textbook and flipped to the current unit.

Slavery.

I stared again, as I often did, at the picture at the beginning of the chapter. It was an artist’s rendition of an auction block. I got a strange shiver down my spine.

Once upon a time, according to Elias anyway, vampires were slaves to witches. The First Witch created some kind of talisman to bind their will to hers. The power of this thing, whatever it was, kept them in thrall for millennia. And thus it was, until the vampires discovered the artifact and plotted to steal it. Then it got lost or something—I don’t know. Anyway, vampires were free now, but still kind of held a grudge about that whole stolenfrom-their-homeland-and-used-as-chattel thing.

No surprise, right?

Ever since we started this section, I’d been trying to ask Elias what it was like. Every time I brought the subject up, though, he’d get all tight and quiet, and then suddenly find some excuse to be elsewhere.

My only conclusion was that it must have been awful. And yet here was Mr. Shultz trying to explain how human trafficking was profitable and made a kind of business sense back then.

“Isn’t it still profitable?” asked Lane. He was being intentionally provocative, but his point was valid. It wasn’t like slavery didn’t exist anymore. But if I knew Mr. Shultz, he’d find a way to make Lane’s outburst into homework for everyone.

“Excellent point, Mr. Davis,” Mr. Shultz said. “Perhaps we should all do a little research into current examples of human trafficking? How about a ten-page paper due Wednesday, for extra credit?”

There were a few groans, but in truth we were the students who lived for extra-credit projects. Do you know how many points an A-plus in an honors class bumps up your GPA? We were all competing to be valedictorian in two years, after all. I pulled out my notebook and wrote down the specifics for the paper. It could be fascinating, I thought. It was an intense subject. I wondered how much Mr. Shultz would freak if I did mine on vampires and witches.

I shook my head. He’d probably think I was making it up and give me no credit.

After class, Lane tugged my sleeve. As Bea pointed out, Lane was the likeliest candidate for a boy who might be willing to play a drag queen. It wasn’t because he was particularly gay; he just liked to shock people. He was tall and gangly, like he hadn’t quite filled out the body he suddenly had. His just-over-his-ears sandy brown hair was stylishly bed-headed. I thought he was kind of cute, but he was a little too artsy for me. When we’d talked backstage in the past, I never understood his music references and hated every movie he claimed to admire.

“Are you really dating a rocker?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes. Apparently, not even Lane was immune to the gossip. I would be so glad when Stassen High forgot about me again and went on to the next new thing. “Yes, Mr. Davis. I am. Why do you ask?”

“Well, Ms. Parker, it seems my hopes to accompany you to the Spring Fling have been dashed. I am beside myself with grief.”

I could never tell if he was being serious or not. That was the other thing that always bugged me about Lane.

Luckily, I waited him out long enough and he started talking again before I embarrassed myself by being flattered. “Seriously,” he said. “I never figured you for a heavy metal chick. I always thought you had more class.”

Oh, nice. But at least these kinds of passive-aggressive insults were standard operating procedure for Lane. I knew what to do with them. “No, not really,” I admitted with a sweet smile, as though he’d given me the biggest compliment. “Sorry to cut this scintillating conversation short, but I have study hall and, thanks to you, I need to spend my time in the media center doing research. Bye-bye!”

I waved toodle-oo to Lane’s baffled expression and headed off to the library.

On my way, my gaze was attracted to a very fine male body bent to retrieve something from the bottom of his locker. Trim waist, broad shoulders, taut abs—in short, a body to die for. As he straightened, I started to smile into ... the ruggedly handsome face of Matthew Thompson, soccer star and homecoming king, who randomly flipped me the bird. Okay, I guess he had just cause, since a few months ago I
did
lick blood off his face in gym class. That was awkward, especially since, even now, I could taste him. My stomach growled.

He seemed to hear the sound, and so I licked my lips seductively and flounced past like some kind of vamp vampire.

When he was out of sight, I sighed deeply.

Why were all the guys in this school such
jerks
?

After checking in with my homeroom teacher and showing her my Honor Society pass, I headed to the library. My plan was to find a nice quiet place in the stacks to hide away. Let’s face it, I was just not made to be a popular girl. The only time I liked being in the spotlight was onstage. There, it was scripted. Someone much wittier than I was came up with all the lines, and I knew how it was going to end before it started. In real life, you never knew what was going to happen. Real people never acted predictably.

The librarian waved at me when I came in. I saw Matthew Thompson settling in at one of the big tables with his math tutor, James, a senior and his class’s most likely valedictorian. I ignored the “come here” wave from Thompson. I mean, he did just flip me off, and anyway, I was sure he just wanted to find out about the rumors, and he had plenty of other sources—like half the cheerleading squad.

I slipped into the stacks with a sigh. Long ago, I’d discovered that way in the back, near the dusty poetry section, there was one of those old-fashioned study carrels. It had a built-in overhead lamp that no longer worked and a slot for papers, and was shaped sort of like a voting booth so that when you leaned in over your books, you had the illusion of complete privacy.

With a glance around to see if I was truly alone, I pulled out the uneaten half of my sandwich and surreptitiously tucked it into the overhead slot. I took out my cell phone and turned it on so I could watch the time. Believe me, it was easy to lose track back here.

A half hour later, I had finished up my sandwich and tomorrow’s math assignment. I was just about to tackle English reading when a tap on my shoulder made me yelp. Guiltily hiding my crumbs, I peered over my shoulder to see if it was the librarian come to chew me out.