Blood Orange Soda: Paranormal Romance (5 page)

“Yeah, it is super cold here,” she says, bouncing her legs to keep warm.

“Have any siblings?”

“No, I’m an only child,” Shelby says. “My dad was born Vampire and married my mom, who was a Normal,” she says matter-of-factly, as she watches the action on the field. “After she became a Bitten and transformed into a Vampire, I was born.”

“The opposite for me. My Vampire mom married my dad, who was a Normal. After my sister and I were born, my dad became a Bitten and then split,” I explain. “My parents separated.”

She nods along. “Complicated, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s your blood type?” Shelby asks. “I’m A.”

She asks me this because among Vampires, blood type is a common topic of discussion. For Vamps it’s kind of like astrology—some believe your blood type determines your personality and how strong and desirable you are. According to the theory, A blood types are like Type A personalities, more high-strung, and B blood types are more easygoing. AB blood type is more desirable because it’s a blend of both personality styles.

“I’m O positive,” I answer.

“Furreal? You’re O?” she says. “That’s almost unheard of among Vampires!”

“Uh, yeah, so I’ve been told.”

“I’ve never met a Goth or Vampire who has O blood,” Shelby says. “You know what they say about Os? They’re moody, unpredictable and their blood is more resistant to the V2 virus.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not a Vampire yet,” I say. “I am a melancholy ass once in a while.”

“What’s Weezer’s story?” Shelby asks, whispering in my ear.

I lean over and whisper back, taking in her citrus-sweet perfume. It’s the same brand Angel buys at Forever 21. “Weezer is just Weezer—another confused Goth.”

“No, I understand totally,” Shelby says. “It’s a blessing and a curse.”

“Yep.”

There’s a cringe-worthy pause in our conversation, as if we’re both processing the details of each other’s background. I want to ask her the next obvious question but I hesitate, and she beats me to it again.

“When will you decide if I want to be a Normal or a Vampire?”

“I’m waiting until I’m sixteen,” I say.

“I’ve made my decision,” Shelby says. “I’m already in the process of transforming.”

This is a huge piece of news, and I turn to see if Weezer or Angel heard our conversation. Weezer is still texting, and Angel is talking with Ashley.

“Congratulations,” I say. “No more Reds.”

“Stopped taking them two weeks ago,” Shelby says. “It’s another reason I switched schools. I thought I’d get more support here.”

“Noticed any changes yet?”

“Nothing major; but my sense of smell and everything I taste is more heightened. Also, colors are more vivid. Other than that, no.”

“In class today, I scented you immediately, and I could swear you were scenting me. You were up close, right behind me—”

“Oh, yeah, that’s new, too,” she says, with a blushing grin.

“What is it?” I ask. “How did you do that?”

The crowd roars and everyone around us stands, pounding their feet. We’ve scored the winning touchdown. Shelby and I stand too, but I can’t hear her. She realizes this and smiles. When the noise settles and we sit, I’m waiting for her to explain what happened to me in English Lit when Angel leans toward Shelby.

“Okay, you two, no more Vamp-chat,” she says. “Let’s hit the field!”

We follow a mob of students down the stadium bleachers, everyone shoving and cheering as the visitor side of the field leaves in a more orderly fashion. I had no idea how fanatical our fans were; some of the guys are bodysurfing again over the crowd. We make our way onto the track that circles the football field where our team gives out high fives to students and fellow players.

“Is this what happens after every game?” I ask Angel.

“Not like this,” she says. “Monticello was last year’s conference champion. It’s a big win for us!”

Searching the crowd, I spot Weezer on the field, talking to one of the Stoners. I can’t find Kira and Josie, but I’m not overly concerned at the moment. Shelby is nowhere in sight, and I find myself scanning the crowd quickly to find her.

“Come on, Darius!” Angel shouts, as she follows a group of girls toward the goalpost where we just scored our touchdown.

We sprint, dodging slower fans to avoid collisions, when I feel a shove from behind and I trip, sliding across the cool grass. It’s a familiar feeling and I look up to see Bao Wang standing above me.

“Hey, Freak!” he says with a mad smile.

I stand quickly so I don’t get trampled. Bao isn’t wearing a football uniform. He’s in street clothes like the rest of us. My guess is he’s on the JV team and not good enough to play varsity, but he can certainly tackle. He’s standing with a skinny kid who has a red bandana wrapped around his head. I only know of him as Chao.

“What’s up, Bao?”
Dumb question, I know. What’s the polite way to greet your bully?

“Don’t ‘what’s up’ me. You know what’s up,” he says. “Time to finish what we started yesterday.”

“
We
didn’t start anything;
you
started it,” I remind him.

“You called me a Great Ape.”

That part is true. My mouth, as my mom often reminds me, gets me in trouble. This time I throw him a verbal sucker punch. “Well, it was a figure of speech. I said you were a Great Ape. It’s not as if I said you’re a Dumbass Ape or a Fat Slimy Pig Ape, because in theory those labels might also apply.”

Bao’s friend Chao bursts into irreverent laughter. “Dude, he disrespected you. Oh!”

“You’re dead, Batman,” Bao says, lunging for me.

Bolting through the crowd, I sprint toward the goalpost, not really sure where I’m headed other than that’s where everyone is moving. I slip again on the wet grass under the goalpost and fall, people stepping on me. Somebody is kind enough to lift me under the armpits and pick me up. I turn to see it’s Bao! We’re standing toe to toe, both of us breathing hard from our sprinting.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” Chao chants.

Students circle around us, creating a human boxing ring. There’s no way I can escape. When it comes to fight or flight, I always choose flight. I’m a fast runner and pretty good at sprinting 50-100 yards, just enough to escape predators like Bao. But when the herd encircles, you must fight for your life.

Bao pulls my sweatshirt and slings me around like a chew toy and I tumble to the grass at people’s feet. They kick me enough to shove me back into the center of the ring. Bao motions for me to get up.

I take my “ready position,” the one I learned in middle school martial arts class, and Bao takes his position as well. In the background I hear Angel trying to push through the crowd to put an end to this. Nobody lets her through.

Bao’s first move is a mid-kick that I block and answer with a jab to his ribs. The crowd roars. Bao spins with a high roundabout kick that hits me in the chest, and I’m leveled to the ground. The stadium lights are blinding, and I’m again reminded of that movie
Gladiator
, where Russell Crow’s character Maximus Decimus Meridius fights for survival and taunts the onlookers. What’s the famous line Maximus shouts? Bao lifts me by my sweatshirt and we’re toe to toe again.

“Let’s go,” he taunts me with his arms down. “Your best shot, Freak!”

I’m not strong; I’m quick. I’m also desperate, so I use a chick move and kick Bao in the groin, crushing his seeds.

“Ooooh!” all the guys in the crowd shout in empathy. I get a round of applause from the ladies for that one.

Bao is less amused, and unleashes a flurry of punches at me. This is no longer martial arts, but a sloppy street fight. I block as many blows as I can with my forearms, and I back myself into the throng as if I’m a boxer on the ropes. One of Bao’s punches lands directly on my right eye and I drop to my knees.

“Yeah!” roars the fickle crowd.
Whose side are they on, anyway?

Bao motions for me to get up. I look around and see Angel and Shelby standing together, watching, freaking out. I’m tired and whipped. I decide to make a good show of it, so instead of standing upright, I lunge for Bao’s knees and tackle him to the ground. He lands hard enough that I hear his head thump against the goal post!

“Whoa!” Then there’s silence.

Bao is motionless on the grass, like a sleeping giant.

Now what?

Standing over him, I notice Bao blinking and looking around. He must’ve passed out for a brief nanosecond. My mouth got me into this mess, and I know my mouth will get me out of it, too. I step away from Bao and turn to the crowd, remembering what Gladiator Maximus Decimus Meridius would say at this moment.

“Are you not entertained?!” I shout, wiping blood from my eye.

The crowd is silent, many recording with their phones.

“Are you not entertained?! Isn’t that why you’re here?!”

My voice echoes throughout the stadium and I spit, pushing my way through the gawkers who slap me on the back, touching my clothing as if I’m the Messiah himself. Bao tries to come after me, but everyone holds him back—they’ve had their show for tonight.

My right eye aches, and I feel it swelling up as I make my way toward the bleachers. Kira and her friend Josie are the first to catch up to me and I’m glad, because the last thing I want to do now is spend an hour searching for them with this bleeding eye.

“Darius, are you okay?” she asks, with genuine sisterly concern.

“I’ll be fine. Sorry you had to see that,” I say, covering my eye.

“No, you were great. He deserved it,” Kira says, handing me her scarf. “Use this.”

“You’re amazing, Darius,” Josie says, as if she’s admiring me from a new perspective.

The scarf soaks up the blood, and Weezer joins us with Angel and Shelby. They approach me at a fast clip, with obvious worry. I try to calm myself as I clean up the blood so this doesn’t look so bad.

“Dude, that was awesome,” Weezer says, with a pat on my back, which actually hurts because of Bao’s tackle.

“You did it,” Angel says. “You put Bao in his place, on the ground.”

Shelby says nothing at first. She helps me with the scarf. She’s like my nurse as she wraps it around my head, tight enough to hold back the bleeding.

“His ring must’ve cut your eyelid. You need stitches.”

She licks her finger and wipes blood off my cheek, which is something that is so maternal and caring I could just roll up into her arms. This girl makes me feel so loved without having to say a single word to me. Angel watches Shelby and me together; this is the role
she
usually plays, the loyal friend. Has Shelby replaced Angel? Of course not. But I’m so uncomfortable I turn away as we walk out of the stadium.

Saturdays I sleep in, and wake around noon. Today is no different. I open my eyes, staring at the pipes in the basement ceiling. On hot summer days the pipes sweat. Now that it’s October and much colder, the pipes are dry. A spider has been busy spinning its web from pipe to pipe while I’ve been sleeping.

Climbing out of bed, I pull on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt from the clean laundry basket my mom leaves at my bed each week. Who needs drawers when laundry baskets hold so much? I rush upstairs to the bathroom where I shower, and the first thing I notice in the mirror is my swollen, bruised eye. It’s both gross and cool at the same time—six stitches on the eyelid that is swollen so badly I can only see half my eyeball peeking through. Under the eye it’s a mix of blue and green, broken blood vessels under the skin, a real shiner. When I touch the stitches, pain radiates through my head.

My morning routine is effortless. I can do it in my sleep because I’m always half-awake when I get ready. My bottle of Reds is in the mirrored medicine cabinet. I take one pill and swallow it dry, without water. Brushing my teeth, I inspect my mouth for any damage from last night’s fight. Everything is in order. If I were a Vampire, my canine teeth would be sharper, but the Reds prevent that from happening…at least for now.

I remove my guyliner with makeup remover that I borrowed from my mom’s bathroom, splash water on my hairless face (I only need to shave once every other week) and then weigh myself. This step in my routine is totally unnecessary, and admittedly vain. I’m not concerned about my weight and if anything, I wish I could gain a few pounds. I weigh myself anyway, and I’m up one pound!

Waiting for the shower to heat up, I strip naked and realize my skinny, pale frame in the mirror has bruises along the shoulders. If girls were into heroin-skinny, pale guys with blood-splattered black hair, then I would be their poster boy.

My dad has an old iPod that he left behind, and I found it in a box of his stuff. I’ve never added my own music to his, but instead left his playlists the same, just as they were the day he walked out on us. I listen to his music plugged into mini speakers on top of the toilet tank. It’s a way of spending time with him each day, I guess. If he were around today, I’m sure he’d share his music with me, because the rock and grunge music from the ‘80s and ‘90s appeals to my taste. Today, however, I play my dad’s favorite song (according to my mom), “A Beautiful Boy.” It’s a song John Lennon wrote for his son, Sean. Maybe my dad thought of me whenever he listened to it.

The hot water feels tranquilizing, as if it’s the first shower I’ve had in months. Truth is, I shower every day, sometimes twice if I’m going out at night. When somebody takes thirty or forty minutes to cleanse you’d think they were rubbing mud or barnacles off their body. I shampoo my hair and do as the bottle instructs: lather, rinse and repeat.

Singing the lyrics along with the iPod, I wonder: Did my dad think I was a beautiful boy?