Blood Orange Soda: Paranormal Romance (19 page)

“Sore and tired. Jack’s workout routine is a killer. He’s got me up to three doses of Soda.”

She nods. “You look tired. I also see the change in you.”

“Really, like what do you see?”

“Your eyes are a deeper blue. You have facial hair you didn’t have two weeks ago,” she says.

I feel the stubble along my cheek. “It’s about time. How are you feeling?” I ask her.

“Much better. The blood transfusion helped. Thank you for insisting that we try again.”

“The blood transfusion isn’t a cure. Jack mentioned there might be a way to heal you,” I say.

She looks away from me for a moment and then stands. “What did Jack say?”

“Your First Bitten, Jonathan, might be able to cure the disease.”

She sighs. “I’ve already explained to Jack that I’m not asking Jonathan for help,” she says, crossing her arms. “Jack never should’ve mentioned that idea to you.”

When she has that tone and her arms are crossed, I know the conversation is over. There’s no way I can convince her today, so I back off and try to lift her mood again.

“I guess I’d better shower and get ready for school,” I say. “Do you want to take my picture again next to the refrigerator, to document my transformation?”

Her smiles. “That would be nice.”

Weezer is always late for school, so I text him to see if he’s left yet. Apparently my text is his morning alarm, and he agrees to meet me along the railroad tracks for our trek to school. It’s a chilly morning, but the 8:00 a.m. sunshine feels warm on my back, and I shuffle along the rocks and railroad ties. In the distance, I see my friend’s scrawny frame hunched over from the weight of his backpack. I jog to catch up with him as a thermos of Blood Orange Soda sloshes around in my backpack.

“Hey, what’s up?” I say, not even out of breath.

Weezer takes a drag from a clove cigarette and blows smoke out his nostrils. “Just chillin’ my cheeks off.”

“It’s not that cold out here,” I say. “The sun feels warm.”

“Sunlight gives me a migraine,” he says, squinting through another puff of smoke. “You’re gonna be a Vampire. Stop worshipping the sun. Jeezus.”

We walk along the tracks, stumbling over the rocks. Weezer and I haven’t walked to school together in weeks. In September we traveled to and from school routinely, sort of a freshman survival technique. After Bao Wang noticed us, Weezer started sleeping in before school, or skipping out of the last hour whenever he could. And that’s when Bao became my bully, because it was easier for him to pick on one Goth instead of two. I’m not angry at Weezer for abandoning me. He’s a frail kid, more sensitive than me, I guess. And he’s completely freaked by Bao.

“You’re not dressed preppy-Normal today,” I say, noticing his black jacket and boots.

“All my Normal clothes are in the wash,” he says. “I’m not a
total
sell-out, you know?”

“Never said you were. When you’re with Angel, you’re different, though.”

His pace increases across the railroad ties. “Different how?”

This must be a sensitive topic for Weezer because his parents are dyed-in-the-wool Vamps. If he chooses to live as a Normal, his parents will disown him.

“I dunno, you seemed more Normal with her. You’re self-confident,” I admit.

“It’s all an act. I look more self-confident, but I’m still self-loathing.”

I look up at him and he’s smiling and wheezing behind his cigarette.

“Exactly! How about a little less self-confidence and a little more self-loathing?” I suggest.

He stops in the middle of the tracks. “Dude, that’s a great hook for a song. Seriously, bro!”

“Yeah, that about sums up our lives.”

“That’s why kids on the Reds are so damned depressed,” Weezer says. “We’re all supposed to fit in and live with confidence like the Normals.”

“But Normals aren’t any more confident than we are. Just because you wear Normal clothing, that doesn’t make you a self-confident person,” I say, expanding our theory. “Deep down inside, everyone is self-loathing.”

“Write that down, bro,” Weezer says. “See? You’re transforming, and your right brain is working in overdrive. We gotta get those lyrics down, now!”

I whip out my phone and turn on Evernote and dictate as we walk. This is where Weezer and I really click. Sometimes we can brainstorm and write lyrics and riffs with very little effort.

“What are some other words that fit that theme?” he asks.

“Ah, there’s self-deprecating, self-inflicted, self-centered,” I suggest into my phone as my voice becomes text.

“Yeah, there’s self-centered, self-absorbed,” he says.

“Self-anointed and self-appointed.”

He snaps his fingers. “That’s good. How about self-cleaning and self-lubricating?”

“Ah, no.”

“Okay, well, you get the idea,” Weezer says. “Use your creative juices to string together lyrics. Think heavy on the bass notes, a real Gothy downer—make it a rap song if you want.”

“I’ll work on it,” I say.

Weezer coughs and flicks his cigarette butt onto the rocks and steps on it.

“See? I knew the band would benefit from your transformation. Text me and Angel as soon as you have the first draft of the song.”

Even though I’m curious how he and Angel are getting along, I was so tense at Starbucks when I questioned their relationship that I choose not to bring it up. We step off the tracks and wade through the prairie grass, both of us in a walk-jog. Weezer finally breaks the silence.

“How’s your mom?”

“Better since Jack gave her a blood transfusion.”

“Where’d Jack get the blood?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care where he got it,” I say, as I hear the Soda sloshing around again in the thermos in my backpack.

Truth is, I worry about where Jack got blood for my mom. It’s illegal to buy and sell on the street, and I know he takes great risks in finding clean blood. There was once a time when crack and meth were problems around here. Those senseless drugs ruined neighborhoods and families. Blood is different. It saves people and saves families—unfortunately, sometimes you have to barter, steal, or kill to get it.

We’re late enough for school that the security line is pretty short, and I let Weezer go ahead of me because I have more metal to remove. When Officer Denny spots me, he gives me another one of his thumbs-up signs and I nod, as if we’re buddies. Weezer slips through security with no problems, but Officer Denny gives me too much of his undivided attention. He watches me toss my necklace and bracelets into the small bowl that he sends through the scanner. Today he waves a wand up and down my legs and arms. The wand beeps.

“Rosary,” I say, lifting it out of my pocket and handing it to him.

“Wear it around your neck and you won’t forget it,” he says, handing it back to me. “Open your backpack, please?”

This is different. He’s never asked me to open my backpack, because he’s always scanned it. Unzipping it, I show him my books but he reaches inside for my thermos. I’m in panic mode!

“What’s in here?” he asks, shaking it. “Alcohol?”

“No.”

He looks up at me, staring at my face and my hair. “You on the juice?”

“What do you mean?”

“Soda or Venom, are you juicin’ on that stuff? You look different these days.”

Soda is definitely on Officer Denny’s contraband list. And here he is holding it in his hand. Damn, I was afraid of this!

“No, I’m off the Reds, that’s why I look different,” I explain. “Ask any of the teachers. They’ve been notified that I’m transforming. If you want to follow me to the office I can prove it.”

“That’s all right, I’ll check with them myself,” he says, handing back my thermos. “Some kids in this school district party with Soda. Know anything about that?”

“Officer Denny, honestly, I don’t get invited to parties,” I say, shoving the Soda deep into my backpack.

He rests his hands on his belt. “If you hear of anything—”

“I’ll call you.”

In a cold sweat, I walk quickly down the hall with my thermos of Soda sloshing in the backpack on my shoulder. Adding a third dose each day will be a heck of a lot harder than I expected.

By lunchtime I’m uber-famished because I skipped breakfast to make it to school relatively on time. And Soda isn’t really filling, it just amps you up the way a Monster drink or Red Bull does. Grabbing a tray, I forage for food as fast as possible for my twenty-five-minute lunch period. I take two slices of pizza, meatloaf with potatoes, and two milks. I even partake in the healthy alternative of yogurt. In my backpack my Soda still sloshes around, calling my name.

Weezer is sitting with Angel and a group of her friends at the far end of the lunchroom. Shelby is nowhere in sight because she has a different lunch hour. I walk over to Weezer’s table and set my tray down.

He looks up at my tray of food. “Dude, are you pregnant? You’re eating for two.”

“I skipped breakfast today,” I say, diving into the meatloaf.

Angel picks at the pepperoni on my pizza. “I skip breakfast every day and I’m never that hungry.”

“I’m a growing Vampire, remember?” I say.

“Yeah, just like my cousin,” Weezer says. “Once you start transforming, you consume
everything
.”

“Huh, that’s interesting,” Angel says. “Guys are so lucky. They can eat anything they want and it turns to muscle.”

Weezer points to an overweight linebacker on the football team. “You mean like his muscle?”

She rolls her eyes. “Are you two going to the game tomorrow night?”

Weezer and I look at each other and shake our heads. Even though the last game was “interesting,” it’s not a ritual he and I want to repeat every Friday night.

“Ah, probably not. We have a song we want to finish.” I keep shoveling food into my mouth and watching the time on my phone.

“We’ve been through this before,” Angel says. “You can rehearse after the game. Everyone’s going tomorrow night. Bao Wang made it onto the varsity team.”

“So?” I ask.

“He’ll be all suited up, so there’s no chance he’ll seek his revenge. He won’t try to beat you up after the game.”

“Who says he’ll beat me up?”

“Yeah, why you disrespectin’ my bro here?” Weezer says.

“I said
try
to beat you up, Darius,” she says. “I’m not saying he
could.
”

Finishing the meat loaf, I stuff pizza into my mouth and pull my thermos out of my backpack, chugging the Soda. It’s no longer chilled, and when it’s warm my body seems to absorb it faster. The buzz hits me so hard I feel vertigo, and brace myself against the table.

“You okay?” Angel asks.

“I’m fighting the flu,” I say. “I’m dizzy.”

“If you’re sick, stop eating all that food,” Weezer says. “If you hurl I swear I’ll beat you good.”

Angel nudges him. “Weezer, he’s not feeling well. Knock it off.”

“I’m just saying, if he pukes—”

“Ohmygod, would you back off for a minute?” she says.

Angel watches me closely. I regain my balance, finish my second slice of pizza, and focus on the yogurt before I take another sip of Soda, listening to Weezer and Angel talking about the game and what they should wear tomorrow night. They already sound like a married couple, bickering about their wardrobes, and what time they should leave for the game. I pour back more Soda and finish off the thermos, shoving it back into my backpack before bracing myself again. The room spins around me in a sweeping motion, as if I’m on one of those carnival rides like The Whip.