Blood Orange Soda: Paranormal Romance (9 page)

We get to the classroom where the Vampire Club meets and I drop Shelby off at the door.

“You’re sure you won’t join us?” she asks.

Again, she has that California up-talk lilt to her voice, so I’m not sure if she’s making a statement or asking me a question. It’s a tempting offer only because I like Shelby, but I’m not a fan of this kind of club because it lacks diversity. There are no Jocks, Theater Geeks or any of the other cliques that must have kids on the Reds.

The room is really a mixed bag of Goths and Emos, and despite the fact that both groups wear a lot of black, there’s a big difference between the two. Emos are the “emotionally hardcore” kids. They wear concert T-shirts, super-taper jeans and usually funky-colored high-tops. They wear their hair hanging low over one side of the face, as if they’re hiding and lurking from you. Emos are more depressed than Goths.

Look at it this way: In a fight, a Goth might cut you with a knife, but an Emo would cut himself and expect you to feel sorry for him!

Goths like me are more Vampire in appearance, with pale skin, eyeliner or guyliner, more layered clothing, boots, and metal-like necklaces, bracelets, and gauges in their ears. Goths are more into music than poetry. The one thing we all have in common is the ability to transform into Vampires, and we’re all on the Reds.

Two guys in the club are both Emo Gamers who spend all their weekends killing zombies in their online worlds. One of them is in my gym class, and he sucks at anything athletic. Too bad for him “Call of Duty” isn’t a school sport.

The two Goth girls in the room are art students, and pretty good at graffiti. I’ve seen them tagging their art under the train bridge. They give me a dead stare and I wink. One of them breaks her stare. She’s obviously the Queen Bee in this hive. Which of these Emo guys is her sex drone?

“Way to slay the Asian Giant. It’s about time Vampires had voice,” she says, without introduction.

Technically, I’m not a Vampire yet, none of us are; but I understand her frustration. That’s why they started this club—for safety in numbers, and to watch each other’s backs while they bitch and moan about Normals.

Smiling, I walk off to the sound of girls gossiping about me as Shelby enters the classroom. Mr. Striefland’s is around the corner and down a flight of stairs. As a freshman, I’m entering enemy territory now, because most of the sophomores have their lockers in this section of the school. Moving quickly, I avoid Bao or any of his sadistic buddies.

Striefland keeps his classroom plastered with posters of analytically smart people like Einstein, Newton, and Archimedes. None of those math prodigies appeal to me much. Striefland always reminds me that music is closely related to math. If that’s true, why doesn’t he have posters of bands like The Cure or The Psychedelic Furs?

“Darius, you kept me waiting,” Mr. Strickland says from behind his desk, scratching his beard. He’s thin because he runs marathons. Like a lot of other days, he’s chewing a protein bar before class.

“You’d better have a good excuse,” he says sarcastically.

“I walked a girl to V-Club.”

He shrugs. “I couldn’t think of a better reason than that. Pull up a seat.”

No other students made it for tutoring. It’s just too early on a Monday morning for most kids to drag their sleepy butts out of bed. He looks at my face and squints as he examines my bruised eye. He doesn’t say anything about it. No comment, no joke, and I finally break the silence.

“Got in a fight at the game,” I admit.

“I know. It’s all over the Web, and all over your face,” Mr. Striefland says. “Want to talk about it, or should we work on math?”

Math help is a necessity, but I could also use advice from an adult other than my mother or Uncle Jack.

“I’m on the Reds.”

“Lot of students are—”

“I mean, I
was
on the Reds,” I say.

“You stopped?” he asks calmly.

“I skipped my morning dose.”

“Your parents are aware of this?”

“My mom and I discussed it this weekend. She agreed that I could stop.”

“Your transformation…does it have to do with that?” he asks, pointing at my eye.

“Yeah, sort of. I’m tired of being the runt of the litter. Time for Poky Little Puppy to grow up, you know?”

“Good for you, Darius,” Mr. Striefland says. “Life in high school won’t necessarily be easier as a Vampire. It won’t solve all your problems.”

“I know,” I say. “School will still suck.”

“Over the years, I’ve watched other students transform. It’s an amazing thing to witness; but most of them didn’t graduate high school.”

“I’ll graduate,” I assure him.

“And those who did graduate transferred to a night school with other Vampires,” Mr. Striefland says. “We’ve never had a Vampire make it to graduation here.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Life won’t necessarily be any easier, it’ll be different as a Vampire among Normals.”

This seem like a challenge from Mr. Striefland. He thinks I’ll transform and then drop out like all the others. I’m betting that if I’m a Vampire, I’ll hold my own, and high school will be at least somewhat easier than it has been so far.

“Thanks for the advice, and I promise you I’ll graduate,” I assure him, because it feels like the right thing to say to my guidance counselor. It’s probably foolish to make such a promise when I’m only a month into my freshman year. It’s not like I owe him something. “What’s the formal process here at school? Who needs to know about my decision?”

“There’s paperwork I’ll fill out, and all the teaching staff will be notified,” Mr. Striefland says. “It’s entirely up to you when and how students learn about this. Some students don’t tell anyone until the last phase of transformation, when it’s unavoidable. In your case, that could be around June. You could fully transform over the summer and return as a Vampire for your sophomore year.”

“Yeah, I’ll think about when to tell people,” I say. By June, she’ll be a Vampire. Am I better off transforming slowly and naturally at the same pace as her? Or should I speed up the process and start drinking the Blood Orange Soda?

Weezer is eating his lunch as if he’s on death row, savoring every bite, but I know he’s just killing time. He hates gym class, which is right after lunch, and I know he’ll skip it or at least show up late. He picks at his rice with chopsticks, which slows him down even more.

“You’re going for it, huh?” Weezer says.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

“Why now? I thought we were waiting until we turned sixteen. We said we’d have a big T-Party. It’s not because of Shelby, is it?”

He catches me off guard with this question. “No, of course not. Why would you think it’s about her?”

“She’s transforming, man, and she’s not very private about it,” Weezer says. “Half the guys in the school would gladly let her sink her teeth into them.”

“You can’t fool around with biting,” I say to Weezer. “I’m transforming because I’m tired of bullies like Bao.”

“Man, you’re gonna be a shitty friend when you transform,” he says. “My cousin went through it last year and he was moody. A total ass.”

“I’ll do my best not to piss you off.”

“You know Shelby is having a T-Party on Halloween to officially announce her transformation?”

“No, she hasn’t mentioned it.”

“Check your Facebook invites. It will be the party of the
season
,” Weezer says in a stupid Transylvania Vampire accent. “Damn it, I should transform, too. We could be moody asses together.”

“Yeah, if your parents are cool with—”

“They would LOVE for me to transform. I don’t know, though…not sure I’d have a shot with Angel if I transformed,” Weezer says.

This is the first time he’s revealed to me that he’d like a shot at dating Angel. We’ve both had crushes on her, and he knows I dated her in the past, but so far we’ve guarded our feelings.

“You don’t think she’d go out with you if you transformed into a Vampire?” I ask him.

Weezer scratches his black and purple hair with a chopstick. “She’s a Normal, and it might be uber-weird, but I could ask her out while I’m still a pre-Vampire. I want to know what life could be like as a Normal before I transform.”

“Make your move soon,” I advise him.

The thought of those two dating is so weird. It probably won’t happen because Weezer is so achingly shy, he’ll never ask Angel out.

“Yeah, hey, you’re not breaking up the band when you transform, are you?” he asks.

“No, we’ll keep jamming and making music,” I say.

“Good, because when you get all moody and slip into those dark places, you’ll write really awesome lyrics. This will be a good thing for the band; lots of pain and angst,” he says with excitement. “We have to record every drop of torment, and book gigs around town.”

“The fall talent show is early November,” I remind him.

He smiles with rice in his teeth. “Let’s trash that place!”

My walk home should be uneventful because Bao is at another school playing a JV game. Even Angel is absent, and I text her as I wade through knee-high prairie grass near the railroad tracks.

Me:
Where r you?

Angel:
@ JV game

Me:
Why?

Angel:
Where guys are

Me:
You with Weezer?

Angel:
No, why?

Me:
Never mind. How’s Bao playing?

Angel:
Not here. He got a concussion from your fight

Me:
Really!

Angel:
Yeah out for two weeks

Me:
Seriously!!!

Angel:
He’s pissed. B careful

Me:
Cool, thx. Wanna jam tonight?

Angel:
No Got PMS
L

Me:
TMI

Angel:
You asked
J

Angel sick with PMS reminds me of what Weezer said about my transformation from Goth to Vampire. He thinks I’ll be moody and irritable. I know the transformation takes a heavy toll on the body, with so many hormone changes happening all at once. I suppose I’ll have days when I need to call in sick, to sleep and rest. It’ll be important for me to time my transformation around semester exams and holidays. Thanksgiving isn’t far off, and the Christmas break would be a good time to hang low as I change.

Walking my usual trail along the tracks, I anticipate the train that usually charges by me, but no vibrations today. There’s no sign of the aging railcar as I look back down the tracks toward the western sky. The sun hangs low but it’s still not twilight, so I squint and slide my black shades on. I’ve got that feeling again that I had in English Lit when Shelby was stalking me. There’s a presence nearby. Nobody is up the tracks, but I notice shadows in the trees on the path that Angel usually takes home.

Bao is standing there in the woods with Chao at his side. “Hey, Bat Boy!”

“We want to play with you,” Chao adds, swinging a large stick.

My feet feel as if they’re nailed to the tracks. My heart thunders in my chest. Is this it? Is this a two-on-one fight where Bao settles the score? Whatever happened to Jack’s theory that revenge is a dish best served cold?

They walk toward me, Chao still swinging the stick, as I force my legs forward.

“Hold up,” Bao says.

“Why, so you two can kick my ass? Not interested!” I say, picking up my pace.

“You got lucky the other night!” Bao shouts. “I’ll crush you!”

By now I hear the train coming from behind us, and I notice Bao and Chao aren’t walking in the middle of the tracks like me but along either side, stalking me, waiting to see which direction I’ll run when the train forces me out of its way. My jogging becomes a galloping pace.

“Slow up, Bat Boy!” Chao shouts, as they both begin running after me. And with the train in the center of the tracks, my odds worsen. It’s now three on one.

Kicking into a sprint, I tighten my hefty backpack bobbing up off my shoulders. Maybe it’s fear and adrenalin or my skipped Red pill, because I’m lighter today and quicker, as my feet land on each wood railroad tie, never landing on the loose rock between them. I’m in the zone, with a perfect rhythm like when I play jam bass and nail each note without thinking about the sheet music. I’m pulling away from my stalkers and the train blows its horn as a warning that it owns these tracks. Pushing myself hard, I find another gear and I sprint even faster for thirty more yards before jumping off to my left and tumbling down a grassy berm into the woods. Instinctively I count: one, two, three...and the train roars past me in a blur of rusty-brown metal and colorful blurred graffiti. That was very close!