Vampalicious! (7 page)

“That is so cute!” cried Olivia. “I want to see the HB. It’ll be my first vampire Christmas.”

Ivy shushed her. “Can you lower your voice, or do you want us all to get staked?” she hissed. “And we’re not going to the HB,” she added. “We’re too old.”

Olivia started to protest, but Ivy said, “Olivia, we have much more important things to focus on right now. Like going to my house after school to prepare the romantic meal that’s going to save my life!”

“Don’t you worry about tonight,” Olivia said confidently. “Alice is so totally perfect. It’ll be love at first bite.”

Brendan chuckled, but Ivy still looked skeptical.

“I got the two of you together, didn’t I?” Olivia pointed out.

Brendan and Ivy looked at each other. “The bunny has a point,” he said.

Ivy stood at the kitchen counter, frantically flipping through her father’s
Taste of the Night
cookbook as Olivia peered over her shoulder. They had only a few hours before Alice arrived.

“How about ‘Tortellini with Red Sauce’?” Olivia suggested. “That sounds good.”

Ivy scanned the recipe and shook her head. “We don’t have goose blood.”

“Gross,” said Olivia under her breath.

Ivy spotted a recipe for rare beef lasagna and asked Olivia to look in the pantry for lasagna noodles.

“Ew!” Olivia cried after a moment. “There’s a box of powdered blood Jell-O in here!”

“That’s my dad’s favorite,” Ivy said. She spun around to look at her sister. “Do you think it’s fancy enough for dessert?”

“I know how to make a sweet cream topping from scratch,” Olivia offered. She came over and plopped a box of lasagna noodles on the counter.

“Perfect,” said Ivy. “Now all we need is an appetizer.”

“How about a soup?”

As Ivy flipped to the front of the cookbook, she remembered their conversation at the Meat & Greet the previous day. “Killer idea,” she said with a grin. “After all, we already have salt and pepper.”

An hour later, Ivy had just put the lasagna in the oven when she heard the front door open.

“Ivy,” her father called, “I’m home!”

“In the kitchen!” Ivy called back.

When he saw them, Mr. Vega dropped his briefcase with a thud.
I can’t believe he’s still so shocked by the sight of Olivia,
thought Ivy.

“What have you girls done to my kitchen?” he gasped.

“Hi, Mr. Vega,” Olivia said, awkwardly wiping her hands on her apron, leaving bright red stains.

Ivy surveyed the situation. The counter was covered in blood paste and flour, and there were dirty bowls and spoons and pans on every available surface. As if on cue, the pot of water on the stove boiled over with a hissing burst of steam.

Ivy gulped. “Olivia and I are working on our art project,” she said.

“
This
is your art project?” her dad demanded.

Ivy nodded. “We have to make something for someone else, so we’re making dinner.”

“Well, then, I’d better leave you two artists to your work,” he said tentatively, slowly turning on his heels to leave the kitchen.

Olivia cleared her throat. “Mr. Vega? It’s sort of supposed to be a special occasion, so you might want to dress up a little bit.”

“What kind of special—”

“See you in an hour!” Ivy interrupted, and before her dad could say anything else, she waved him out the door with the backs of her hands like she was shooing a bat.

Ivy and Olivia were lighting the candles in the middle of the dining room table when the pipeorgan doorbell rang.

“Girls!” Mr. Vega’s voice called faintly from upstairs. “The door!”

Ivy was about to go answer it, but Olivia grabbed her arm. “Lesson of Love Number One: interaction is the key to attraction,” Olivia whispered.

“What does that mean?” Ivy asked.

The doorbell rang again. “
He
should get it,” Olivia said.

Good idea,
thought Ivy. “DAD! CAN YOU GET THE DOOR, PLEASE?” she yelled. She snatched a black lacquer plate off the table. “WE HAVE OUR HANDS FULL OF PLATES DOWN HERE!”

A moment later, Ivy could hear the faint patter of her father descending the grand staircase.

Ivy and Olivia peeked around the corner into the foyer just as their father reached the bottom of the steps. His hair was slicked back, and he was wearing pin-striped black pants and a tailored white shirt under a gray blazer.
Perfect!
 Ivy thought.

“Any woman would totally fall for him,” Olivia whispered.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Ivy’s father apologized as he opened the door. “Alice!” he exclaimed.

“It’s Charles, right?” Ivy heard. “Like the prince?”

Ivy’s father stood there, speechless.

Invite her in,
Ivy pleaded silently.

“Please, come in,” her father said.

“Thanks!” Alice said and charged into the foyer. She was wearing an enormous crocheted sweater dress, black leggings, and silver leg warmers. On her head was a black faux-fur-lined trapper hat.
She looks like a dancer in a Russian music video,
Ivy thought.

“Creative outfit,” Olivia whispered hopefully.

Ivy’s father snapped his head in their direction like he’d heard. He locked Ivy in his gaze, and his eyes widened.

We’re staked!
Ivy thought.

Rather than ducking out of sight, though, Olivia pushed past Ivy and marched into the foyer. “Hi, Alice!” She smiled. Ivy nervously hurried after her. “Thanks so much for helping out with our art project!”

Alice screwed up her lips. “I thought I was here for dinner.”

“You are,” Olivia said. “We had to create something special for someone else, so we’re making dinner for you and Mr. Vega!”

“That’s art?” Alice looked confused.

“That was my question exactly,” Ivy’s father said stiffly.

“I usually work in papier-mâché,” Alice admitted.

“It’s
performance art
,” said Ivy, pulling out the only explanation she had.

Alice’s eyes lit up. “Oh! I love performance art! Don’t you, Charlie?”

Charlie?
thought Ivy.
No one calls my dad Charlie.

“I once painted my whole body white,” continued Alice, “curled up in a ball, and hung myself from the ceiling for a piece. I called it:

The Phases of My Moon
.”

Ivy’s father smiled uncomfortably.

As she and Olivia led the way to the dining

room, Ivy heard Alice say, “Wow Charlie, your house is so enormous and ultraconservative modern. You should really consider metallics!”

Good sign,
Ivy thought.
She’s interested in interior design.

Olivia and Ivy pulled out the two chairs opposite each other at the oak dining room table, which was strewn with dead rose petals atop the black silk tablecloth.

“There are only two places,” their father said, clearly surprised. “Won’t you girls be joining us?”

“We can’t,” Ivy said firmly.

“It would totally defeat the purpose,” added Olivia. “You know, of our art.”

Ivy was grateful when Alice brushed past her dad and took a seat. “Did you girls fold these napkins to look like bats?” she asked. “The Japanese say that origami is the purest art form.”

“Yes,” Ivy’s father admitted, taking a seat at last, “that is a lovely touch.”

“Make yourselves comfortable,” said Olivia.

“And we’ll be back in a moment with your first course,” added Ivy.

As her sister ladled soup into black lacquer bowls, Ivy peeked into the dining room. Her father and Alice were chatting amicably. Alice was leaning forward, her chin resting in her hands, her eyes upturned toward Ivy’s father.

It’s working!
Ivy thought.

Everything’s going perfectly!
thought Olivia. Through the crack in the dining room door, she could see the candlelight flickering warmly on Alice and Mr. Vega’s pale faces. Both of them were wolfing down their cream of plasma soup. As she ate, Alice talked about waitressing at the Meat & Greet—the enormous walk-in freezer (“Like a cave!”), how hard it was to find comfortable shoes (“If people like us can live forever, why do we still have back pain?”), how tips were divided (“Evenly”). Mr. Vega smiled and nodded attentively.

“Anyway,” said Alice, “I think Ivy and Olivia are absolutely, one hundred percent right on. Serving food is an art!” Mr. Vega continued to nod.

He didn’t say anything as Alice finished the last roll.

Uh-oh,
Olivia thought.
Silence.
She turned and bumped right into her sister, who’d been peering over her shoulder the whole time.

“How come no one’s talking?” Ivy whispered.

“Lesson of Love Number Two,” Olivia replied softly, “never let an awkward moment linger.” She rushed to the counter, grabbed the bottle of sparkling white wine that was chilling there, and slipped into the dining room.

“So,” she said as she topped up the wineglasses, “you’re both actively involved with the Franklin Grove Art Museum. I’ve never been.”

“You’ve never been?” Mr. Vega and Alice both repeated incredulously.

“Olivia, you must go,” Mr. Vega said. “It is an excellent museum, one of the best in this part of the country.”

“When Charlie’s right, he’s right,” Alice said, raising her glass in the air before taking a gulp.

“Really?” said Olivia. “What’s your favorite piece of art there, Mr. Vega?”