Sweetblood (9781439108741) (20 page)

“Mark found you,” my mother says.

“You were curled up under the lilac bushes in my backyard, covered with snow,” Mark says. “I thought you were dead.”

“So what did you do? Go back inside and eat breakfast?”
I mean it as a joke, but it doesn't come out funny. “Just kidding,” I say.

He barely smiles. “I brought you inside and called 911.”

My father says, “I'll let the doctors know you're awake.” He walks out of the room.

“Are you hungry, Sweetie?” my mother asks. I want to reach out and smooth her brow, but I know she'd pull back.

“I'm a little thirsty,” I say. She pours a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table and offers it to me. The water tastes flat and stale. “Could I get some Diet Sprite or something?”

“I could get one from the machine.” She grabs change from her purse and heads out on a Sprite hunt. Good. I need to talk to Mark.

“How long have I been here?” I ask him.

“Since yesterday morning.”

“Is that all? My mom looks so
old
.”

“She's pretty beat. I don't think she's been home since they brought you here.”

“I'm sorry about your jacket. I puked on the sleeve.”

He shrugs. “You were sick.”

“I was trying to return it to you. I think that's why I ended up in your yard. I guess I wasn't thinking so good.”

“I kind of figured that.”

“Thanks for not asking.”

“Asking what?”

“You know. Where I was and stuff.”

Mark shrugs.

“And for not being scared of me.”

“I'm a little scared of you,” he says.

“But not like you avoid me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“You still like me?”

“Like you?”

“Me.” I point at myself. “Who I am.”

“Ms. Szabo?”

“Hey, Fish.”

“Having a bad week?”

“I've had better.”

He flips through my chart, shakes his head, then sits down in the chair next to my bed and crosses his legs. “What happened?”

“I was a bad girl.”

He raises his eyebrows and waits for more.

“I think I forgot my morning insulin.”

“Weren't you testing?”

“I guess not.”

“Is that all? Ketoacidosis doesn't usually come on so quickly.”

“Well, I'd had a few bad days. I thought I was just, you know, stressed out. Things got kind of out of control. And then I, ah… is this just between us?”

Fish thinks about that for a few seconds, then nods.

I tell him as much as I think he can handle. I tell him about the port wine and the chocolate. And when I'm done talking, he tells me that my heart stopped beating for almost two minutes.

“I was dead?”

“Near enough. You got here just in time. Fortunately, you're young and otherwise healthy. The remarkable thing is, Lucy, that you have recovered so quickly. But we're going to have to keep an eye on you for the next few weeks to make sure you haven't suffered any organ damage. And I'd like to schedule you with a diabetes educator to go over your regimen.”

“I know what I'm supposed to do. I just didn't do it.”

Fish smiles. “That's what they all say.”

They let me go home later that afternoon. My mother is into her cheerful act; my father grips the steering wheel with his big hands, saying nothing. I can feel, taste, and smell their fear and anger. I am bad. I have inconvenienced them. Made them worry. Bad girl. Do I feel bad?

Mostly I feel angry. If they hadn't taken away my computer none of this would have happened. I know that doesn't make sense, but I believe it. If they hadn't made me go to school I'd never have punched Gruber in the eye. That doesn't make any sense either. I don't care. I am beyond logic.

I look at the back of my mother's head, at her practical haircut with its streaks of gray. Every one of those gray hairs is my fault, I suppose—although it's really
her
fault for giving birth to me.

It's Dylan's fault too. He got too drunk to drive and so I had to walk home. I am very angry at Dylan. I am even a little bit mad at Mark, and I don't know why. Yes I do. He lent me his jacket. Why did he do that? Why didn't he just say no, or make me tell him why I wanted to borrow it? Why would he just do what I say? He says he's a little scared of me. Why is he afraid?

That's the thing about Draco. He's not afraid of me at all. I can be who I am. Everybody else I know treats me like nitroglycerin. I treat myself that way sometimes. Sometimes I think I'm the worst one of all.

When we get home I shuffle up the stairs in my hospital booties. I won't be able to wear regular shoes for a few days. My room feels small and deserted. The crumpled shell of the chrysalis still hangs from the edge of the shelf,
my bed is unmade, my clothes are strewn. This is what my mother saw when she went to look for me Saturday morning. I sit at my desk and test my blood sugar. It is perfectly normal—just like everybody else. I could eat something if I was hungry. Or eat nothing at all. For this moment it is as though I do not have diabetes. Perfectly normal.

I sit on the edge of my bed and take off my paper booties and unwrap the gauze bandages and look down at my angry red toes and I start to cry.

Dying has a curious effect on a person. I recommend it to anyone who thinks that they need more insight about themselves. But don't expect to get any happier. When it comes to self-realization, the more you know the less you like. At least that's how it worked for me. I have tremendous insight, but I am miserable.

Insight number one: I could be dead. I am staring up at Rubber Bat, and I could be dead. My toes are throbbing, but I could be dead. My parents are watching TV… I could be dead. Instead I am Undead again. Does one cancel out the other, or am I double-Undead? Nobody said that insights have to be logical. I am alive, but I am Undead.

Insight number two: When you are dying, your life does not flash before your eyes. At least mine didn't. That means that I have to pay attention to everything that happens to me from now on, because I only get to see it once. Several interesting things have happened to me lately. I will try to remember them.

Insight number three: When you die and then come back, the people who are there when you wake up are the people who love you.

And that is why I am miserable. Because they are the people I hurt the most.

Me

It is four days before I can wear regular shoes again. Four days of shuffling around the house in paper booties, then in a pair of my father's slippers after the booties fall apart. Mostly I don't care what people think, but I would die if anybody saw me in those blue booties.

By Thursday I am able to pull my boots on. I dress in the blackest clothes I have. I slather on the eyeliner and apply a slash of lipstick the color of eggplant. Still feeling naked, I put on my big shades. Then I comb my hair forward over my face. Now I can't see. I push it back and glare at myself.

“Who do you think you are?” I ask.

At school they are all terrified of me. I don't blame them. Who wants to be around someone who could keel over and die at any moment? Why should they waste a precious
moment on a surly black-leather goth/not-goth freak when they could be laughing and smiling and having fun with their perky-healthy friends?

In French class, Dylan offers up a tentative smile. I give him the invisible treatment. Sandy Steiner, Little Miss Perfect Diabetic, approaches me in the hall between classes. She asks me how I'm doing.

“Fine,” I say. “Why?”

“Well, I heard you had”—she lowers her voice—“
ketoacidosis
!”

“No biggie. A little intravenous insulin and I'm back to normal. You should try it.”

“No!”
She can't handle it. The very idea of blood sugars over 400 send her into a complete panic.

“You get used to it after a while,” I say as I walk away. Of course, it's not true. You never get used to being Undead. But I like messing with Sandy's perfect little brain.

I walk past Gruber and Buttface, talking in the hall. Probably talking about me. Buttface says something but I ignore her. I see Mark coming down the hall, but I don't want to embarrass him by engaging him in public conversation, so I turn away before he spots me.

I trudge through the day. After my last class I am heading for the door when Marquissa catches up to me.

“Hear you had a scary Halloween,” she says.

“It wasn't so bad.”

“I rode home with Dylan. That was
really
scary. He was so drunk.”

“You're lucky you're not dead.”

“I hear
he's
got a
thing
for you,” Marquissa says, smirking.

“Dylan?”

“No. Wayne,” Marquissa says, showing her teeth. How can a smile be so nasty?

Fiona comes up looking very stripy in candy cane socks and a jacket made out of some sort of crinkly gold plastic. “
Who's
got a thing for
who
?” she says, inserting herself into the conversation.

“Lucy's got a boyfriend old enough to be her dad,” Marquissa says.

“He is
not
my boyfriend,” I say.

“Who?” Fiona asks.

“Weird Wayne,” Marquissa says.

“That
guy
?” Fiona looks horrified.
“Really?”

“You guys are sick.” I roll my eyes and walk away.

“So,” says Dr. Rick, “how is the plan coming along?”

“Plan?”

“Yes. Your strategy for getting your computer back?”

“Oh. That plan.” I laugh.

“Is something
wrong
?” he asks, eyebrows bobbing in eager anticipation. I guess nobody told him about my stroll in the snail.

“No, no, everything is fine,” I say. “Actually, I've been making some important decisions.”

“Such as?”

“Respect my elders, avoid drugs and alcohol, do my homework, quit smoking, don't hang around with vampires. You know. All the usual stuff.”

“I didn't know you smoked.”

“I don't.”

Dr. Rick is blinking rapidly. “I can't always tell when you're kidding,” he says.

“Neither can I.”

“I see.” He gives me a careful look. “You seem… more relaxed today.”

“I've had an interesting week.”

“Oh? How so?”

I consider telling him everything—it would feel so good to let it all spill out—but the hungry look on his face creeps me out. I realize that he does not truly want me to get my life together. His patients are his entertainment. Dr. Rick is just another vampire, sucking up the twisted energy of his patients.

I decide to load him up with empty calories.

“We're studying acids and bases in chemistry. And reading
The Little Prince
in French class. And I'm rewriting my essay for Mrs. Graham. I've decided to become a personal banker. Personal banking is actually very interesting. Have you ever seen the movie
It's a Wonderful Life
?”

“Of course.” He can't hide his disappointment. He wants angst and wickedness, and I'm giving him Jimmy Stewart.

“That's what inspired me to become a personal banker. Either that or a chemist. Did you know that if you mix an acid with a base you get water?”

“How fascinating.”

I prattle on about acids and bases and personal banking for another twenty minutes. Dr. Rick, nearly comatose, finally looks at his watch and tells me our time is up.

I am out the door, on my way back to my computerless cell, when my sore toes make a wrong turn and take me toward Harker Village. Antoinette has nothing new in her window display. Bugs Bunny, bleeding heart, fire-breathing dragon, knives, swords, and chains. Lame, lame, triple lame. How
about a big red X on one cheek? Everybody would ask me what it means. I'd glare at them and walk away. Would that make me feel better?

I push through the door and enter the shop. Antoinette is behind the counter, bent over her left foot. At first I think she is clipping her toenails, then I realize that she is tattooing her middle toe.

“Be with you in a sec,” she says, not looking up.

“Take your time.”

“Is that angry, indecisive Lucy I hear?”

“I'm not angry. I'm pissed off.”

Antoinette sets down her tattoo machine, spreads her toes, and admires her work. The first three toes read A-N-T.

“Ant?” I say.

“I'm doing my name. One letter per toe.”

“Just in case you forget who you are?”

“Don't laugh, girl. It happens. My mother had Alzheimer's. Doesn't hurt to plan for the future. So what's up with you, kid? Wanna get inked today?”

“I'm thinking of something for my forehead.”

“Very painful, but we aim to please. What have you got in mind? Lightning bolt? Scarlet letter? Third eye?”