Vampire Night

by Alice Bell

  She stood up with obvious agitation and paced the room. Then she sat at the piano and opened it. Her back was to me now. She began to play. Her slender fingers danced over the keys and a haunting melody floated out.

  I noticed a framed portrait on the piano. Of a cat. No pictures of people, just the white cat with two different colored eyes, one blue and one green. Not the best looking cat either.

  When she stopped playing, she checked her watch. Waiting, it seemed. At last, she sighed and got up and left the room. Her platform shoes were heavy on the stairs.

  When I heard water running in a bathtub, I took my chance and headed straight for her suitcase. I don’t know what I expected find but not… books. Her suitcase was filled with books!

  My gaze swept the room, taking in all the other books on the shelves, stacked in the corners, overflowing from tables and chairs. Was she a book thief?

  I found her purse in a side pocket. I opened it and slid out her driver’s license. Scarlett Rain, Height 5’4”, Weight 110, Eyes Blue. Her natural hair color was brown. At least, that’s what it said on her license. She was twenty-one.

  After putting her purse back, I picked up one of the books. It was a worn paperback, Tristessa, by Jack Kerouac. In Spanish ‘tristessa’ meant sadness.

  She turned off the water and the old pipes groaned. I heard her cross the floor above me, and then her footsteps came scampering down the stairs. I set the book down gently, so she wouldn’t see it suspended in mid-air.

  She was wrapped in a white towel, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind her. Drops of water fell from her pinned up hair onto her shoulders. One long red tendril had escaped. She picked up the phone and dialed the same number as before. I could tell from counting the clicks.

  I had a photographic memory that I considered a bit of a curse. Another one in a long line of curses, that is. I was afraid I would go on forever, remembering the most useless things. I would be a computer, storing data, while my humanity slipped away, year by year.

  To be honest, I wasn’t even sure I was immortal but it looked as if there wasn’t much that could hurt me. Once I’d worked up the nerve to stab myself in the hand with a knife. Blood spurted. But when I pulled out the knife, the wound closed miraculously.

  “Hello? Henry? It’s me… Scarlett!”

  I tuned in to eavesdrop. But there was no one on the other end of the line.

  “Um. Well, anyway,” she went on. “I was just thinking… of you.”

  Scarlett

  The noon sun glared down.

  As I turned into the school parking lot, the sound of squealing tires came around the corner. I slammed on my brakes and a black BMW zoomed past.

  Lately, Miss Hartly, the other English teacher had been parking in my favorite space. I knew I was obsessive about these things, but surely she didn’t care as much as I did. She could park anywhere. And there she was. Pulling her BMW into my space. Again.

  When she got out, I rolled down my window. “Excuse me?” I waved to her. “Would you mind parking further down?”

  She shut her car door with her hip. “Yeah, I do mind, actually.” She tossed her head and the silky strands of her blonde hair slid perfectly back into place.

  “I like that spot,” I said. It was seventy-nine steps, exactly, to the sidewalk. Seven and nine were my two favorite numbers.

  “Sorry, I got here first,” she bared her teeth in what could barely pass for a smile.

  “I would have been first,” I said. “But you cut me off.”

  She was already wiggling away in her tight pantsuit.

  The only space that wasn’t completely inappropriate was next to the dumpster. Far from desirable.

  I checked my make-up in the rearview mirror and wiped off a smudge of mascara. Then, pulling my suitcase behind me, I went to the side entrance of the school, and waited just outside, tapping my foot twelve times.

  “Scarlett!” someone called.

  It was Mr. Stroop, the headmaster. He jogged toward me, the coat of his jacket flapping. “And how is Scarlett today?” He liked to use the third person when speaking to me. I found it creepy.

  “Scarlett is fine,” I said.

  He reached past me, opening the door and scuffing my shoe. “After you,” he waited. There was a damp circle under his armpit. I held my breath to cross the threshold. Inside, he reached for my suitcase.

  “I’ve got it,” I said, refusing to let go, even when his damp fingers touched mine.

  He produced a handkerchief and dabbed it on his forehead. I moved away, hurrying down the hall but he matched his step with mine. When we reached the teacher’s lounge, I stopped.

  “Listen, Scarlett,” Mr. Stroop smoothed the fine hairs on his head. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Nothing to worry about… a new development.” His expression became coy. “I could tell you about it over dinner.”

  “No,” I almost shouted. “I mean, no thank you.”

  “Not a date,” he said. “But you have to eat.”

  “Um, the thing is, I never eat dinner. I don’t believe in it.” I slipped inside the lounge, closing the door softly. I leaned against it, catching my breath.

  Low voices murmured in back, behind the partition. There was a giggle and another hushed sound, like a secret operation underway. When I unzipped the pocket of my suitcase, I cringed at the noise. But the muffled voices went on, undisturbed.

  Taking a seat at the table, I opened my lunch and took out twelve potato chips, lining them up and chewing each one twelve times.

  Another giggle slipped past the partition. “Why are we whispering?” Ugh, it was Miss Hartly.

  “I don’t know. Why are we?” a man said.

  My stomach dropped. Henry.

  “Something weird just happened out in the parking lot,” Hartly said. “So I’m coming back from lunch, right? I take the nearest parking space, like a normal person. Guess who wants me to move my car? After I’ve already parked?”

  “Stroop?”

  “Not Stroop, you idiot.” She giggled again. There was a long stifling moment. Were they touching? Kissing?

  My heart thumped so loud, I was afraid they could hear it.

  “Scarlett Rain. Somehow she got it in her head I took her space, like she has her name on it. Can you believe it?”

  Silence.

  “Did you hear me? I think she’s unstable. You know?”

  My face burned. I couldn’t even swallow. I held perfectly still.

  There was a cough, and then Henry said, “She called me. Last night. Late.”

  Another agonizing silence.

  “Scarlett called you? Why?”

  “I ran into her downtown,” he said. “A while back. We went out. Once. No big deal. But then she started calling me. I think because… well, I never asked her out again.”

  “Did you sleep with her?”

  “God, no.”

  I gripped the edge of the table. Why did he say it like that? God, no. With shaking hands, I stuffed my lunch back into the pocket of my suitcase. The sound of the zipper ripped through the air. There was a groan on the other side of the partition. Henry peeped around. “Oh! Scarlett…”

  I was aware of him coming toward me. I focused on the zipper.

  “What’s going on here?” he said. My plastic bag had caught and he disengaged it. “There,” he winked. “All better.”

  I checked my watch. “I have to go,” my voice quivered.

  “I’ll walk with you. I’m headed in the same direction.” Unbelievably, he grabbed my suitcase and swung it, like it weighed nothing.

  If I’d found the walk with Stroop agonizing, now I wanted to die. Had it really been so stupid of me to call Henry? He promised to call, after cupping my face and kissing me. It happened in the summer, weeks before school started.

  I’d been minding my own business in the record store. He came up and said, “Do you have any idea what you’re holding in your hands?” It was a
vinyl record by The Flaming Lips, a classic. I noticed his eyes were an exotic color between green and blue and when he smiled, his teeth were perfect. I got fluttery inside. We went in and out of the thrift stores, laughing and joking, holding hands on the sidewalk. We missed the show at the theater, but that’s when he kissed me. We stood in the dusky twilight, under the lights of the marquee.

  “Don’t pay any attention to Georgie,” he said, finally, when we neared my classroom.

  “Georgie?”

  “You know, Georgina? Miss Hartly?”

  “Oh her.”

  “Georgie and I are just buddies.” He grinned with his movie star teeth.

  Buddies?

  “We hang out sometimes,” he went on, as if I should care, which I did a tiny bit. “Georgie’s cool. Don’t worry about her.” He set down my suitcase, just out of reach. He traced a finger lightly across my cheek bone. “Let’s try this again, Scarlett.” And then he was pressing his lips to mine. His breath was sweet, tinged with cinnamon.

  He left me leaning against the wall. The click of his steps got farther and farther away.

  As I stood in the eerie quiet, I felt a presence again. I searched up and down the hall, sure someone watched. But no one was there.

  * * *

  Waiting for my last class of creative writing students, all girls, I stood by the window, gazing out at the jagged skyline of China Town. Urban legend claimed it was haunted. I found it to have a stark beauty. The brick buildings had spires jutting into the desert sky.

  When the door opened, I turned around. Chastity and Charity always arrived together. “Hi, Miss Rain!” They spoke in unison. Though they weren’t identical twins, they looked alike because both of them had dyed their hair red like mine. Each carried a pink suitcase and wore matching black dresses. “Love your outfits,” I said.

  By six past the hour, everyone had arrived, except Autumn Jones, who dragged in five minutes later, at 4:11. We’d arranged our desks in a circle and were discussing the assignment: What Would Emily Dickinson Do? The twins made a space for her.

  She was tall and slender with long black hair, the only senior in the workshop. She tended to be taciturn. Her attendance was spotty. But there had been something compelling and even poignant in the writing sample she submitted. She was always alone when I saw her in the halls, her head lowered so her hair covered her face.

  I didn’t have her in any classes but I knew she was on scholarship. I worried about her because she seemed so careless about school. Didn’t she know what her education was worth?

  “We’re going over the assignment,” Chastity told her. She said she and her sister had texted each other using slant rhyme and dashes. They also tried to make contact with Emily Dickinson using a Ouija board. One girl read a story called The Great Darkness, inspired by Dickinson’s own description of her impending death as a “great darkness coming.”

  Autumn didn’t volunteer. When there were only a few minutes left, I asked if she wrote anything.

  Her doe eyes met mine. “No.”

  “Do you have any thoughts to share?”

  She looked down when she spoke, “I think about Emily Dickinson a lot,” her voice trembled with a sudden intensity. “And I think,” she blushed furiously. The other girls stared. A rash crept across her neck.

  “Tell us what you think,” I urged.

  “Emily Dickinson would rebel,” she said.

  Charity, sitting next to her, flinched at the vehemence of her words.

  I leaned toward her. “Who would she rebel against, Autumn?”

  “Her fate.”

  * * *

  Wind rattled the windows. It was after seven and the students from my Adult Literacy class were leaving. I called to a man in a Harley Davidson T-shirt. He turned from the doorway and came back to my desk. “Thank you for reading aloud,” I said. “You made a perfect Thor.”

  “Aw, shucks, Ma’am,” but he grinned. He had a braided beard.

  “Here, I thought you might enjoy this,” I handed him a copy of The Outsiders. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you aren’t long for this class. I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you too. Truth is, I never had a teacher I liked before.”

  After he had gone, I couldn’t resist opening the essays written by my seniors. Though I could hear a storm building force outside, I felt cozy, reading in the warm glow of the lamp on my desk.

  An hour later, I packed my suitcase with folders and assignments and the ever-changing books I used for teaching. I allowed my students to turn in laser printed work but no emailed papers and most of the writing I assigned was done in class with pen and paper. I had a rule about electronics. All devices had to be turned off in my classroom.

  The halls were unusually quiet. Despite my late schedule, I wasn’t always the last person to leave. Many clubs had meetings that ran into the night. Often I encountered people as I was leaving. But tonight I saw no one.

  Getting my office mail was one of my favorite things. Since I didn’t acknowledge email, I got real letters, like I was living in a Jane Austen novel.

  Tonight there was no light coming under the office door. It made me nervous. I hesitated, before going inside. I fumbled for a light switch. Panic rose in my throat as I slid my hand along the wall. The scent of mold made me sneeze.

  Suddenly, lights came on, bright and shocking.

  Mr. Stroop chuckled. “Well, hello there,” he said. “I was just leaving. What’s Scarlett doing creeping around like a little mouse?”

  Had he been waiting in the dark? Knowing I would come for my mail? I gripped the handle of my suitcase. My eyes darted to my mailbox in the row behind him. Mine was empty. He held a letter in his hand.

  “Is that for me?” I said. “Just one letter?” My mind raced over the idea that he’d done something with my mail. I forced myself to meet his gaze. Outside the wind moaned.

  “Hungry yet?” he said. “How about a cup of coffee around the corner?”

  I couldn’t answer. Heat flooded my face.

  His demeanor shifted. “Alright. Straight to business then. A couple of things, Miss Rain. First, there’s a new green policy. No more of this mail nonsense cluttering up your cubbyhole. It’s a waste of paper. You need to check your email like everyone else. Are we clear?”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  His eyes narrowed. “The other thing is, I’m changing the schedule. Georgina Hartly is going to take over Adult Literacy.”

  “But… why?”

  “She’s more qualified,” he said.

  “How is she more qualified?”

  He coughed into his hand. “I need results. Look here, Scarlett, you’re excellent with the gifted students and you’re very creative,” he made a circular motion with his index finger, like being crazy and creative were the same thing. “But these remedial students need to be actually reading by the end of the semester. You understand? It’s come to my attention you’re not using the approved curriculum.”

  “I am. I do follow that―whatever. But I consider it my job to enhance it.”

  “It is my job to ensure our extra resources serve the community in the best way possible. You must use the method approved by the Board.”

  “I don’t understand…” I fumbled for the right words but they eluded me. “Why?” I said again, like a broken record.

  “Because it works.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Stroop, they’re not first graders.”

  “They still have to learn the alphabet and how to put it all together,” he said.

  “Most of them can’t read because the approved methods didn’t work the first time around.”

  His face turned ruddy. “You’re missing the point.”

  “I think the point is these students need a creative teacher more than anyone. Someone who helps them learn in their own way. I have to warn you, they won’t like Miss Hartly.”

  “They don’t have to like her,” he said. “It’s not a popular
ity contest.”

  I wondered about that. Had Miss Hartly got flirty with Mr. Stroop, like she had with Henry? And more importantly, why did she want my Adult Literacy class?

  Now I was gripped by real panic. “Mr. Stroop, please don’t take my students away from me. They trust me. They’re afraid of words and books. Can you imagine how horrible that is? To be afraid of books? I swear. On my grandmother’s grave. Every single student without exception will be reading by the end of the semester. I promise. Mr. Stroop, listen. I want my students to love reading with their whole heart.”

  He cleared his throat. “It’s already done. Starting next month. Here’s the new schedule,” he thrusted the letter he was holding at me.

  “But that’s next week,” I felt the sharp edge of the envelope.

  “I tried to tell you this morning. I wanted to explain how I came to the decision.”

  “You invited me to dinner,” I said.

  * * *

  Rain poured down the windshield. It was hard to see the road. Several times I felt the car sliding. After I pulled into the garage, I waited a moment before getting out. I felt hollow.

  Inside, I stripped down to my slip, leaving my wet clothes in a pile on the floor. I grabbed a pint of pistachio ice cream from the freezer and dug into it. Licking the spoon, I eyed the envelope. It bore Mr. Stroop’s special stupid seal.

  Finally, after knocking on the table twelve times, I tore the letter open. It was bad. Worse than bad. My first class was at eight. In the morning. Georgie had cleverly unloaded her early classes onto me. Was that the only reason she sabotaged me?

  The new schedule would be extremely difficult to manage with my Sleep Phase Disorder, a disorder that kept me awake through the night.

  My mother had had it too. In the dark of night we did projects; painting the walls, or creating art, listening to music, dancing. We looked up at the stars. It was only the black of the sky that made the stars so bright, my mother said.

  Anxiety raised goosebumps on my arms. Somehow, I would have to find a way to sleep at night.