Vampire Crush (3 page)

“They already like me, Nevil e,” Vlad says. “Did you see how many of them congratulated me afterward? Look, this is cal ed a ‘fist bump.’ It is more accepted now than a handshake.”

Nevil e—or, as I like to cal him, “Interview Subject Three”—ignores Vlad’s proffered fist. “I stil think that it is unnecessary attention,” he says and then pul s a crumpled schedule out of his khaki pocket. “What do you think one studies in ‘Basic Skil s’? I do not think I wil attend that.”

“You must go to everything,” Vlad snaps. “Everyone goes to everything.”

For a moment Nevil e looks as though he might protest, but then thinks better of it. “Very wel ,” he says, looking around the cafeteria. “Where is—”

“I do not know. I wil deal with him later. Go to class.”

Nevil e’s mouth tightens, but he complies, and I’m a little disappointed that I won’t get the chance to knock two interviews off at once. After he’s disappeared through the cafeteria doors, Vlad turns to the two quarterbackesque boys with a look that suggests he finds Nevil e’s attitude unbelievable. They say nothing, just respond with matching smiles. Except for a chin dimple and their hair color—one black, one a dirty blond—they’re almost identical. This is official y the creepiest clique ever. Not only do the new kids al seem to know one another, they—

No,
I tel myself.
No
. According to Mr. Amado, my job is not to suspect, just to interview. Before Vlad has a chance to turn and talk to the other two guys, I walk up and tap his shoulder. He whips around, the suave grace from before replaced by a wary alertness. When his eyes flick down to meet mine, I notice that they are a dark gray.

“Hey! I’m Sophie,” I say, holding out my hand, but he stares at it like I’ve just hauled my pet fish out of my pocket and suggested he touch it. When it becomes clear that he’s not going to shake it, I let it go limp at my side. “Okay. Anyway, I work on our school paper, and we like to do features on al of the new students. You know, the traditional stuff: where you’re from, favorite bands, what dead person you’d like to have dinner with …”

He snorts at this last one. God, this is embarrassing.

“… that sort of stuff. I know it sounds boring, but if you want to pick a time, we can get it over with.”

I wait. For the first time since I started this appal ing introduction, he looks at me, real y looks at me, from the crown of my head to the tips of my sneakers before meeting my eyes.

“No.”

“What?”

“No, I think not,” he says politely, and gives me a cool smile before turning his back and walking toward the exit. The two giants lumber after him wordlessly.

“I’m Caroline’s sister!” I cal out, and then make a mental note to punch myself in the face for making the humiliation worse. But it doesn’t matter; the swinging door marks this conversation as over.

My next class is around the corner, so I al ow myself a few moments of post-snubbing indignation before heading for the classroom. As I’m walking to the door I give my ego a reassuring pat by tel ing it that I don’t have to see him again. And I don’t, at least not until two seconds later, when he’s sitting in the front row of my English class with his long legs extended. I steel myself for a smirk, an arrogant chuckle, or some sort of recognition, but he’s leaning back in his chair, alternating between absently studying his fingernails and writing in the smal black journal I first saw in the auditorium. (My guess? “Today I was a total douche for no reason. The End.”)

Even though I’m one of the last ones in, there’s stil an empty spot in the back row. It doesn’t take long to figure out why. A wave of floral perfume hits me like a truck before I’m even halfway there. It’s coming from the diminutive blond girl I saw leaving the cafeteria earlier, who is now sitting primly in the corner seat like the poster child for perfect posture. Of al the newbies, she wins the award for strangest outfit, having chosen a lavender floor-length skirt with a flouncing layer of gossamer ruffles and a fitted velvet jacket.

I check my chart. Good morning, Violet Martin. After Ms. Walpole passes out our semester syl abus, I make a bid for her attention. “Psst, Violet.”

She continues to stare ahead, idly twisting one of her blond curls. I wait until Ms. Walpole turns to write the five steps to a good thesis statement on the board and then tap Violet’s shoulder.

“Yes?” Violet says, her voice strange and airy. First-day lectures are never anything to make you stand on your desk and thump your chest, but she’s achieved a new level of spaced out.

“My name is Sophie,” I whisper to her cheek, “and I’m doing profiles of al the new students for the school paper. If you have a second after class maybe I could ask you a few questions?” I notice that her boots have hundreds of little black buttons and an intricate tangle of laces. “I know I’m eager to hear your fashion philosophy.”

I get no response, unless you count how she fiddles with her hair and the locket around her neck. I try another tactic.

“So … is that locket from your boyfriend?”

“No, it’s not,” she hisses, and then col apses into a few dainty sniffles before pul ing a lace handkerchief from her bodice to dab at nonexistent tears. A few people in front of me turn around to glare, worried that the noise wil get them in trouble. I am about to tel them to mind their own business when Violet’s fingers clamp around my wrist.

“Can I ask you a question?” Violet asks, final y looking at me as she jerks me toward her and starts rambling in a breathy rush. “Let us say that you liked this boy. You liked him so much that you didn’t care that your family and friends said that it would end badly. You think he admires you as wel , so you give him everything that he could ever want. But what does he do? Does he stay with you forever? No! He ignores you and goes off to live who knows where.” Her voice cracks, and she lets go of my arm to flounce back into her seat. “I am at a loss,” she hiccups, holding the handkerchief to her mouth. “Do you think I should give him a lock of my hair? Maybe he is unaware that I stil care.”

I look up from studying the little pink crescents that her nails have left tattooed on my arm. “No, that would probably freak him out.”

“Then what should I do? What should I do?”

“Um, here.” I hastily pick up the wilting copy of
Seventeen
that someone left under my chair. Pointing to a headline on the cover, I say, “Look! ‘How to Tel if Your Crush Likes You.’”

She grabs it out of my hands and flips through it wildly, mouthing the words as she reads.

“Yes, this may work,” she mutters after a few seconds.

“‘Drool-worthy’? How repulsive. I may need some assistance with the language. Wil you give me your address?” She lowers the magazine and looks at me expectantly.

“What about my cel number?”

“No. Address, please.”

I’m torn—giving it to her might mean I end up with half of a

“BFF” necklace and my fingers superglued into a pinkie swear. Neal, who has the desk in front of her, takes advantage of my hesitation and turns around.

“You can have my address,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that is more Charlie Chaplin than leering creep, especial y when you take into account that the back of his sandy hair is threatening to cowlick.

“Pardon me?” Violet says.

“My address.”

“I am not entirely sure that would be proper.”

“Neal, stop it,” I hiss, scared that I’m going to lose al of my previous progress if we continue down this road. He ignores me. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like an anime character?” he asks Violet. “I kind of dig it.”

“Neal!”

“
Cowboy Bebop
. Come over sometime and check it out.”

Violet looks to me, helpless, as if genuinely confused as to what the proper response is.

“Neal, if you don’t stop I wil kick your pocket,” I threaten.

“But—”

“I wil .”

Looking more befuddled than scared, Neal turns around. Partly relieved—and yet partly offended that Neal so readily accepted me as a hamster kicker—I scribble my address on a slip of paper. Real y, what’s the downside? If I can lure her to my house, I may be able to get her to concentrate enough to answer one or two questions.

My last class of the day is journalism, and while it’s usual y my favorite, the nonexistent progress on the interview front has me worried. Sure enough, Lindsay’s already at Mr. Amado’s desk when I get there.

“I’ve talked to three of them already,” she boasts as Mr. Amado listens with bemused patience. She’s about to say something else when she spots me lingering at the door.

“Isn’t this project great?”

Sure, if you’re a sucker for torture.
Why didn’t I get the chatty ones? I slump into the front row just as Mr. Amado shoos Lindsay away from his desk to address the class.

“Most of you stopped by to see me this morning, and I think we al have a good idea of our individual responsibilities for the first issue. We go to press in two weeks, so I’m not going to bore you with my classroom rules or make you share what you did last summer. Let’s get started.” He points to Neal, who is busy drawing something on the back of his binder. Neal does the monthly comic strip for the paper and thinks that his class participation should end there. Mr. Amado, on the other hand, insists that he should try his hand at articles as wel . Sometimes I think that their power struggles are the highlight of my life.

Mr. Amado walks over and takes a place in front of Neal’s desk, tapping the corner when His Boy Friday fails to look up. “Neal, what have you found out about the missing donated blood from the Back-to-School festival?” He shoots a glance toward Lindsay. “Students worked hard to make sure there was a volunteer component this year.”

“Wel , there was blood … ,” Neal starts.

Mr. Amado’s eyes light up with hope. “Yes?”

“… and now there is less blood.”

Mr. Amado gives a tight smile. “You’re going to need more than that for your article,” he says, straining to keep his voice encouraging rather than frustrated.

Neal goes back to shading the complex design he’s sketched on the back of his folder. “Isn’t this something for the police?” he asks, distracted.

“I wanted you to look at it from the student’s perspective, talk to the girls who manned the booth. They were there until eight that night.”

“I did.”

“Great!”

“They don’t know what happened.”

Mr. Amado sighs. “Just do me a favor, Neal, and dig a little deeper. Please.”

Neal salutes. “Righto, Mr. Amado.”

Unappeased, Mr. Amado bends down to Neal’s level and starts to whisper encouraging threats, or possibly threatening encouragement. Lindsay takes the opportunity to lean over and study my closed notebook. Hers is already covered in scribbles. Editor-in-chiefly scribbles.

“So, what’s your angle going to be?” she whispers. I can spot the competitive edge through the friendliness.

“Why the new students hate me.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” The least I can do is act like I might have something to write down. I flip open my notebook and try to make conversation. “Have you met al of yours yet?”

“Almost,” she says and turns the page. “Everyone except for James. Hey, do you want to maybe see a movie on Friday? There’s that indie cinema on Main Street that always plays cool stuff.”

“I can’t,” I say, stil annoyed that she is beating me.

“Oh, okay. Wel , maybe—”

“Mr. Amado’s on his way over.”

Lindsay straightens in her seat while Mr. Amado strides toward us as purposeful y as one can in loafers. Crouching down, he peeks at what we’ve written. I put up my hand as a shield.

“So,” he starts, and then holds up a finger before Lindsay can speak. “I think I have a good idea about Lindsay’s progress; I’m interested in what the other half thinks.”

The other half has no idea what to say. Put on the spot, I ask some of my actual questions. “Don’t you think it’s strange that they al seem to know one another? And think Michigan is charming?”

Mr. Amado doesn’t respond at first, just gives me a look akin to the one you’d give the homeless person who stands outside the grocery store shouting that there are aliens in the bread. If his mustache had fingers, it would be wagging one at me right now. “Sophie,” he says. “I thought we talked about this.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lindsay shooting me covert sideways glances like she was once warned not to stare directly at a loser eclipse.

“I know,” I say, “but—”

“We’re not investigating,” he says. “We’re celebrating. Try it again tomorrow.”

He raps the desk and walks away, leaving me to wonder why Neal’s curiosity is encouraged while mine is smashed into tiny little bits. I sink into my chair and draw circles in my notebook for the rest of the period while Lindsay rattles off al the juicy tidbits she’s col ected about the two boys who were hanging around Vlad in the cafeteria. Their names are Devon and Ashley—a slap in the face to their obvious aspirations to be brick wal s.

“They don’t speak al that much, but we managed,” she says. “Do you know that they were in the circus when they were little?”

“Wait. You’re tel ing me that they’re mute circus people?” I ask, wondering if this is some great cosmic experiment: See how long it takes Sophie’s head to explode if we drop her in a vat of weirdness and continue to tel her that no, the soup she’s in is perfectly normal.

“Wel , okay,” Lindsay admits, “it’s sort of different. But it’s going to make a great article. Unlike Andrew Archer, who doesn’t want to talk about anything but dirt bikes.” She closes her notebook. “What about Vlad? He’s yours, right?

He seems interesting at least. A little show-offy. I can’t believe Morgan let him get away with that this morning.”

Me either, Lindsay. Me either.

At dinner that night I am treated to “The Vlad Show.” Vlad is hot. Vlad is cool. Vlad has a silver Hummer with tinted windows and he offered to drive Caroline around in it. Vlad is rich. Vlad’s parents are away on business in Europe, so he has the house to himself. And yes, he’s delighted that they let his friends come stay with him this semester so he wouldn’t be lonely. Caroline’s so excited, she’s shoveling vegetables into her mouth without inspecting them first.

“And get this,” she bubbles, holding her fork aloft. “He wants to know everything, absolutely everything about me. When I was born, where I was born, what my plans are after high school, if I have any birthmarks … everything! How cool is that?”

If I were a less petty person, I’d thank Caroline for plopping al this information at my feet, albeit coated in the slime of infatuation. Instead, I try to steer the conversation to other subjects. But when Caroline starts to reenact their good-bye scene by her locker, I can’t take it anymore.

“He’s weird,” I say. “What’s with al the bowing?”

Caroline colors. “He’s European,” she says defensively.

“No, you said his parents were in Europe.”

“Same thing.”

“Okay, that makes absolutely no sense at al .
None
of this makes any sense at—”

“Did you meet any of the new students, Sophie?” Marcie interrupts, attuned to stopping sibling fires before they start.

“Violet. I think she’s crazy,” I say and then pause, remembering our earlier address swap. “She, uh, might be coming over.”

A childhood of saying things meant to shock Marcie has made it tricky for her to tel when I’m serious. Her lips twitch before final y deciding on an indulgent grin.

“Okay,” she says. “Just let me know. I’l put the knives away.”

She’s stil smiling at me, proud of her joke, so I smile back. She’l understand when Violet shows up looking like she just rol ed around in her great-grandmother’s suitcase. Thankful y, my dad dominates the rest of dinner with talk of bankish things. After I help do the dishes, I beat a hasty retreat to my room before Caroline can corner me with more Vlad babble.

Our house is a renovated Victorian that stil retains a few creaks. My room is on the very top floor in what used to be the attic, and I’m in love with it, even though the ceilings are low and slanted and eau de mothbal lingers in the air. When I was twelve I painted the wal s a deep, dark red. Marcie once said that makes it look like a bordel o, but if so, it’s an inactive one—the only boy who’s ever been in my room is James. (When we were nine and played doctor, I tried to give him an appendectomy with a plastic fork. He chickened out mid-surgery.) My favorite part is the two smal windows that jut out and create little pockets of space. I have a padded window seat in one, and I’ve squeezed my desk in the other. When I take a break from doing homework, I like the cramped, cozy feeling of tucking my feet up on the chair and staring across at the house next door.

Tonight, however, I don’t have time to waste. The info Caroline dropped at dinner at least gives me something to work with before the next class. I jot down what I know so far.

Vlad

Likes: Expensive cars, being the

center of attention, my sister

Dislikes: Common courtesy, me

Marisabel

Likes: N/A

Dislikes: Vlad talking to Caroline

Violet

Likes: Mystery boy, showering in

perfume, teen magazines

Dislikes: Listening, making sense

Neville

Likes: N/A

Dislikes: Basic Skills, going to it

And I’m tapped. I throw my pencil down in frustration and end up staring out the window anyway. At first al I see is the reflection of my room—the light behind me, my daybed, and a darker version of my frustrated face—but then, beyond al that in the window across the way, a little halo of light. Deja vu comes swift and cold. Since our parents were cheap and lame, James and I used to use flashlights in lieu of walkie-talkies. We even had our own Morse code, uncrackable by Caroline or Nazis. Two long flashes and one short meant “I’m so bored that I want you to come over”; one long and two short meant “Go to bed and stop bothering me”; and three short dashes meant “Please close your window, weirdo exhibitionist.” Needless to say, that one got a lot of play during his sixth-grade, I’m-going-toplay-basketbal -in-the-park-with-my-loser-friends-everyevening phase. I press my face to the glass to get a clear view of the neighboring house. True, there are no cars, but Marcie did say that she thought someone had moved in, and she has a sixth sense about that sort of thing. When another dot of light flickers to life, I smoosh in closer, letting my cheek grow cool against the glass. Breath held, I wait to see if this is the beginning of an old pattern. But when it flickers out and doesn’t repeat, I feel foolish for hoping … hoping what?

I’m not Veronica Mars or Nancy Drew. I’m too paranoid to sneak into someone’s house to steal confidential files, and the old clocks and hidden staircases of the world can keep their secrets. But checking on that light isn’t investigative rocket science. A quick peek should do it. I promise myself I’l come back up here afterward to stare at what remains of my high school journalism career.

That decided, I formulate my plan of attack. The easy thing to do would be to ring the doorbel , but what would I say if someone answered? “I was spying on you from my bedroom window and thought I should introduce myself at night and without cake.” Not likely. I could peek in the front windows, but that might attract the attention of our neighborhood’s resident cat lady, Mrs. Sims, who has a habit of cal ing the police if she sees anyone she doesn’t recognize out and about after seven thirty. And since she’s half blind, there are very few people she recognizes from more than five feet away. I’l have to cut through the back. After tiptoeing downstairs, I ease past the living room where Caroline and the parents are watching some incarnation of
CSI
, head through the kitchen, and then slip out the back door into the summer heat. Our backyard is smal and mostly taken up by Marcie’s garden of pale tomato and cucumber plants. It is surrounded by a wooden fence that’s older than me; whatever paint it once had has long since chipped away, and the wood is turning gray. But this is good—if someone had ever decided to paint it, they would have noticed the two missing planks that make a secret superhighway to the yard next door.

The gap is hidden by overgrown lilac bushes on both sides. I discovered it when I was ten and desperate to find the missing shoe that James had thrown over the fence in retaliation for my spraying him with water when Marcie wasn’t looking. I said the hose had accidental y gotten away from me; he said my
Little Mermaid
flip-flop had accidental y flung itself into his yard; and Marcie told us both to be quiet, she was watching
Oprah
. James’s clothes dried out, but I never recovered the flip-flop, even after several covert scouting missions. When I push away the bush’s scratchy branches and duck through the gap, a part of me stil hopes, irrational y, that I’l find it. The yard is a mess. The remains of a rusting swing set lurk in the far corner, and the smel of urine emanating from the col apsed shed suggests that it’s the new home of the local strays. James’s mother’s old, crumbling birdbath stil stands in a smal circle of defeated geraniums, and I wonder if it attracts only robins, like it used to. For a while the harried Realtor had attempted to keep up with the maintenance, but if the grass is any indication, he lost hope a couple of months ago. It’s high enough to tickle my knees. If I were real y dedicated, I could crawl on my bel y and be invisible.

Settling on the half crouch of the semi-determined, I sneak onto the rickety back porch. There are no curtains hanging in the family room window, so I waddle up and peek over the sil . From this spot I can see down the hal way, al the way to the front door. Not much moonlight makes its way into the house, but there’s enough to realize that, other than dust and a few snaking cable wires, the family room is empty.

I sit back on my heels; there must be some sort of limit to how many times I can be wrong in one day. I’m just about to start my return creep across the yard when a figure darts through the far hal way. For a second my shocked brain scans for a “Stop, drop, and rol ” sort of acronym that explains what to do when you’re about to be caught spying. I decide on RLH—Run Like Hel .

I take a flying leap off the porch and hit the ground sprinting, resisting the urge to look behind me, even when I hear the quick creak of a screen door opening and closing again. The tal grass slows me down, and I’m so panicked that my breath is coming in short, jagged little bursts. The lilac bush is only ten feet away when a heavy weight tackles me from behind. My attacker lets out a startled curse as we both fal to the ground.

My side hits first, but the weight of a person on top of me rol s me to my back. I know I should have my eyes open so I can defend myself, but fear is keeping them squeezed shut, and my brain is shouting
stupidstupid-stupidstupidstupid
. I’m flinging my fists up wildly, but they bounce off my attacker’s shoulders. It final y registers that I should be screaming, so I suck in a deep breath and start to wail. But it’s soon smothered by the hand that clamps across my mouth.

“Sophie.”

It’s a male voice, but soft and exasperated whereas you would think a potential murderer’s would be hard and menacing. Al my concentration is currently occupied with trying to jerk my knee up where he has my legs pinned, so it takes a moment to realize that he’s said my name. I open my eyes.

His features haven’t changed, but they’re sharper somehow, and squarer. He stil has the hint of a scar on his forehead from the rock I lobbed at him from over the fence, and even though it’s night out I can tel that his hair is stil black. It’s shaggier than I remember, but back when I knew him his mother was always dragging him off for haircuts twice a month.

Seeing that I recognize him, he lifts his hand away from my mouth.

“James? James Hal owel ?” I yel in disbelief, causing him to clamp his hand back over my mouth. I scream a few other things into his palm, most of it not fit for my own ears, let alone children’s. As my tirade rol s on, he starts to smile, his teeth glinting in the darkness. It only enrages me further. When it comes to anything involving a bal or special shoes, I’m not very athletic, but once upon a time I attended a weekly karate class with the same fervor as a nun attending Mass. It was three years before my sensei told Marcie that he was afraid I was there for the wrong reasons. I believe the word “bloodthirsty” was used. Right before the phrase “I think you should get her checked out.”

Now I channel al of my anger and lingering fear into one mighty upward chop to the nose. When he covers his face, I bend my knees up and use my legs to pop him off of me before rol ing sideways and scrambling to my feet, my legs stil shaky from the adrenaline. Al the action has made me dizzy, and I bend over to catch my breath as I wait for the ringing in my ears to pass. When I look up, he’s hauling himself off the ground. Now that he’s standing, I should add about a foot and a half to my list of things that have changed.

Some people (Caroline) think that I am immune to boys. Not true. The boys of the world may ignore me, but that does not mean that I ignore the boys. I’ve had giggly crushes along with every other girl; after al , the only reason I like summer is that it makes Danny Baumann wear shorts. So James’s attractiveness is not lost on me. But I know from experience that he is a pain in the neck.

“I guess this rules out a neighborly casserole,” he snarks, touching his nose one last time before shoving his hands in his pockets. “Although, since al of the things you used to make me had dog food mashed up in them, maybe I should be grateful.”

He looks at me expectantly. If he thinks I’m about to whip out a “Welcome Back” banner and tiny hats, he’s going to be disappointed. “I’m sorry, were you expecting a parade?”

“Some people might say that it’s the least you can do for the guy who gave you your first kiss.”

“First kiss? I woke up in my family’s hammock to find you slobbering over my cheek,” I say and then cut to the chase.

“What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” he says, and then gestures back at the house just in case I thought he was talking about the lawn. “Again.”

“And you couldn’t have told me this without jumping me from behind?”

“In hindsight, it’s possible that my plan had a few kinks,”

he says, but when he’s met with only my irate incredulity, he drops the swagger. “I didn’t mean to tackle you. I just had to catch you before you made it back to your house and told people that I was here.” He gives me a long, considering look. “You know, you don’t run very fast—maybe you should practice.”

“Practice being assaulted? I’l try and remember to jot that down.” My breathing has at least returned to a recognizable pattern of in and out, and my muscles have stopped trembling. “Why does it matter if other people know that you’re here? They’re going to find out tomorrow.”

“What’s tomorrow?”

“School.”

James gives a short laugh. “Considering that I’m not going, I think my secret’s safe.”

That surprises me. James always loved school, mainly because around sixth grade, the popularity fairy visited. By the time he moved away the summer before freshman year, there wasn’t a team roster or MASH list that didn’t have his name on it. He had even dated Caroline’s friend Amanda, in that they went to school dances and sometimes her dad drove them to the mal . I, on the other hand, only cared that when someone pointed me out to a friend in the library, they responded with, “Oh, that girl” instead of “Oh …
that
girl.”

“Your public wil be disappointed,” I say.

“I doubt it,” he says. “A lot of things have changed.” James pul s a lighter out of his pocket and starts to flick it on and off. I recognize the source of the flickering halo in the upstairs window. He looks at me with a smal smile. “Turns out messages are a lot trickier with a lighter,” he says as though reading my mind. “What was the signal for ‘come over’? Two long and three short?”