Vampire Crush (13 page)

Vlad continues to stare at me, lips pressed so thin that they are nothing more than a slash. The high lighting is hitting his cheekbones in a way that emphasizes the chalky quality of his skin. He’s not looking as debonair as usual—I wonder if he’s stretched himself too thin. But my observations are cut short when his face turns resolute and he takes the first two steps in one stride. My mind scrambles for something to concentrate on when a voice cal s out from across the gym.

“Hold it right there, young man,” Mr. Hanfield says from the doorway. “You are not supposed to be up there when no game is in session. Bleachers are not toys.”

Vlad’s tenuous hold on his temper snaps. “How is standing on it treating it like a toy? And I am not a ‘young man.’”

Talking back only makes the smal teacher puff up in indignation. “Come down right this instant,” he says, scuttling over to look up at us sternly.

“Unlikely.” Vlad stomps a few times, hard enough that the entire section rattles. “
That
is treating it like a toy.”

Mr. Hanfield pul s a smal white pad out of his front pocket.

“We’l see how cocky you are when you have detention. Stay right there,” he orders and then turns to me. “What about you, young lady?”

“I’ve got no problem getting down,” I tel him, resisting the urge to pat him on his sweatered shoulder as I head down the stairs. When I reach the door, I risk a look back just in case Vlad has already mumbo-jumboed his way out of detention, but he’s just scowling as Mr. Hanfield continues to lecture. Another close cal —time to declare quits for the day and go home, try to write an article about a game I stil don’t quite understand, and then take a nice bubble bath. Al I need to do is pick up my backpack and …

As soon as I turn the corner I stop dead in my tracks. James is leaning up against the wal of lockers, and Amanda is leaning toward him. She’s in ful cheerleading regalia, but she’s hiked her skirt up a few inches to show more tanned leg. I start to feel a little nauseated; I tel myself that it’s just because I’m sickened that James is helping Vlad, never mind that Amanda is the only girl I’ve seen him talking to for the past week (and, if the rumor of an impromptu make-out session with Vlad in the janitor’s closet is to be believed, already off the list). We stil haven’t spoken.

“Remember when we went to homecoming in eighth grade?” Amanda asks and then giggles annoyingly. Determined to prove how much this does not affect me, I walk toward my locker and start to twist in the combination.

“Yeah, it was fun,” I hear him say. “Danny got that limo and we kept throwing Coke cans out of it.”

Amanda giggles again. “That’s not what I remember.”

The door of my locker clangs as I slam it open. Oops. Out of the corner of my eye, I see James straighten up enough that Amanda has to step back or lose her balance. He says my name.

“Don’t mind me,” I say as I reach for my bag. I’m so intent on not looking directly at him that at first I don’t realize that there’s actual y something in my locker that deserves attention. An envelope is wedged in the slats, and the giant black seal on its back is staring at me like an ominous eye.
Dear God,
I think as I wiggle it out and tear it open,
do not
let this be another one of Violet’s quizzes.
The good news is that it’s not a chance to reevaluate my flirting potential; the bad news is that now I know Vlad’s theme.

Bring your bathing outfits and throw

caution to the wind! You are cordially

invited to our Fall “Luau” this Friday,

October 1st.

Who:

Vlad, Marisabel, Violet, Neville,

Devon, and Ashley

Where:

235 Preston Dr. (Map included)

When:

9:00 P.M.

What:

An end-of-summer pool party. No one

will be admitted without a bikini (or for

the males, if you must bring one with

you, swim trunks).

No RSVP Necessary

Mandatory bathing suits? In October? Vlad is evil. A smal piece of paper is folded inside. “Hope you can make it!” says Marisabel’s loopy handwriting, and beneath that she’s drawn several hearts and written “Wink,” which I assume is the fifty-year-old vampire version of an emoticon. At least this solves the problem of how to get into the party. After I wedge it into my backpack, Amanda asks, “Are you going to that?”

I say yes at the same time that James says no. Amanda looks back and forth between us a few times before her eyes narrow.

“I mean, no one cool is going to be there. I wasn’t even invited.” She turns to James. “We should go to the movies or something instead.”

The wide-open hal way suddenly feels as spacious as a sardine tin. “Have fun,” I say, shutting my locker and leaving before I can hear his answer.

I ignore the bathing suit situation as long as I can. The last time I went swimming I was eleven, and it was only after being promised a juice box, animal crackers, and my turn with the inflatable raft shaped like a dolphin. I am no longer that stupid. Or that fond of floating toys.

Stil , knowing Vlad’s motive for throwing the party, I doubt I’l be able to get in without showing skin, not even if I say

“pretty please with A-positive on top.” At 7:54 on the night of Friday, October 1st, I drag myself to Caroline’s door and knock with questionable enthusiasm. When it opens, Caroline has a phone cradled in the crook of her neck and a flat iron hard at work on her bangs. She waves me in with her free hand—that, or she’s trying to dry her nails. I choose to view it as an invitation.

“No, we’re not going to crash it,” she tel s her phone buddy with a note of finality. “Like I want to hang out in his dirty, musty house ever again.” She graciously al ows the person on the other end a few opinions. “Yeah, okay, I’l see that. Meet you at the theater in thirty? Fab.” After beeping off, she tosses the phone on her bed, where it bounces a few times before coming to a plush resting place between Grover and a nameless stuffed penguin. After fluffing her bangs and unplugging the flat iron, she final y speaks.

“What do you want?” she asks, arranging herself on the bed so as not to muss her strapless navy sundress and sandals that tie up the calf. She plays with the chunky beaded necklace around her neck, choosing to study it instead of me. Caroline has stil not forgiven me for my

“Vlad-related amnesiosity.”

“Do you have a bathing suit I could borrow?” I ask. Her eyes narrow. “You’re going to Vlad’s party,” she says, more statement than question.

“Yes,” I say, keeping things simple. I might actual y have an easier time convincing Caroline that Vlad’s a vampire than explaining why I hate parties that have no purpose other than to drink things and mingle.

She studies me for a few seconds, her dilemma clear: She can stay mad at me or play clothes fairy. Lucky for me, the latter wins.

“It’s going to be lame, but okay,” she says, hopping off the bed and crossing to her dresser. She flings open the second drawer. “What kind? One piece, two piece—”

“Red piece, blue piece?” I try.

Caroline is not amused, and for once her exasperation is probably justified.

After wading around in the drawer for a few seconds, she comes out holding two red triangles held together by a piece of yarn. In other words, something that looks more like a preschool craft project than a bathing suit.

“No way,” I say. “Next.”

She rol s her eyes but puts it to the side, digging around until she surfaces with two more options. One is yel ow with big pink flowers blooming on the nipples, and the other has

“Flirt” written in purple block letters across the butt. You’ve got to be kidding me.

“I’l take the red one, I guess,” I say, holding out my hand.

“You have no shame, by the way.”

“I’l take that as a compliment,” she chirps and tosses it at me. “No, try it on,” she orders when I make to leave. “We’re not the same size. You might have to be happy with the flower-power boobs.”

Reluctantly, I step behind the door and do a quick Clark Kent. After tying the top around my neck, I step out to show Caroline. She makes a face.

“It would be nicer if you weren’t clutching your jeans and Tshirt over your chest like a big weirdo. Drop them,” she orders. I unclench my fingers, letting my clothing shield fal to the ground. “That actual y looks real y nice on you, Sophie. Who knew T-shirts could hide that much boobaliciousness?” Al of a sudden she squints. “It would look better with a tan and fewer freckles, but, wel , you know

…”

“Yes. I know.” I pick up my wrinkled black T-shirt and drag it over my head before thanking her for the bikini. She waves a hand in front of her face. It’s a throwaway gesture, but I can sense she’s starting to think about the injustice of my invitation, her non-invitation, and a world gone topsy-turvy. She chatters to make up for the tension as she goes to wrestle a purse from the mound of bags that line her closet floor.

“I have to meet Amanda at the movie theater,” she says.

“Is James going?” I ask because I have absolutely nothing resembling wil power at al and should probably be quarantined for further study. But Caroline either doesn’t hear me or chooses not to answer.

“She wants to see that one about the zombies who eat New York or something,” she continues, her voice stil muffled. “Whatever. The main guy is hot. I just hope no one munches on his abs.” She tugs on the strap of a gray suede slouch bag and pul s it free with one swift yank before turning to me with a serious glint in her eye. “Oh, and remember; you have to tel me everything that happens tonight. Everything,” she repeats, and then gives me a bright, genuine smile before heading out the door. Vlad’s place is part of an older subdivision, complete with sprawling grandfather trees and retired couples who are even older. When I drive through the twisting streets, the majority of the houses’ windows are already dark. Every so often I spot the flickering pulse of a television or a lone bedroom light, but for the most part, Shady Grove has closed up shop. Just as I’m turning the last corner onto Preston Drive, a raccoon darts out in front of my car, eyes glowing like iridescent marbles. I slam on the brakes, and it runs for the cover of a nearby parked car. It wasn’t even a close cal , but my heart stutters.
Thank you, nature, for
putting me more on edge.

When I am final y able to control my breathing, I realize that the parked car is one in a very long line of parked cars despite the fact that it’s nine on the nose. Obviously, this crowd threw any thoughts of being fashionably late out the window.

I park my car and trudge toward the sprawling two story house just as more cars pul up behind me, spewing their giggling occupants into the street, most of whom are already wearing their bathing suits. Personal y, I plan on keeping my shirt on until someone ties me down and rips it from my body.

After I pass the final street lamp, the only light left is what pours out from the lower floor of Vlad’s house. I see floor-toceiling windows, gray, rickety shutters, and a wraparound porch that is il uminated by a single jaundiced light. Moths flutter around it in a vibrating nimbus, and every once in a while one kamikazes into the huddled mass of bodies crowding the doorway. Going by turnout alone, I’d say Vlad’s party is a success.

I join the group crowding the porch. A girl in a simple onepiece suit to my left is crying, “But this is the only bathing suit I have!” while her pixyish friend clumsily pats her on the back and stares longingly at the party beyond. Her suit is a size too large, but at least it’s a two-piece. She bites her lip before turning back to her distraught friend. “Why don’t you go buy one at Wal-Mart and then meet me back here?” she says. “Or we can, like, cut yours.”

I’m jostled to the front of the pack before I can hear her decision. Looking up, I find myself staring into the brown eyes of Devon—or perhaps Ashley—now on guard duty. It’s the first time that I’ve seen one without the other, and it’s an unsettling feeling. D’Ashley’s eyes rake over my body, narrowing when they hit my offending piece of clothing. He points at my shirt and then jerks a thumb to the side. I grasp the hem, wondering why I’m the only one who’s showing any resistance to the forced disrobing. Overtaken by a sudden fit of stubbornness, I pause halfway and tug my T-shirt back down. I wait for D’Ashley’s next move. After a few seconds of cartoonish confusion, he makes a motion suggesting that my time is up and I should move out of the way to let in the less difficult guests. When I make no sign of complying, he grabs my shoulder and starts to push me from the porch. Suddenly a hand clamps down on my shoulder.

“Hey, Sophie,” James says, sidling up beside me. He looks disgustingly attractive in dark blue jeans and a smoky gray T-shirt. I wasn’t expecting him to be here, so my reply is a mixture between “Hel o,” “Huh?” and “Excuse me?” I sound like a thing that just gurgled its way out of the swamp. He’s nice enough to pretend that I have spoken English.

“Ready to go in?” he asks, and then turns to D’Ashley.

“She’s with me.”

There is no way I am taking anything off now, not with James standing less than two feet away from me. I grab the dangling ends of my bikini top and waggle them at the hulking bodyguard. “I have my suit on. See?”

D’Ashley starts to shake his head, but a burst of laughter draws his attention to a point behind me. A new gang of students, about twenty in al , are stumbling up the hil . Fear flashes across the large boy’s face; I don’t think he was prepared for bouncer duty, and the students are becoming restless.

“Are you going to let us in or what?” James says, making a point to look at his watch and shake his arm like it’s burning a hole under his sleeve. “Looks like you’ve got a lot of people left to check. Vlad won’t be happy if it’s ten o’clock and half of his guests are stil waiting at the door.”

The threat of Vlad’s displeasure does the trick. D’Ashley gives a terse wave.

We slip in, pushing through a crush of people cluttering up the foyer. At first I check backs and stomachs for any marks, but the bodies are packed so tightly that it starts to feel claustrophobic. I struggle my way to the bottom step of the ornate staircase that leads to the dark second floor. It smel s musty, like fal leaves after a rainstorm. Stil , this is better than drowning in a swimsuit calendar.