Eighth Grade Bites (5 page)

Henry looked at the food on his tray with a scowl. “I don't care what they call it. This doesn't look like pizza. It's green!”

Vlad shrugged, holding up his crumpled brown sack. “Could be worse.”

Nelly always made him the same thing for lunch. He couldn't complain—not really. Vampires didn't have much of a selection when it came to ways to hide nutrients in ordinary, everyday food. Each day brought with it the same peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and either a couple of Twinkies or a Hostess chocolate cupcake—all discreetly filled with small capsules that Nelly had carefully injected with blood. No one ever noticed that Vlad's lunch contained any extra surprises, but a few people had offered in the past to trade him a slice of pizza or some fries for one of his Twinkies. Vlad had refused as politely as he could, reminding himself that while his lunch might be dull, it was better than his elementary school years, when he'd met his mom in the parking lot for lunch. Drinking blood out of a cooler could make you feel like such a mama's boy.

Henry led the way to their usual table near the door. When they passed Meredith, Vlad dared to smile at her.

But his smile was fleeting.

Vlad fell forward. He clutched his lunch against his chest, and when he hit the floor, he could feel the capsules inside his sandwich burst. Laughter erupted behind him, but Vlad didn't bother looking. It could be none other than Bill or Tom who'd tripped him, and if Meredith was laughing too, he didn't want to know. With Henry's assistance, he stood and grumbled at the red-stained, flattened sack. A round glob of jelly and blood clung to the front of his shirt. He picked the bag up and tossed it into the nearest garbage bin, still grumbling as he stepped into the hall.

“Where do you think you're going, Mr. Tod?” Principal Snelgrove wrinkled his rodentlike nose, as if Vlad didn't smell very pleasant.

Vlad pulled the front of his shirt out for the principal to see. “I fell on my lunch, so I'm going to the office to call my aunt.”

“There's no need for that. Charge a hot lunch today.”

Vlad ran the tip of his tongue over his canine teeth and darted his eyes toward the door. “What about my shirt?”

Snelgrove snorted and clasped his hands behind his back. “There are only twenty minutes left of lunch, Mr. Tod. I suggest you hurry.”

Vlad opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when he saw Snelgrove stepping closer to the door, as if Vlad might try to make a break for it. At a loss for polite words, Vlad went back to where Henry was sitting and sat across from him.

Henry wrinkled his nose at the stain on Vlad's shirt. “I can't believe he's not going to let you call Nelly.”

Vlad pressed his cheek against his upturned hand and leaned on his elbow. His stomach rumbled. He laid his head on the table. It was going to be a very long afternoon.

There was a crinkling sound as half a sandwich was dropped in front of him. Vlad sighed. “You know eating that won't help.” He lifted his head to a smiling Meredith, who apparently hadn't heard his grumble.

“You can have half of my sandwich, Vlad.” She blushed as she glanced over at Henry, and despite the deep, calming breath he took, Vlad's heart raced. Vlad tried to speak, but that's almost impossible to do when your heart is lodged in your trachea.

Henry came to the rescue. “Thanks, Meredith.”

Her smile broadened and she turned away. Her skirt swished about her knees.

Vlad felt nauseous. He smacked Henry's forearm with the back of his hand, but not as lightly as he'd intended. “What are you doing?”

“It's called being polite, dork.” Henry unwrapped Meredith's sandwich and took a bite. He swallowed, looking satisfied with its taste.

Vlad scowled, wishing for a moment that he was human. “I was going to talk. I just needed a minute.” Luckily, Henry didn't ask what he needed a minute to do, because Vlad really had no idea.

To Vlad's surprise, his fangs stayed safely tucked into the soft tissue of his gums all through history class and study hall. His stomach rumbled loudly as he entered Room 6, his homeroom as well as his English classroom, at the end of the day. But his fangs stayed put and the bell eventually rang, releasing him from the oppression that was junior high.

Henry had waved to Vlad on his way to another student council meeting, so Vlad hung out near his locker after the bell. Vlad didn't even see Tom and Bill coming before Tom had a handful of Vlad's shirt twisted into his fist. Tom's breath smelled like peppermint, which wasn't altogether unpleasant. Behind him, Bill was huffing up his shoulders and looking both ways down the hall for anyone who might interfere.

“What are you waiting for, goth boy?” Tom shook Vlad once before pressing him hard against the locker.

Vlad was trying his best not to open his mouth—not for fear of what he might say, but because he could feel a gnawing urge to bite Tom out of spite. He ran his tongue over his teeth and found his fangs poking out, reacting to the subtle scent of blood rushing beneath Tom's skin. “I'm not goth.”

Tom pulled him away from the locker and slammed him up against it again, sending a loud clang into the hall. “What?”

Vlad straightened his shoulders. “I said I'm not goth.”

Tom looked back at Bill, who rolled his eyes. When Tom turned back to Vlad, his eyes were rolling, too. “You goth sack of crap. Don't even know you're goth!”

Not that Vlad had anything against being goth, really. He'd seen the goth kids hanging around the steps of Bathory High at night, cloaked in black and looking for a way out of small-town life. They weren't so different from him, with their black hair, black clothes, and dark humor. In fact, Vlad had secretly wished he would be lucky enough someday to find friends that seemed so like him. Henry was great, but sometimes it was really hard being his shadow.

Tom shook him again, apparently not satisfied that Vlad wasn't quivering with fear. But Vlad, despite preferring almost everything else to spending a moment with Tom, wasn't feeling very afraid. In fact, he wasn't feeling afraid at all. He was feeling . . . hungry.

Holding his breath, Vlad pushed with his mind. Then, with a strange, dizzying rush of blood to his head, he began to feel completely irritated.

What was this kid's problem, anyway? Why wasn't he crying and begging to be let go? And what was he staring at? Tom glanced over his shoulder at Bill, who merely shrugged. He pulled back his fist. One quick punch would do it, and then he could slip down the hall to his mom's waiting car. Mom would be a real pain if he was late for ballet. He hated dance. All those froufrou boys and the stupid leotard. But she kept making him go—three years apparently hadn't been enough. At least Bill didn't know. Bill thought he was going to his uncle's every Friday to learn how to make pipe bombs. If he knew the truth . . .

Vlad smirked and felt his mind pull out of Tom's thoughts. It had been easy. Maybe it was the hunger that made it easy. Without a glance at Tom's fist, he whispered, “You'd better hurry, ballerina boy. You wouldn't want to be late.”

Tom blinked. He lowered his fist and looked back at Bill, who was punching his palm and eyeing Vlad. Vlad's smirk spread into a smile. “What would Bill say if he knew you were dancing around in tights with other guys? Think he'd be open-minded? Understanding?” Vlad followed Tom's gaze to Bill, who'd stopped practicing on his fist and was looking at Tom expectantly.

Vlad pressed his lips together, despite the gnawing urge to flash his fangs.

Tom relaxed his grip on Vlad's shirt and stepped back. He grabbed Bill's sleeve and they moved down the hall, away from Vlad. Bill was whispering questions, but Tom silenced him with a shove.

In the window across from where he stood, Vlad caught his reflection. He looked paler, older, and positively fierce. He smiled, revealing his perfect white fangs.

It had turned out to be a good day after all.

D
RESSED AS I AM, what do I look like to you?” Mr. Otis looked about the classroom. Several students fiddled with objects on their desks in response. Some met his gaze with glazed eyes of indifference. “Come on, first thing that pops into your head.”

A small voice broke the silence. “A homeless guy?”

Stephanie Brawn shot her hand up. Her tone was matter-of-fact. “A mortician.”

“A zombie?” Carl squeaked. Carl was one of the quieter students. Lanky, shy. It always surprised Vlad to hear his voice.

Mr. Otis pointed a long finger at Carl. His eyes twinkled. “Yes. As you seemed to enjoy my unicorn costume last week and my troll costume the week before, I thought I'd choose something a bit less obvious this time. I wore this as inspiration for the project we'll be undertaking this week.”

Mr. Otis turned to his bag, where he retrieved a hefty stack of papers and began passing them to each student. Once the papers were handed out, he returned to his perch on the corner of the desk, a proud smile on his face. He searched their eyes, obviously expecting wonderment and curiosity, but his smile slipped when he found only disappointment. Even Vlad, who'd come to enjoy having Mr. Otis as a teacher over the past few weeks and found the study of such things fascinating, slumped down in his seat. New projects always started out sounding cool, but before you knew it, the teacher had glitter and construction paper strewn about the room and you were getting fitted for some stupid costume. Vlad decided that teachers' ideas were a lot like bunches of garlic—intriguing from afar, but up close sadly sickening and, if you weren't careful, deadly. Still, he felt sorry for Mr. Otis, who, like so many substitutes, was trying to make an impression.

Vlad raised his hand and asked, “Will this be an oral report or written?”

“I'm glad you asked.” Mr. Otis glanced down at the papers on his desk and back at the class. “Since I first began teaching you, we've been learning the folklore and history of a different mythological creature every week. This week we will embark on the study of supernatural beings, and at the end of our studies, you will each be turning in a thousand-word essay on one of those supernatural creatures, as well as giving an oral presentation near the end of February.”

Mr. Otis turned to the blackboard with a spring in his step and scribbled down a list of slightly crooked words. He turned back to the class and nodded at the intrigued looks he saw on their faces. Reaching into his bag, he retrieved a handful of small, folded papers. Mr. Otis stuffed them into his hat and said, “These will be no ordinary reports. I want you to write them as if you were the creature you draw from my hat. Tell me how you feel, what your strengths are, your weaknesses, any special abilities you may have. Tap into what makes you a witch, a werewolf, a vampire, and so on. Show me the true nature of yourself.”

Vlad sank farther into his seat. Hiding his true nature was a daily chore and certainly not something he wanted to expose in front of the class. People would panic. Meredith would cringe. And he could only imagine how closely Principal Snelgrove would watch him after learning his secret. As Mr. Otis began his slow trip around the room, stopping at each desk and holding out the hat, Vlad crossed his fingers under the desk and hoped that the mathematical odds would be with him and he'd draw
zombie
or
warlock
—anything
but
his true nature.

In front of him, Chelsea Whitaker was pouting over her pick. She lifted her furrowed brow to Mr. Otis, who merely smiled and held the hat out to Vlad. Vlad reached in and pulled out a slip of paper.

Vlad cupped it in his hand, willing it to read anything but
vampire
. He took a deep breath, held it until his lungs burned, and opened his hand.

The paper was blank. Vlad blinked, and when he looked up at Mr. Otis, he noticed that his teacher was watching the slip of paper with decided interest. Feeling more than a little curious and only slightly stupid, Vlad flipped the paper over and read his assigned creature.

A sigh escaped Vlad before he realized it was he who'd made it. At the moment, he couldn't think of a more pleasant word to read, and so he read it once again.
Werewolf.

He could do werewolf. Howling at the moon, fear of all things silver, inexplicable urge to sniff the butts of people he met on the street. Oh yeah, piece of cake.

Mr. Otis's hand clenched into a tight fist. Then, just as Vlad's muscles relaxed, the letters scrawled on the small rectangle of paper blurred. At first Vlad thought his eyes were simply losing focus, so he squeezed them closed, but when he opened them again, the letters were rearranging themselves, moving about the piece of paper like tiny figure skaters. Some of the lines blended with others, forming new letters.

Vlad's jaw dropped, and as if on command, the letters stopped moving. Vlad read the new word they'd formed aloud. “Vampire?”

He couldn't do vampire! Fear of the sun, craving for blood, inability to enjoy Italian food, everything that he really was? This was going to suck.

Mr. Otis relaxed his fist and leaned in toward Vlad. His smile, kind and warm at the front of the class, seemed sly and twisted up close. “A wise choice, Vladimir. I'll be looking forward to reading your perception of vampires.”

As if they shared a secret, Mr. Otis tapped his forefinger against his temple and pointed to Vlad, who looked quickly back at the paper he'd chosen and read the word once again:
vampire.
There it was, in plain English. Could he have misread it? No way. It just wasn't possible.
Werewolf
and
vampire
weren't similar at all. He could understand the mistake if the paper had said something like
vumpine
, but
werewolf
looked nothing like
vampire.