Vampire High

by Douglas Rees

  She had said things like that before, but that day I happened to have part of it with me.

  I'd brought it to school to type it because my own computer was acting weird.

  "It's not ready yet," I said.

  "Please," she said. "I have been telling you stories for it for weeks now. May we not hear something of what you have done?"

  It's Valentine's Day. The girl I love wants to hear something I've written, which is about love.

  Justin was there, but he was cool. He'd probably be around whenever I read it. I decided I'd better do what she wanted. Besides, maybe—you know—maybe it was time.

  So I went and got it.

  On my way up the stairs, I remembered one little detail that I couldn't believe I had forgotten. My epic still had Ileana's name in it.

  Quick. What's a name that's got the same rhythm as Ileana but doesn't sound like it?

  All the way up the stairs I was trying to think of one, and I couldn't. On the way back down the stairs, I couldn't think of names at all. Imagine not being able to think of Jane, or Kathy, or Jennifer. But I couldn't. Total fear made me totally stupid.

  When I got back to the basement, I took my pages, stood up by my city, and said, "This is a place where my heroine asks the heroes to tell her a story that is not about somebody else. It's supposed to be about something real that happened to each one of them."

  Ileana folded her legs under her and leaned toward me with her hand under her chin. Justin sat on a crate with his back against the wall.

  A name, a name, I have to have a name.

  And then one came. A name so bad that it was the only thing I could think of that was worse than using Ileana's. But it was the only thing I could think of. Buffy. There was no way out. So I started.

  "So Vasco turns to Anaxander,

  Who's smiling like a salamander,

  And says to him, 'Now tell another story.

  Make this one about me, and make it true.

  And I will do the same for you.'

  And Anaxander says, 'I will.'

  And says to . . . Buffy, 'My friend is quite heroic

  In his way, but he would never tell you what I'm going to say.'"

  Ileana was just sitting there with a little smile on her face. I went on.

  "One time Vasco heard there was a bandit with a

  golden sword,

  Which he had robbed from some dead king Who long ago had lost the thing in battle, And Vasco wanted to return it to the king's

  descendants,

  Who still mourned its loss And wanted it brought back at any cost. So Vasco made a pilgrimage to find the bandit's lair. He dressed up like a maunciple to catch

  him unaware, And rode a hundred days until he came to that far

  place Where the bandits had their cave. And then our

  Vasco gave The bandits money for his stay that night. And

  knew that they Would try to kill him and there'd be a fight."

  Ileana wasn't smiling now. She was frowning. The hand that was under her chin curled over her mouth.

  "That night, as Vasco feigned his sleep,

  The bandits to his bed did creep.

  But as the largest raised a club to smash his skull,

  Vasco rolled away with all his skill,

  And threw his blanket over the bandit's head

  And smothered him until he fell down dead.

  The bandit chief with mighty roar did charge

  And near stomped Vasco flat, for he was large,

  And twenty other bandits joined in,

  And Vasco's future started looking grim.

  But he smote the club upon the bandit chief

  And brought all of the bandits' plans to grief.

  The bandit chief sank down upon one knee

  And uttered, 'Vasco, thou hast ruined me!'

  'Our chief does die,' the other bandits cried,

  And turned and tried to get outside.

  But with their backs all turned they could make no

  defense,

  For fear of Vasco had destroyed their common sense.

  So with club and the dead king's sword

  He cut the bandits down within the cave and went

  homeward."

  I was just about to say, "It'll be longer when I finish j

  it," when Ileana interrupted me.

  She laughed. She laughed and laughed. She rolled on her back and kicked her feet against the floor and went on laughing.

  Justin smiled at me. "Pretty good," he chuckled. "I didn't get it at first."

  "Neither did I," Ileana gasped. "For a minute, I thought you were making fun of them, and I began to get angry. Then I saw that you were making fun with them. That is quite wonderful, having Vasco signal his friend to

  amuse the princess with a silly story, and then having Anaxander tell it in such clumsy words."

  "I like the part where Vasco suddenly grows his arm back so he can smother the bandit," Justin said.

  Oh, God. I forgot these guys only have one arm apiece.

  "Is there any more?" Ileana asked.

  "Uh ... no," I said, feeling like the ground was falling out from under me.

  "That is a shame," Ileana said. "I never thought of Vasco and Anaxander as having senses of humor. But of course they would. You are giving something new to Illyria. Irony."

  I could feel my face getting hot. She thought it was funny. It wasn't funny; it was an epic. But if she thought it was funny, if Justin thought it was funny ... I looked at my pages again.

  "I'm not quite sure if Shadwell covered irony in class," I said, holding my voice as steady as I could.

  "It's like saying a thing one way and meaning it another," Justin said. "For a joke, or to be sarcastic."

  Irony? This wasn't supposed to be irony. I'd thought it was good. Even worse, my whole epic was like this. The whole impossible thing of trying to make it at Vlad Dracul hit me all at once, and I felt like I was falling down a well.

  Then Ileana got up and came over.

  "It was hard for you to read this to us, I can tell," she said. "Thank you."

  And she gave me a quick hug.

  Oh, man.

  Do you know what it feels like to find out something

  you were proud of is a piece of junk? And then to be praised for it by mistake? And to know that the girl you were hoping to impress thinks it's a joke and is impressed for the wrong reason? If you don't, I hope you never find out.

  "Next time I hope you will bring one of the serious parts," Ileana said.

  "Well," I said, "I don't know about that." I think Ileana and Justin wondered why I was so quiet the rest of the afternoon.

  WHAT TO GET FOR

  THE VAMPIRE WHO HAS

  EVERYTHING

  I Was Sitting in the dining hall with Justin the Monday after my epic disaster. It was another bleak, ugly day outside and exactly matched how I felt.

  The worst thing about reading my lousy, no-good poetry to Ileana was that now she thought I was gold dust. I was sure that if I asked her to go out with me, she'd say yes. But how could I do that, knowing she'd be saying yes because she thought I was writing a great—well, a good—poem about her favorite place?

  Ileana sat down.

  "I am angry with you," she said.

  "Huh? What'd I do?" I asked.

  "I passed you a note in mathematics, a perfect note, and the first gadje thing I have ever done in my life, and you did not even notice it," she said.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I've got a lot on my mind." Like what happens when you find out that I can't write poetry. That I can't even tell good from bad. That the joke's on you for thinking I can, and on me for ever thinking I could.

  "That is all right." Ileana laughed. "Here, I have an extra one."

  She took a little golden envelope out of her purse.

  "Should I open it now?" I asked.

  "If you like," she said.

  Inside was a pale square card covered with fancy printing:


  Ileana TLntonescu requests the pleasure of your presence

  on the occasion oj her 'Fifteenth 'Birthday celebration

  at two of the clock on Saturday, the Seventh of March.

  dress Formal.

  Below were her address and phone number and the letters RSVP.

  "Great," I said. "I'll be there."

  "I am looking forward to it," Ileana said, and smiled at me. "By the way, how is the epic coming?"

  "Oh. It's coming," I said, and changed the subject.

  Now I had two worries—what Ileana would think if she found out what a lump of tubifex worms my poem really was, and what to get her for her birthday.

  Justin was absolutely no help when I asked him.

  "That's easy." He smiled at me. "Just give her one of the stories from your epic. It'd be the best thing you could do for her. I'll bet it'll be her favorite present."

  "Uh," I said. "What are you getting her?"

  "Don't know," he said. "It'll have to be something small."

  "Well, what does she like?" I asked. "Everybody's got favorite things."

  Justin nodded. "She's got a lot of those," he agreed. "Most of them aren't really things to buy, though. She likes stars. Clouds, the big puffy ones. Oak trees. She told me once she loves the sound of seagulls more than music. And she loves music a lot."

  "Maybe I could get her some CDs," I said.

  "Maybe." Justin shrugged. "But you asked me what she'd like from you, and I told you."

  My dad was as helpful as usual.

  "Cash," Dad said. "If she's Antonescu's daughter, any sum larger than a nickel will make her break down and weep for joy."

  Mom tried, at least.

  "Books always show a great deal of regard," she said. "They show a man values a woman for her mind."

  "That's cool," I said. "Except that Ileana has probably read an entire library. It's amazing how much she knows."

  "It's hard to go wrong with a good book of poetry," Mom said.

  Poetry again. Why were people so hung up on poetry? Okay, why were women so hung up on it? But I figured Mom was probably right. Anyway, I didn't have any ideas of my own.

  The next weekend, I went to the biggest bookstore around. Actually, there were two big bookstores in New Sodom. One was one of those big chain stores. Quite a

  few people were going in and out, and the lot was full of cars. Ordinary cars. On the next block was a big old-fashioned building of stone with a window so dark you could hardly see through it. Painted on it in gold leaf was

  AURARl'S FINE EDITIONS. EVERYTHING THE READER WILL REQUIRE.

  I didn't need the exotic old cars in front to tell me whose bookstore was whose.

  I knew I was supposed to go into the chain store. If I'd been buying for anybody else, I probably would have. But this was for Ileana. I went into Aurari's.

  There were two floors. The upper one was a balcony that ran all around the room about fourteen feet up, and you could see the customers up there browsing through the ceiling-high bookcases under the dim, rich glow of the old-fashioned lights. The lower floor was even darker and had huge leather chairs in the center of the room.

  In a corner of the ground floor they had about nine million poetry books, starting with Anonymous and ending with Yeats. They all looked alike to me—thin and expensive. I spent an hour going through them, and they all sounded alike to me, too. I didn't have a clue.

  Finally, I turned away in disgust and started looking arouncl the rest of the store. It had a lot of stuff besides books. There were globes, reading lights, bookends, even candy wrapped in gold paper.

  On a table near the doors, I found a stack of books in leather covers with fancy designs burned into them. They even had little clasps to lock them with. There was one I really liked. It was red and covered with leaves.

  I opened it. Inside, the book's pages were blank.

  Hmm. At least I know she hasn't read this one.

  I looked at the price. When my heart started beating again, I wondered how they could charge so much for a book that didn't even have words in it. I counted my money. If I didn't mind being broke for the next week, I could get it for her.

  "May I be of any assistance whatever?" said a voice behind me.

  I turned around and saw a jenti with rimless glasses and a black suit.

  "Just this," I said.

  "Very good," said the jenti. And I knew he meant "It's very good you are leaving."

  Then I looked up, and I saw that all the customers on the second floor were staring down at me. But the ones on the ground floor wouldn't look my way at all.

  "I understand there is quite an acceptable bookstore in the next block," said the jenti clerk as he made change out of a little wooden box. "In future, I would recommend that you shop there."

  "Thanks a lot," I said, and left.

  On the way home, I thought about Ileana and what she might put into the book. Maybe she would write her own poems. Maybe she would keep a diary in it. Maybe it would be full of stuff about me.

  But something didn't feel right to me about that. It was like there was something the book needed before I could give it to her. Something I had to do. .

  Which did not make any sense.

  On the way home, there was a bridge over a little creek. I leaned on the bridge railing and looked down.

  Most of the creek's water was still locked up in ice, but a tiny trickle ran down the middle like a vein full of blood.

  I remembered Justin and the day I'd met him. How frightened he'd been of that fast-flowing water. It gave me the urge to go down there and put my hand in the creek. Maybe I couldn't think as well as a jenti, maybe I'd never know as much, but there were some things I could do that none of them could.

  Being very careful of Ileana's book, I slid down the bank and hunkered down at the edge of the ice.

  The water looked happy to be moving so fast. Come to think of it, it probably was. It was going somewhere, unlike me. It would join up with a river, find the ocean, and who knew, maybe in time it would flow out of the Atlantic and into the Pacific and wash up on the California coast. I'd be here.

  I put my hand in the water and held it there until it was numb. When I couldn't feel my fingers anymore, I walked downstream a little way.

  The creek made a bend, dropped down a few feet, and made a tiny waterfall. The pool at the bottom of the fall was mostly ice, but there was one spot where the water hit that was still unfrozen. The clouds were reflected in it, jiggling as the water rippled.

  Clouds. Ileana likes clouds.

  A cold breeze blew down the creek, and the stiff, dead reeds moved. Something fluttered at their roots. A few seagull feathers.

  I pulled one away from the frozen ground.

  And she likes seagulls.

  Now I knew what the book was missing. I had to

  figure out a way to fill it with Ileana's favorite things. A book of clouds and seagulls and everything else Justin had told me she liked. I didn't know how I was going to do it, but I had a start. I was holding it in my frozen fingers.

  How do you put clouds into a book? Here's what I did. I borrowed Dad's camera and went out in the backyard and shot a roll of film at the sky.

  It took all morning, waiting for some clouds that looked halfway interesting, then shooting them three or four times as they moved. I'm no photographer, but even I know you can't count on one shot.

  Then I went around the neighborhood looking for oak trees. When I found them, I moved the snow away and searched for golden brown leaves. Finally, I had enough to cover a solid page. I glued them down on a page in the middle of the book and sprayed them with lacquer for protection.

  The seagull feathers I sort of arranged like a pair of wings at the beginning.

  When the pictures came back from the developer, I took the best ones and trimmed them to fit onto a page between the other two, then glued them on. None of them were the kind of cloud Justin had said was Ileana's favorite, but taken all
together, they looked pretty good.

  What had me stumped was how to give her stars. Pictures wouldn't work. In the first place, it was cloudy all the time. In the second place, I knew that photographing stars doesn't work. Dad had tried it once when he first got his camera, and all that had come out were dim little

  points of light. I thought about using paper stars, but that seemed too much like fourth grade.

  Then I thought maybe I could give her something that stars are made of, the way diamonds are made out of coal. So I asked Ms. Vukovitch.

  ''Stars are chiefly hydrogen, of course," she told me. "But they contain all the elements in trace amounts."

  Great. A little bag of hydrogen stapled to the last page of her book. That'd be great for Ileana.

  Her birthday was getting closer, and I was getting nowhere.

  On the Monday before her party, I was sitting in the family room watching TV. Mom had gone out and Dad wasn't home, so I was channel surfing, which they hate and won't let me do. They won't get me my own set, either, which would solve the problem.

  Anyway, I flipped past one of those psychic hot line ads, and there they were above the 800 number—stars.

  Stars. Psychic. Astrology.

  I called Justin.

  "Hey, Justin, was Ileana born here in New Sodom?" I asked.

  "Sure."

  "And is the seventh really her birthday?"

  "Nope. It's the sixth," he said.

  "Do you know what time of day?"

  "Must have been pretty late. I remember her telling me that her dad had to wake up the midwives. But how come you're asking?"

  "I'm trying to give her the stars," I said. "I'll explain later. Thanks, Justin."

  I went and got the phone book, and you know what? They have a listing for astrologers in the yellow pages.

  I looked at the ads and called the astrologer with the nicest-looking face. Her name was Allison Antares.

  I told her about Ileana's book and about how stars were the one thing she liked best that I didn't have in the book yet. And I thought that if I had an astrology chart from the time she was born, that would be a way of giving them to her.

  Allison Antares liked that so well she laughed and said she'd be delighted to help. She didn't even charge me.

  "No interpretation, of course. I would have to charge for that. But I'll be happy to run up a natal chart as a gift. She must be a very lucky young woman to have such a sensitive boy in her life."