Blood Orange Soda: Paranormal Romance (27 page)

Sunday night Weezer and Angel drop by so we can rehearse and finalize our set list for Shelby’s party. We agree to play mostly retro music for the adults, and Goth/Punk for the younger crowd. We work on the song Weezer and I started several days ago. We each have our own opinion of how it should feel, and in the end we come up with a half-decent rap song. The rap is more of a “call to arms” —a fight song that we plan to use in our last set at the T-Party.

Tonight I notice tension between Angel and Weezer and I wonder, does Weezer know Angel and I kissed?

Why bring it up? Instead, I keep my mind focused on the music. When we’re finally sick of playing, Weezer packs up his guitar and looks around my room.

“How we getting this gear to Shelby’s Friday?”

“A couple of guys from V-Club offered to help,” I say.

“We got roadies?” Weezer asks, with a surprised smile.

“We’ve hit the big time,” I reply. “Yeah, we have roadies.”

Angel grabs her backpack off the floor. “We play a few sets then hang out at the party?”

“Everyone can stay. It’ll be a T-Party for both Shelby and me.”

She glances up at me with worried eyes. A combined T-Party carries a bigger significance, at least to her.

“Jonathan, my mom’s First Bitten, will be there, too.”

“Cool,” Weezer says.

“He agreed to reunite with your mom?” Angel asks, more curious.

“All I said is that I’m planning a party for her and inviting old friends. He said he’d make it. I haven’t asked him to transform.”

“But this is a T-party. Seems kind of obvious to me,” Angel says.

“I hadn’t thought about it that way,” I admit. “For now, I’ll just call it a party.”

“What about your fight?” Weezer asks.

“Right after the party we go to the train bridge. I need both of you there.”

Right now I’m hoping to get Angel alone for a few minutes to talk about our kiss. She seems distant, though, and anxious to leave at the same time Weezer does. Maybe the Soda drove her to give me that crazy kiss. Maybe there’s nothing more to it than that. Jack said Normals get bloodlust.

Angel walks up the stairs with Weezer and starts in on a long rant about why boys have to fight and how senseless it all is. I let her talk on and on as Weezer and I nod in agreement. What Angel doesn’t understand is what it’s like to be bullied. She’s popular, and navigates the treacherous waters of social cliques without any resistance. Goths like Weezer and me have suffered a long time. I have to stand up to Bao, even if it means taking a fall for him.

Later that night I call Jonathan, and give him the party details and Shelby’s address. Even though it’s short notice, he assures me he “wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I feel the same way!

I lie in bed, staring at the pipes in the ceiling, wondering what Angel is doing. What’s she thinking right now? I send her a text.

Me:
Hey, you still awake?

Waiting for her reply, I eventually fall asleep.

Bao knows I’m on Soda, and security is so tight at school now that I don’t dare bring the contraband with me into the building. I can’t risk getting caught by Officer Denny. So today I drink two bottles in the morning and push myself to run farther to burn off the buzz.

It’s wet and dark as I splash through puddles along the road. Closing in on a jogger in the distance, I catch up to him when we stop for a traffic light.

He gives me a double take. “Darius?”

“Mr. Striefland, what’s up?”

“You’re far from home,” he says.

“Only three and a half miles.”

“I’m impressed. How fast you running?”

I glance down at my phone app. “Last mile in 5:45.”

“You sure about that?”

“Why, is that slow?”

“Your pace is
fast.
”

There’s no cross traffic, so we run through the intersection together. I’m jogging while he seems to be running hard and barely keeps up. We complain about the crappy weather. He’s so out of breath he can barely finish his sentences. He waves me off as he slows.

“See you at the 5k on Friday?” I say over my shoulder.

“I’ll be there,” he says between breaths. “Make sure you start at the front!”

Cruising now, I drop down to six minutes per mile. The buzz has faded and I’m running on my own energy, and feeling stronger than ever. In the distance I hear a train horn. This is the same train that passes by my neighborhood on its way to St. Cloud. I turn right down a quiet street and am following the sound when I notice the railroad tracks ahead of me. I slow to a jog approaching the tracks, and stop at the railroad ties to look east, then west. I see the train coming toward me from the east. It’s like a rocket, ignited by the morning sun. Bouncing, I wait for it, feeling the thundering vibrations under my feet. I begin jogging in the center of the tracks in the same direction as the train, my feet landing on every other railroad tie. My full concentration focuses on my foot landings so I don’t stumble and fall. The train charges after me, and the horn screams in that old, familiar, haunting echo. The conductor must be sick of this routine. He must know me by now, and I wouldn’t blame him if he wants to run me down once and for all.

I’m sprinting and thrusting my arms and legs as fast and high as they’ll go. Usually this tosses me into oxygen debt but right now I’m in the zone, breathing without any struggle. The train is close enough that its headlight casts my shadow in front of me. My shadow is stretched out on the tracks as it, too, runs for its life. I give my sprinting another five strides and I jump off the center of the tracks onto the loose rock and dirt, still running, still breathing.

Counting: one, two, three…and the train charges by me in a blur of graffiti and clacking in its tailwind. I slow to a stop and look down at my phone. My fastest per-mile pace just hit a new pace: 4:30.

The rest of Monday and Tuesday are monotonous; that’s the only way I can describe it. For the most part I try to lay low and not draw attention to myself. I’m thirty pounds heavier than when I started Soda and an inch taller, too. Vampirism is hard to hide. Even though all the administrative staff at school know I’m transforming, they think I’ve just stopped taking the Red pill. If they suspect I’m juicing, I could be suspended from school.

So I stop wearing my boots, and rely only on my flattest sneakers. I’m nervous about the fight, but if Bao agrees to only give a good show, then the event won’t last long. And I decide when and how the fight ends. That gives me some control over this situation. It’s not the worst position to be in, I guess.

Shelby texts me routinely with T-Party updates and planning details. And I can’t help but notice that Angel is AWOL.

After school, Kira and I sit at the kitchen table while my mom makes breakfast for herself and dinner for us. Our family meal is a buttered toast and burgers combo. Both my sister and my mom banter about the party and who, so far, has responded to my mom’s Facebook invite. All the Facebook RSVPs are friends and neighbors. We really don’t have any other family members, other than Jack, living in the United States. Our distant relatives are scattered all across Europe, and never make it here.

Kira shows me the RVSPs. We’re up to twenty accepted, another ten maybe, and three declined from my dad’s side of the family. They were never comfortable with his decision to become a Vampire, and I’ve only met my grandparents on that side a couple of times.

Mom is considerably upbeat about the party, despite her original concern about all the planning. I think it was her conversation with Shelby’s mom that convinced her this is a good idea. Mom sets plates with burgers and chips in front of us as she sits with her cinnamon toast. She’s in a light mood today.

“Has Jack responded to the invite?” Mom asks Kira.

“Jack never logs onto Facebook.”

“Darius, will you call him?” Mom says.

Sliding my phone out of my pocket as I take a bite of burger, I call Jack and get his voicemail, so I leave a muffled message. “Call me about the party on Friday night.”

Kira and my mom review the RSVPs and debate about what to wear. I remind them that this is a casual party, no formal dresses. They’re set on dressing in traditional Vampire attire with capes, gothic jewelry and all. Since I’m playing with my band that night, I’m wearing jeans and a hoodie. Nothing more.

I’m biting into my burger again when my phone vibrates on the table, so my mom picks it up while she reviews the Facebook RSVPs with Kira.

“Hi, Jack.”

It’s a man’s voice. He’s not Jack or Weezer.

“I’m sorry, who is this?” Mom says.

I hear him talking, but I can’t understand what he’s saying. She hands the phone to me, totally confused.

“Somebody wants to speak with you about the party. He says he’s with the catering company?”

Why would the catering company need me? “Darius here.”

“Hi, it’s Jonathan. When your mom answered your phone I was afraid I’d ruin the surprise,” he says quietly.

I go into full BS mode to fool my mom. “Oh, yeah, our band will play on and off most of the night. You can set up food anywhere on the lawn.” Standing, I walk out of the kitchen and into the family room. Kira and my mom aren’t following me; they’re busy checking things off their list of party details.

“That was close,” I say to Jonathan in a whisper.

“Sorry, I should’ve sent you a text,” he says. “I’m confirming for the party, and I have your directions.”

“Cool, we’re expecting a good turnout. She’ll be excited to see you, I’m sure of it.”

“How is your mom?” Jonathan asks. He seems genuinely concerned and that’s important, if I get the chance to play matchmaker.

“Today she’s great. Stuff like this takes her mind off the illness.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing her again. Been a long time,” Jonathan says. “I also called to ask if it’s all right for me to bring a date.”

Not sure if I heard him correctly. “Say what?”

“May I bring a date along?”

“Yeah, of course,” I say, thinking about the photos on Jonathan’s Facebook page.
Isn’t he married? Or better yet, what if he’s divorced?
If that’s true, then maybe it wouldn’t be so difficult to ask him to transform. “If you have a date, bring her along.”

“I’ll see you Friday night then,” he says.

I’m excited. I’m pumped, but I play it cool. “Yeah, I’ll see you at the party.”

We hang up, and I’m standing in the family room with a huge sense of relief. Who knows how long he’s been dating this person; but we’re in a better position than if Jonathan were still married.

“Darius, are you still on the phone?” Mom calls from the kitchen.

“No, I’ll be right there.” I take a few deep breaths, clearing my head.

When I walk into the kitchen she has her phone out, and Kira is leaning next to the refrigerator.

“Stand next to your sister?” Mom asks. “I want a picture for Facebook.”

Putting my arm around her, we smile as our mom shoots the picture. How many times did my mom take photos of my dad in this very place during his transformation? And how many times has she taken my photo here, watching me grow up, and now through my recent transformation? When I look at her Facebook photos, they’re of everyone else. There are no photos that include my mom. It’s as if she never existed. Who has ever taken the time to photograph my mom? Nobody!

“Come here, Mom.” I wave her over and take her phone. “Squeeze in here.”

Mom stands between Kira and me and I hold up her phone.

“Say Blood Orange Soda!”

We all break into stupid laughter as I capture the best family photo we’ve ever taken.

Toweling off from my shower and listening to my dad’s iPod with Night Ranger’s “Don’t Tell Me You Love Me,” I notice Weezer has sent me a text. He wants to walk with me to school. I text him back that I’ll be out the door in twenty minutes, and he texts as only Weezer would:
At the tracks in 20, Bitch!

I grab a granola bar and a banana that that my mom left out on the table and I run through the woods to meet up with Weezer. This morning is cold but I’m still in a hoodie, not ready for a heavy winter coat. Running early in the morning makes you realize what cold really feels like. I’m stumbling through the rocks beside the tracks and I see Weezer in the distance, sucking on his morning cigarette. No wonder he’s so skinny. He’s all caffeine and nicotine.

“
Ni hao
,” Weezer greets me in bad Chinese as he hands me his clove cigarette. “Smokey?”

“No, in training.” We start walking together along the tracks.

“Training? For what, the Olympics?”

“Yeah, Olympic boxing,” I reply.

“Barbaric! Violence at the Games should be banned,” Weezer says in a British accent. “Bring back croquet—now
that’s
the sport of kings. Well, that and horse racing.”

“Why would you go with a British accent?”

“The British invented the Olympics,” Weezer says, with the cigarette dangling from his lips.

Is he messing with me, or is his knowledge of world history really that bad?