At First Bite (3 page)

Bright and early the next morning, Dylan and I are standing in front of Santa Monica Academy.

I’m wearing a long-sleeved gray T-shirt, jeans, sneakers, and sunglasses. The dreaded floppy blue sun hat Mom brought home yesterday covers my blond hair. To hide the redness on my face, I put on white pressed powder, which I fear has made me look like, well, a vampire.

This is
so
not how I imagined starting over in California.

“Let’s go inside!” Dylan says excitedly. Kids are streaming past us and into the school, laughing and talking as the sunlight pours down on them. I realize that they all know one another already, and butterflies fill my belly.

“The same rules apply here,” I mutter to my brother, and he nods as we walk toward the shiny glass doors.

Back in New York, our school was grades K through 12, which meant that Dylan and I were always in the same building (only in different sections). Santa Monica Academy is set up the same way. Fortunately, I came up with a set of rules years ago: Dylan and I ignore each other in the halls, and when asked if we’re related, deny it.

Inside, we wordlessly part ways: Dylan heads left to the high school section, and I head right to the middle school. I sidestep a cluster of little kids trooping upstairs to the elementary section. Then I unzip my big patent-leather satchel, my hand brushing against my Sanga! mini-cooler. I remove the printout of my class schedule and confirm that first period is homeroom with Mr. Harker, in Room 105.

I make my way past a bunch of guys hanging up orange pennants that read
GO BEARS!
My heightened vision allows me to easily make out the numbers on the doors: 103 … 104 … 105. Fighting down a fresh wave of nerves, I enter the big, airy classroom.

The bell hasn’t rung yet, so kids are still standing around and chatting. There are the Goth girls, all
dressed in black with torn tights and sullen expressions. There are the geeky boys, crowding around someone’s laptop (Dylan would fit in with them). There are the jocks, wearing gym shorts and the school colors, orange and gold.

Then I zero in on
my
kind.

In the center of the classroom stand three girls. One has a copper-colored ponytail and bronzed skin. She’s wearing a white dress cinched with a yellow belt and matching yellow flats. The second girl is petite, with straight black hair. She wears denim shorts paired with boots — very LA. And the girl who’s speaking, holding the attention of the other two, looks like a Barbie come to life. Blond ringlets fall to her shoulders and her lips are glossy. She has on a pink T-shirt, a floral-print skirt, and the same wedge espadrilles that
I own.

The way the blond girl holds herself — one hand on her hip, smiling coolly at her friends — reminds me of someone. Then I realize: She reminds me … of myself. This girl is the Ashlee Lambert of Santa Monica Academy.

Or, at least, the Ashlee I used to be, before bats starting showing up at my bedroom window.

But somehow, seeing this girl fills me with
confidence. What was I so nervous about? I’m still
me.
And I’m still going to start fresh. Starting now.

I lift my chin, take off my sunglasses, and march toward the popular girls. Some of the Goths and jocks look at me, shocked. Clearly, other new kids usually aren’t so brave.

I come to a stop in front of the blond girl. She pauses mid-sentence and raises an eyebrow at me.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m Ashlee Lambert. I just moved here from New York City.”

The blond girl purses her lips. The two others watch her, waiting. I feel my palms start to sweat.

“Hi there, Ashlee,” the blond says at last, her voice almost too sugary sweet. “I’m Paige Olsen. Introduce yourselves, girls,” she adds, keeping her eyes on me.

“I’m Wendy Lee,” says the black-haired girl, giving me a tiny, hesitant smile.

“Carmen Espinoza,” says the girl with the ponytail, her voice curt.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, looking right at Paige.

My heart lifts with hope. This is it. These girls will welcome me into their fold, make me the fourth member of their crew. I picture all of us going shopping in Beverly Hills. Hanging out in one another’s bedrooms. Getting mani-pedis. Maybe Eve and
Mallory will fly out to visit me, and the six of us will all have fun together.

And soon enough, I’ll nudge Paige out of the way.
I’ll
be the one that the other girls pay closest attention to, and that every kid in the school will know.

“So tell us, Ashlee,” Paige says slowly, tapping one espadrille against the floor. I wish desperately that I’d worn
my
espadrilles today, but my feet were too sore and red. As if she knows what I’m thinking, Paige’s eyes travel from my bulky sneakers up to my face. “Are you in …
disguise?”
she asks.

Wendy and Carmen titter, and my stomach sinks.

“Yeah,” Carmen jumps in. “Are you, like, a spy or something?”

“Or maybe she’s cold,” Wendy coos.

Flustered, I yank off my sun hat. How did I forget to remove it? I shake out my hair, hoping the girls will notice its lustrous quality and realize that
I’m one of them.
And I’m not dressed
that
atrociously. I even have a designer bag! I try to hold it up in a subtle way.

But I can tell it’s too late. The girls are exchanging knowing glances and rolling their eyes.
At me.
A
lump forms in my throat. This isn’t supposed to be happening!

I open my mouth to explain about my sunburn — although, would that make me sound even dorkier? — but then the bell rings. Kids start to take their seats.

“Later,
Rash
-lee,” Paige drawls, leading Carmen and Wendy away. The girls burst into giggles, and I hear Carmen murmur, “Did you see how her hands were all red?”

Hot tears blur my vision and I drop into the first available seat.
Why do I have to be a vampire?
I think, anger growing in my chest.
It’s ruining everything!

“Ignore them,” a voice says beside me.

I swipe at my eyes and glance to my left. The girl sitting there has curly light brown hair, wide hazel eyes, and skin the color of a latte. She’s pretty, but she’s wearing a purple T-shirt and a necklace of big orange beads. Neon blue bangles slide up and down her arms. Everything clashes. There’s no way she’s in the popular crowd.

“Those girls,” she continues. “They love to be mean every chance they get. But you can’t take them seriously.”

I squirm in my seat. I hate that this weirdly dressed girl overheard how Paige insulted me. I hate that she’s taking pity on me. I wish she’d mind her own business.

“I’m fine,” I tell her shortly, then face forward as the teacher walks in.

“Good morning, everyone!” booms Mr. Harker, who is surprisingly young and handsome — for a teacher. He has sandy hair and cool, black-framed glasses. “I trust you all had a nice winter break?”

“I went to Hawaii!” Paige bubbles from her seat.

“And no one cares,” the girl next to me says under her breath. For some reason this almost makes me laugh, but then I decide it’s not funny.

“Well,” says Mr. Harker, blowing his nose with a tissue, “I was laid up with the flu, so I was not so lucky. Ah,” he adds, lifting up a piece of paper from his desk. “I see we have a new student in our midst. Ashlee Lambert, can you please make your presence known?”

I raise my hand and hear snickers coming from Paige’s area. My stomach turns.

“Welcome, Ms. Lambert,” Mr. Harker says. “I’ll also be your sixth period English teacher. Please let me know if you have any questions.”

I do,
I think.
I’d like to know if there’s any way for me to become popular.
But I keep quiet, folding my sunburned hands and looking down as Mr. Harker takes attendance. I learn that the girl next to me is named Sasha Hirsh, which sounds familiar, but I can’t figure out why.

“All right,” says Mr. Harker when he’s done. “I want to remind folks that we still need a wardrobe master for the seventh-grade play. Opening night’s in less than two weeks! I’m the director, so come speak to me if you want to sign up for the position.”

“And I’m the star,” Paige announces haughtily, turning in her seat. “We had to fire our last wardrobe master because she had a
terrible
sense of style.” She shudders, and Carmen and Wendy nod emphatically.

I perk up. Now that I can’t ever be in movies or on TV, the theater is a great new option. It’s obvious that Paige and her friends are very involved in the play. If I become a part of it, too, that will give me a shot at joining their group! And though I’d rather be onstage, wardrobe master does sound right up my alley.

“Which play is it?” I ask. Paige narrows her eyes at me.

“It’s called
At First Bite,”
Sasha answers, her bracelets clanking as she turns to me. “I’m the stage manager,” she explains.

I frown. Haven’t I heard that title before?

“It’s based on a classic vampire movie that was filmed right here in Santa Monica,” Mr. Harker says. “You probably haven’t seen it, Ashlee, but I showed it to the cast and crew when we started rehearsals back in November. It’s really thrilling.”

That’s when it hits me. “
At First Bite
was filmed at my house!” I blurt out. A chill shoots through me. I had no idea the movie was about vampires — though I guess the title should have been a giveaway.

“Really?” Mr. Harker asks, raising his eyebrows. “What a funny coincidence.”

A creepy coincidence,
I think. I shiver in the warm classroom.

“Rash-lee lives in a horror-movie house?” I hear Paige giggle from across the room. “That explains a lot!”

Wendy, Carmen, and a few other kids join in the laughter. For a terrifying second, I think that they
know
— they’ve figured out my secret. But as the laughter builds, I understand that no, they just think I’m a freak.

Rage and embarrassment bubble inside me. I clench my hands into fists and bend my head forward, letting my hair curtain my face. Thanks to my heightened hearing, each classmate’s laugh sounds like a small explosion. This is my worst nightmare. This is even worse than turning into a bat unexpectedly.

And speaking of which —

I feel the fangs first, starting at the corners of my mouth. Slowly, they push forward, sharp and pointy, over my lips.

Oh no.

Next my face begins to shrink, my skin tightening across my cheekbones and my nose taking on a snoutlike shape.

It’s happening. I’m transforming. Here, in my new school. My heart bangs against my ribs and I jump up so fast I almost knock over my desk. It’s not a question of if I should leave the room but how quickly.

Keeping my head down, I sprint toward the door.

“Ashlee, hold on!” Mr. Harker calls. He blocks my path, and I glance up. My eyes must have already turned bloodred; I can tell from the way they burn. Mr. Harker’s own eyes widen for a heartbeat, but I
move too fast for him to see any more. I keep running, my feet curling into claws inside my sneakers.

“Silence, class,” I hear Mr. Harker snap as I stumble out into the hallway. “Is that any way to welcome a new student? You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

Fine. Whatever. Let Mr. Harker, let everyone think that I ran out of there in tears. Right now every piece of me is focused on getting to a private spot as fast as is humanly — or bat-ly — possible.

I’m relieved to find the halls empty: Everyone is tucked inside classrooms, at least until the bell rings. So no one can see my arms bending inward and becoming webbed, leathery wings. No one can see my body shrink upward. I’m racked with panic.
I need to find a bathroom.
I feel my ears stretching to the top of my head.
A bathroom. Now.

Up ahead, I spot a silver-haired man in a janitor’s uniform pushing a mop across the floor. Thankfully, he doesn’t look up, and as he moves aside, I see it: a girls’ bathroom.

In that same moment, the bell rings. I hold my breath and throw my body against the bathroom door, flying inside.

Yes, literally flying.

Because by now, I’m a bat.

I catch a horrific glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror: a small winged creature, hovering in midair. My eyes are beady and red, and my fangs glint under the fluorescent lights. This is who I am now.

Voices and footsteps fill the hallway outside, and I hear a girl say, “I need to reapply my mascara before class. Come with?”

Frantic, I zip into one of the stalls. The
whoosh
of my wings forces the stall door to close behind me. I wedge myself into a corner. As my claws dig into the cold tiles, my bat body automatically flips upside down. I feel dizzy, but this is the only way for me to stay perched here. So I fold my wings tight against myself and wait.

The mascara girl and her friend clatter into the bathroom, talking about winter break. I hope that Paige and her crew won’t decide to stop in here. It would be just my luck for, say, Carmen to discover me and try to smack me with her book bag. Arabella has told me plenty of stories about being chased by screaming people shaking broomsticks. And she’s an experienced shifter.

I try to imagine what Arabella would say if she were here. She’d probably tell me to calm down, since getting worked up is usually what causes me to shift in the first place. I take a few deep breaths and wish I’d read the Vampire’s Handbook last night instead of the latest issue of
Us Weekly.

“So did you hear about the cute new guy in the high school?” the mascara girl says. I have nothing better to do right now, so I listen in.

“The sophomore?” her friend says, turning off the sink. “Yeah, Dylan something? I saw him standing outside earlier, I think.”

Wait. Dylan something?

No. It can’t be.

“Blond hair, blue eyes, totally gorg?” the other girl asks, zipping up her makeup case. “I heard he’s from New York City.”

My claws slip and I almost fall into the open toilet. There’s
no way
these girls could be talking about
my brother.
My socially awkward, doofy brother, who, back home, couldn’t get a girl to look at him if he walked into her.