Blood Orange Soda: Paranormal Romance (35 page)

I finish describing all of this to Officer Denny and Principal Campton with Jack by my side, and Bao Wang and his dad listening, too. The conference room is silent except for Denny, still jotting words in his notepad.

Principal Campton loosens his tight collar. He seems interested in my story. “Thank you for sharing, Darius. Again, we’re all sorry about your mother’s passing.”

“I still need more names,” Officer Denny says, tapping his notepad with a chewed pen.

I know, right? After hearing my story, who would say that?

He smells a bigger crime here. He must know of Bao’s connection to AF, and he probably suspects by now that I’ve been juicing, too. However, Bao and I have something in common; we have shared secrets about Soda, and how we saved face during our fight. We’re no longer bonded as a bully and his victim; we’re known around the world as Gladiators. Our secret and mutual respect for one another is now sealed as tightly as a bottle of Blood Orange Soda.

“I can’t remember any names,” Bao says.

I shrug at Officer Denny. “Me neither. If I think of any, I know where to find you.”

“My mom hates that I wear her makeup,” I say to the crowd. There’s laughter, and the sorrow in the church eases.

Standing at a lectern with bouquets of white and black lilies on the altar behind me, I notice Weezer again. He sticks out his tongue and I laugh through my tears.
What a fuggar!
My English Lit teacher, Ms. Andreesen, and my guidance counselor, Mr. Striefland are here, and Officer Denny leans against the back wall with his arms crossed.

Shelby is noticeably absent.

Rubbing my tears, I notice the mascara on my hand, and I rub between my fingers.

Jack and Kira are in the front pew, smiling at me through their tears. The casket is in front of me, surrounded by lilies, ready for my mom’s final resting place. She doesn’t look dead or artificial, like most people in coffins. She looks alive, a resting Vampire that could awaken with a kiss or a bite, but I know that won’t happen. Not today, not ever.

My mind drifts like it has so many other times I’ve sat in this church. I’m not thinking about the eulogy anymore, but instead about the life that’s ahead of me. Weezer understands why I bit Angel. And I explained to her parents how I bit their daughter out of love, and a hope to save her life. Her parents took the news surprisingly well, although they immediately had a doctor write Angel a prescription for the Reds. I can’t blame them for doing that. To them I’m just the crazy Goth kid down the street. “How does she really know she’s in love with him?” her dad keeps asking.

How does anybody really know they’re in love?

Angel is in the front row, sitting next to Jack. She’s in a black, Victorian-era long dress with a black ribbon in her blond hair. Even though she’s on the Reds, she’s dressed decidedly Haute Goth today, with black lipstick and a black choker. Angel will make a beautiful Vampire one day.

Jack realizes I’m struggling and he joins me on the altar, resting his hand on my shoulder. “Want me to read what you wrote?”

I nod and hand over my handwritten eulogy, embarrassed because the page only has one sentence.

“What is love?” Jack reads.

That’s all I wrote.

I had this vague idea about describing different kinds of love—the love of friendship, my love of music and how I loved my mom. Those were the ideas I came up with last night. I thought I could ad lib here at the funeral, as I’ve always done at school. Wrong!

“Go ahead and have a seat,” Jack whispers to me.

Walking down the altar, I sit in the pew between Kira and Angel, holding both of their hands as we watch Jack at the podium.

He stands confidently, making eye contact with the crowd and says, “What is love? There’s probably no greater love than a parent’s love for their children. Darius and Kira were truly loved by their mother, as well as their father. They taught their children how to walk, and how to ride a bike and how to sing and dance. And whenever Darius and Kira would have nightmares, their mom or dad would take turns waking up to sing their child a lullaby. Darius’ favorite lullaby was actually John Lennon’s ‘Beautiful Boy.’ It’s a song about a father who comforts his son from a nightmare.

“What parent doesn’t want to protect their child from all the bad dreams, bad people and dangers in life? Darius and Kira’s mom fought her disease for many years, and held on until she knew that her son was strong enough and ready to care for his younger sister, Kira. Letting go is an act of love in and of itself.”

To everyone’s surprise—especially mine—Jack clears his throat and sings “Beautiful Boy” a cappella style; no soundtrack, no instrumentals. There’s an amazing sweetness to his tenor voice.

He really does have a vocal coach!

I look around the church, and everyone is in tears and reaching for tissues. Kira and Angel let go of my hands, wiping tears from their eyes. Jack reaches the last verse and I stand to clap, and everyone joins me in applause. His singing is awesome, and this has to be the best eulogy that I never wrote!

Jack leans against the kitchen sink, sipping coffee, watching Kira and me moving through our morning routine. He’s tired. He’s been up all night practicing yoga with Kim in our family room. He’s ready for a nap, while Kira and I are stuffing books into our backpacks.

“I’m gonna be late,” she says at the door.

“Here, at least take a snack with you,” I say, tossing her a granola bar.

“Thanks, bye, guys!” Kira zips her coat and she’s out the door.

“Good man,” Jack says. “You’ll make a great father one day.”

“Hey, I’m only focusing on being a decent older brother right now,” I say.

Jack sips his coffee. “Good point; don’t rush into fatherhood. If you’re a teen parent, your mother will come back and kill me.”

“Jack, that’s morbid.”

“Sorry, it’s way beyond my bedtime.”

Pulling on my leather jacket and slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I’m outside in the cold November wind. There’s an inch of fresh white snow on the ground. My steamy breath rises as I zip my jacket and walk through the yard toward the railroad tracks. The suspension was shortened to one week, which gave me time to grieve and clear my head without the deadlines and pressures of school hanging over me. And all the rumors about Angel and me have settled down, too.

I step onto the tracks, and the railroad ties are slippery from the snow. Angel is standing just ahead of me, dressed Gothy, with black motorcycle boots and matching tights. The makeup she wears these days is thicker, too. Sometimes she borrows mine.

“You’re not late,” she says.

“Jack is better at dragging me out of bed,” I reply.

“How’s Jack this morning?”

“Crabby, he needs a nap.” We hold hands and walk along the tracks.

Angel tells me about her breakfast conversation with her two younger sisters, Marie and Elizabeth. Whenever she takes a Red, her sisters ask when she’ll transform into a Vampire. They think it’s cool that Angel is a Goth, and they think it would be “totes cooler” if Angel became a Vampire one day. I guess the world is changing; the next generation has more admiration for Vampires than the current one.

Angel pauses in the middle of her story because she hears somebody in the woods. Even though she’s on the Reds, her senses are heightened. “Weezer and Tandi are coming.”

She’s right. They’re wading through the snow-covered sumac branches. They step onto the tracks ahead of us and wait, but Weezer isn’t smoking, he’s laughing and wheezing at something Tandi said.

“No smokes this morning?” I call out.

“Nah, can’t stand the taste anymore,” he says.

“He thinks everything tastes different now,” Tandi whispers to Angel and me.

He stopped taking the Reds after my mom’s funeral. He waited a few days before telling me, and then he couldn’t resist talking about it. He’s terrible at keeping secrets! Weezer’s body is already changing; he’s still skinny as a drug addict, but his voice is deeper.

The four of us walk together up the tracks, discussing the upcoming Thanksgiving break. I suppose we’ll do all the usual stuff: jam in my basement, drink lattes at Starbucks and go to basketball games.

Weezer slows to a stop, his hands on his knees. “Got a head rush!”

I recognize that pose. Before my morning runs while on Blood Orange Soda, I would feel the same way. “You only drank one bottle, right?”

“No, duce,” Weezer says, showing me two fingers. “How long will I feel like this?”

“Trust me, Weezer,” I say, patting him on the back. “You’ll get better and better.”

We walk across the snowy field toward school, and I feel safer and more secure now. I doubt I have Bao to worry about anymore. I suppose another Jock could rise up and challenge me, although I’m really not worried about bullies anymore. What hangs in the back of my mind is Angel. Before I bit her to save her life, she said she loved me. If that’s true, then inside her is a Vampire who would be forever devoted to me. Does she really love me? I guess time will tell…