Blood Orange Soda: Paranormal Romance (4 page)

“Honors English Lit. How did you know we met?”

“I have my minions,” she says.

This isn’t a total surprise because Angel knows everyone, and she’s usually in on gossip and Twitter chatter. Is she jealous? I can’t tell from her expression.

“It was a brief intro,” I say, closing my locker.

We start walking the hallway, dodging two dumbass seniors wrestling and making idiots of themselves.

“And?” she asks.

“And nothing,” I say. “It was a super brief hi and hello. Why, what have you heard?”

“You made an impression on her. She asked about you.”

There’s definitely possessiveness in Angel’s voice.

“What does Shelby want to know?”

“If you’re going to the game tonight.”

We’re out the door, walking into a warm Indian summer afternoon that smells of dust and ragweed. The morning frost has long since melted, and I pull my sunglasses off my head and over my squinting eyes. We hear the marching band warming up somewhere in the back parking lot and the
ratta-tat-tat
of the snare drums echoes off the building’s brick walls. I haven’t had much school spirit. Maybe I’ve been too judgmental about the whole thing.

“I
could
go to the game,” I say casually. “Unless Weezer wants to write music—”

“Come to the game and bring Weezer,” Angel says. “Write music after the game. You’re both up all night anyway.”

Thoughts of Shelby intrigue me. She’s an attractive Goth girl who happened to scent me or zap me, whatever that was, and she wants to know if I’ll be at the game tonight. I could count on one finger how many times this has ever happened to me, and even that would be an exaggeration.

“What time is the game?” I ask.

“Starts at seven. Most of us are there by six-thirty.”

“Oh, wait, my mom works tonight, so I’ll have to watch my sister.”

“Bring Kira along. Tons of middle-schoolers hang out at the game,” she says.

Watching my sister at home is easy. Keeping track of her at the football game would be next to impossible, but what the heck. “Okay, I’ll see if she wants to go.”

“Great, I’ll watch for you,” Angel says. “I’m heading back to watch the cheerleaders warm up. I’ll catch you later.”

Angel runs across the field, backlit by the orange sun. There’s something different about her. She seems overly attentive. Why, because Shelby has taken an interest in me? Continuing my trek toward the railroad tracks, there’s a low rumble under my boots; there’s a train coming ahead of schedule.

Running to the tracks with my backpack bouncing over my shoulders, I look west to see the train moving in my direction. The train always slows as it crosses the street where school buses pass, before it picks up momentum after that railroad crossing. The vibrations increase, and that’s when I know it’s barreling down on me.

Bounding off the tracks, I sprint next to the railroad ties, pushing myself faster as the train closes in on me. There’s no real danger of getting hit, but my flight instinct doesn’t know the difference, and adrenaline surges through my legs. The horn blows and I scream, “Ahhhhhhh!” leaping off the tracks as the train whips by me like an angry serpent. My legs wobble and I stumble on the rocks, slowing to a galloping gait before stopping to catch my breath. Ten seconds from the time I leapt from the track to when the train charged by me...

I should’ve joined the football team, carried the ball upfield for the glory of the Corn Cobber crowd. What would life be like if I were a Vampire Jock? My guess is, I’ll never know.

Our kitchen is a mess, with pans in the sink, which means Kira has been baking cookies again. The only time she bakes is when my mom feels sick and stays home from work. Kira shows her love and compassion through food. I show my love for Kira by eating her food. I take a peanut butter cookie with me as I set my backpack on the table and walk into the family room, where my mom sleeps on the couch. My sister is nowhere in sight, but her dance music thumps a heavy beat through the ceiling.

My mom is wrapped in a blanket on the couch. I try not to wake her as I pass by, but she opens her eyes.

“Hi, Darius.”

“Hey, not feeling well?”

“I woke up an hour ago to get ready for work,” Mom says with a weak voice. “I couldn’t do it today; too tired.”

Sitting on the coffee table next to the couch, I pull the blanket up over her shoulder. “You deserve rest. You shouldn’t work when you’re sick.”

“When I feel strong, I want to work—”

“But if you work too much, you get weak and sick.”

“Let me nap a bit, and then make us dinner,” Mom says.

“Got it. There’s pizza in the downstairs freezer,” I remind her, because the freezer is next to my bed in the basement, where I keep an eye on the food and snacks.

“That sounds good,” she says. “Could you and your friends rehearse tomorrow afternoon? I can’t take more loud music,” she says, pointing at the ceiling and my sister’s music.

“Should I tell her to turn down the volume?”

“Yes, please,” Mom says.

“Kira? Kira!” I shout. “Turn DOWN your tunes!”

“Honey, I meant walk upstairs to her room and speak to your sister politely.”

Her music stops and Kira hollers back, “What?”

“Your funky-ass bass is giving us a headache down here!” I shout, less loudly this time.

“Sorry, Mom!” Kira shouts.

“See? It worked,” I say.

“Next time? Walk the flight of stairs and interact with your sister.”

“Not a problem,” I assure her. “Oh, I thought I would go to the football game tonight.”

Her eyes open in surprise. “Oh, good for you, honey. That should be fun.”

“If you want total peace and quiet from the dance queen upstairs, she can tag along with me to the game.”

My mom stares at me in disbelief. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch; a lot of middle-school kids go to the football games,” I say. “She can tag along.”

“Darius, that would be so nice of you. Your sister really looks up to you and—”

“Shhh, get some rest,” I say to her. “I’ll put a pizza in the oven.”

I give her a kiss on the forehead and run downstairs to the basement to the freezer. When I return and walk by my mom, she’s already fast asleep. It pains me to see her so worn out and listless. The disease—the V2—forces its victims to live a life of highs and lows, but the lows are very low, and my mom can barely function on her own, not to mention caring for and feeding us.

This is why I’m angry with my dad, who abandoned us after Kira was born. He must’ve known my mom was V2 positive. Maybe he left her because she contracted the Vampire-strain of HIV. Normals with HIV can live a relatively healthy life while on medication, but Vampires with V2 have a more difficult struggle, and a much shorter life expectancy. Mom is beating the odds, but I suspect not for long.

It’s hard to imagine a life without her. How could I possibly raise Kira on my own? What do I know about parenting? Heck, I’m not even good at “brothering.”

Picking up her empty glass off the coffee table, I walk into the kitchen to cook the pizza. Kira left a baking mess, so I wash the pans, pull the clean glasses from the dishwasher, and set them in the cupboard before texting her upstairs.

Me:
What are you doing 2 night?

She’s slow in her response because she’s suspicious of my question. She’s probably already read my text.

Kira:
Why? U havin friends over?

Me:
No going to the football game

Kira:
Have fun...I guess

Me:
You want to go too?

Kira:
Seriously?

Me:
Yes, you and me

There’s a longer pause this time and I hear her running across her room, downstairs to the main level, past our mom and she bursts into the kitchen, still holding her phone.

“You’re really going to the game? Why? You never go to football games,” Kira says, hands on hips.

“Thought I’d see what all the fuss is about.”

“You and me? Furreal?”

“Yeah, Bible Furreal,” I say in tween jargon that Kira would appreciate. “You, me, probably Weezer,” I say. “And we’ll meet up with Angel and a few others.”

“Can I bring a friend?” Kira asks.

“Bring whoever you want.”

Kira is already texting as she continues chatting with me. “You’re different today—more like those older brothers I see on TV. How come?”

Not sure how to honestly answer Kira. Taking her with me to the game is the least I can do for her and my mom. My mom needs rest, and Kira shouldn’t be the sole caretaker. Of course, there’s also this Goth girl named Shelby who’s asked about me.

The evening air is crisp and dry with a white harvest moon rising to the east. My mom loves this kind of night. The moon could one day be my morning sun, and I enjoy gawking at it without having to squint and put on sunglasses. We’re late for the game. I’m standing just inside the stadium gate with Weezer, Kira, and her friend, Josie. The two girls spot skater boys from their class and take off in a howling sprint as the boys chase them under the bleachers. Attracting the opposite sex is so much more complicated in high school.

Weezer breaks my concentration by laughing. “This is so stupid. There’s only twelve minutes left in the game, and we’ve only scored seven times.”

The scoreboard shows we’re ahead 7-0. “Seven times? You’re kidding, right? Tell me you’ve watched football before this.”

“I watch Euro football; soccer. I hate American football,” Weezer says with disdain.

Spoken like a true anarchist!

Scanning the sea of heads, I search for Angel. There must be a cool section to sit in or, in our case, to avoid, but I’m not sure where it is. Across the field is a smaller set of bleachers with fewer fans, so that’s the visiting team’s section. On our side of the stadium I notice a scrawny kid crowd-surfing with the help of his fellow morons. The Spanish teacher, Senora Matos, finally puts an end to it and the crowd boos or shouts “Lo Siento Senora!” This is one rowdy bunch that wants to cut loose on a Friday night.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out to see a text from Angel:
Look to your right.

She’s waving from the top bleachers where the crowd-surfer started his ride. Weezer and I begin the steep climb up the stadium steps as fans cheer for our team. Everyone stands, cheering as they do the wave, and I turn to see that we’ve scored again; but Weezer is oblivious as he texts somebody. Angel sits with Ashley and Morgan, Populars adorned in their boyfriends’ letterman jackets. Shelby is at the far end of the bench. They slide to make room for us and I sit next to Angel, with Weezer next to me like a wingman should be.

“You finally made it,” Angel says to me. “You know Morgan and Ashley.”

Her two friends give me polite, forced smiles and they return to texting.

“And you’ve met Shelby,” Angel says, before she nudges her friends to slide down so Shelby can sit between Angel and me.

“Nice to meet you again,” Shelby says, reaching out her hand.

Her hand is warm from being in her pockets. She wears black onyx nail polish, and everything about her is Goth: black hair, teased and spiky, thick eyeliner and purple eye shadow, accenting her blue eyes. She’s beautiful in a quirky and confident sort of way.

“Nice to see you again as well,” I say.

“It was embarrassing the way Ms. Andreesen introduced us today,” Shelby says. I realize she has one of those up-talk accents, where she ends some of her sentences with a hint of a question at the end. It’s not a common accent here at Stearns High, but a lot of popular girls from the wealthy side of St. Cloud speak that way.

“Yeah, weird. Oh, let’s stop the class to introduce the two Goths,” I say, sarcastically.

“I’m glad she did, though,” Shelby says. “There aren’t many of us here. Who’s your friend?”

“Oh, this is Derek Wincer,” I say.

He reaches out a limp hand. “A pleeeeeasure! Call me Weezer.”

“Furreal? I call him Weezer?” Shelby asks me.

“He hates his name and won’t respond to anything else,” I explain.

My heart races next to Shelby, and I sense she is also nervous as we pepper each other with questions, which is what Vampire families often do when they first meet. We’re such an oddity in society that we’re instantly attracted to one another, and eager to find out our backgrounds and our lineage, hoping we’re not related.

“Where you from?” I ask.

“I transferred from Apollo,” Shelby says, as if maybe I had never heard of the school.

Ordinarily this up-talk accent would drive me crazy but she’s cute, and her cool factor more than compensates for the occasional accent.

“How come you transferred?” I ask.

“Cliques mostly. And there weren’t any V-Goths at Apollo, just a lot of gothic fashionistas.”

“Aren’t many of us here, either.”

“I needed another change. I moved to Minnesota a year ago from San Francisco,” she says.

Now her accent makes more sense to me. She’s from the West Coast and has a beach vibe about her. “Welcome to the tundra; I hope you like snow,” I say, which is stupid. I shouldn’t trash-talk my home when she probably finds it interesting.