Blood Orange Soda: Paranormal Romance

by Larranaga, James Michael

  She tosses the phone into her leather purse. “Try not to stay up too late. Keep daytime hours.”

  “I’ll be in bed before 2:00 a.m.,” I promise.

  “And check on your sister once in a while tonight,” Mom says before stepping out the back door.

  The dishes are piled in the sink, the clock is ticking, and my mom’s counter-top TV is on the local news covering a story of another bank robbery. I walk over, turn up the volume, and watch as a male reporter describes the incident. Two masked gunmen stormed into a blood bank and robbed them of their inventory. While meth is the scourge of some towns across America, blood is the drug worth stealing in Vampire communities like St. Cloud. In fact, the DEA is more concerned about blood trafficking than drug trafficking, now that the government has made bite feeding illegal. All Vampires are required to register and receive a free monthly pint of feeding blood instead of biting for it.

  Sounds like a perfect solution, right? Wrong! Many traditional Vampires refuse to drink the government’s synthetic blood. It’s not natural, and not fair to force it on Vampires, they claim. The only other solution is to take the Reds, which suppress your desire and need for blood. Buy real blood on the black market—or just bite for it.

  My ribs are sore from Bao Wang’s abuse. Why does he stalk me so much? It’s not because I’m gay or a Stoner. He beat me because I’m a Goth on the Red pill. I’m not fully human and I’m not fully a Vampire, either. By now, everyone knows that gay people are born gay. It’s not a choice they make. But Goth kids are exploring their Vampire identities. We’re all on the Red pill, fighting our urges to bite, but showing the world that we have a big decision to make—and that’s what frustrates bullies like Bao Wang. He is who he is because his parents cast his genetic dice upon conception. I still hold my dice in my hand. If I stay on the Reds, I can live as a non-Vampire—a Normal. If I choose to stop taking the Reds, I’ll carry on the family legacy as a Vampire.

  Which would you choose?

  I grab my phone and go online to RenRen, where I search for Bao Wang’s profile page. I struggle with reading Chinese, even after three years of studying the language in school. Bao’s photo album is public so I browse through it, sifting through photos of him with his family in China. But then I come across a familiar American face. It’s a Goth kid with a bloody lip and a smirk on his face, flipping his middle finger. I like that photo. I like it so much I download it to my phone and repost it to Facebook.

  The day wasn’t a total loss after all.

  Angel and Weezer show up at my house after nine, both in a peculiar mood. They act as if they’ve been smoking something, but neither of them is a Stoner. Weezer, whose real name is Derek Wincer, got his nickname because he makes a wheezing sound when he laughs, and he laughs often. He’s another Goth struggling with what he’ll be when he grows up. He’s a self-proclaimed anarchist.

  Weezer stumbles in behind Angel, laughing and wheezing. He’s wearing skinny jeans and a wifebeater. “Fuggars it’s cold,” he says.

  “Wear a jacket next time,” Angel says.

  “Not until it snows,” Weezer says. “Darius, what do you got to eat?”

  Weezer pretends to hate everything and he’s always making up his own words, just to confuse people or piss them off. I take the bait. “Fuggars?”

  “Yeah, as in, what you got to eat, mother-fuggar?”

  “Mac and cheese. Why do I always feed you?”

  “Fuggar, please! I’m a starving artist,” Weezer says, as he darts for the kitchen. “Carbs are my best friends.”

  Angel and I head down to the basement where we store our band’s gear. The basement is unfinished, with a low ceiling and exposed pipes. It’s the perfect place for a garage band that doesn’t have an empty garage. I use this space as my room and my personal bat cave, away from my mom and sister.

  Angel takes her seat at the drums and picks her sticks up off the rug. She spins the drumsticks around her fingers. She could’ve been a cheerleader or a baton thrower, but chooses to make music in my basement. How cool is that? I grab my bass and power the amp by flipping a switch with my bare foot.

  “Let’s go, Weezer!” I shout.

  “On my way,” he says from the top of the stairs.

  “Grab your frickin’ guitar,” I call again.

  “Oh, yeah.” He disappears for a few seconds and reappears, bounding down the steps with his guitar case, which is plastered with decals of skulls and his favorite bands: The Misfits, Gene Loves Jezebel and Skinny Puppy, to name a few.

  What most Normals don’t understand about Goths is that we’re not all the same. And our differences are defined by our musical influences. Weezer and I are DeathRock Goths, not Metal Goths and not Glam Rock, either. Our music ranges from dark and ominous to campy and upbeat. DeathRock is really a post-Punk subgenre, and it should never be confused with Grunge or Emo music. Angel, like most Normals, leans toward garden variety Gothic Rock with bands like The Cure. But I digress…

  Weezer sets his guitar case on the rug and opens it as if it’s a gift he’s unwrapping for the first time. It’s a black and blue Fender Strat, nothing particularly expensive, but how Weezer swings that axe makes it sound far more premium than the hundred bills he paid for it. He slides inside the strap and adjusts the guitar low on his bony hips.

  “She’s cold,” Weezer says, caressing the guitar’s neck before he sets it back into the case. “Way too cold to play.”

  Angel thumps the bass drum. “Oh come on—”

  “It’ll warm up soon enough,” I say, picking a few bass lines.

  “No, I won’t ruin the neck playing her when she’s ice,” Weezer says. “Wait a few minutes, jeezus.”

  “You freaking prima donna,” Angel says, throwing one of her drumsticks at Weezer. He deflects it with his forearm, laughing and wheezing, then picks up the stick and chases after her.

  Angel kicks her hi-hat cymbals over as she flees, giggling, and he tackles her onto my bed, which already has a pile of dirty laundry on it. They’re rolling around, laughing and flirting, and I’m feeling like a creepy voyeur. The moment is not CraigsListy-weird, but certainly what my sister would describe as “totes awkward.” I watch them flirt, and continue playing my bass.

  Is he really hitting on her? Is that why those two were in such an odd mood when they arrived? Watching them makes me jealous.

  “That’s enough!” Angel cries out through belly laughter. “I’ll pee my pants if you don’t stop tickling me.”

  “Don’t pee my bed!” I shout.

  “Yeah, Darius already has the bed-wetting covered,” Weezer says.

  “Good one,” I reply. “At least I sleep with the light off. Whoever heard of a Goth afraid of the dark?”

  Weezer sits up, embarrassed, and scratches his spiked black hair. “I’m still hungry. Darius, you can pick up where I left off.” He runs past me up the stairs, and I can hear him rummaging through the kitchen cupboards.

  Angel remains in my bed, with her head on my pillow. She’s watching me. “Keep playing.”

  I play, mostly portions of scales, which seems to relax her. This won’t look good if Kira comes rushing downstairs, so I keep my distance from the bed and solo on as the lonely bass player.

  “I saw my photo online,” I say.

  “What photo?” Angel asks.

  “The one Bao took of me after my slap-down.”

  “He’s such a jerk! I’ll get him to take it down,” she says in frustration.

  I play more up-tempo. “Actually, I kind of like the photo. I reposted it to my page.”

  “Seriously?” She reaches in her jeans for her phone. She’s online within seconds and laughing. “Ohmygod, it’s your profile photo; that’s killer!”

  Angel sits up and scoots to the corner of my bed as I continue playing a dark, slow beat. “What’s wrong? You look more depressed than usual,” she asks.

  “Oh, it’s my mom. She looked tired,” I say. “She’s sick again; should’ve skipp
ed work tonight.”

  “She’s had it a long time, right?” Angel asks.

  “Eight years.”

  “But people are living longer today with all the new medications,” my friend says, apparently to give me hope.

  “People with HIV live longer, but Vampires with HIV2 don’t live beyond ten years,” I say before changing the subject. “You see there was another blood bank robbery?”

  “Yeah, on the west side this time.”

  “It’s frustrating, you know? How can Vampires expect to be treated like Normals when they rob and steal from Normals?”

  “I know, it’s very sad.”

  Angel is a Normal, a non-Vampire. People put you into boxes and categories. And she’s definitely in the non-Vamp category. I wouldn’t expect her to have any great insights into Vamp behavior, but it’s interesting that she finds all the stealing sad. She’s at least sympathetic instead of angry about it.

  Weezer jumps down from the staircase. “Did either of you meet that new Goth girl at school yet?”

  “Shelby Rork?” Angel asks.

  “Yeah,” Weezer says. “She’s hot.”

  “Is she a V-Goth?” I ask.

  “She’s not a wannabe who dresses the part, if that’s what you mean,” Angel says. “Half the guys in school want her. If you want her too, get in line.”

  If this new girl is a real, pre-Vampire Goth, that would be big news in our school. A lot of kids dress the part, but only a small minority of us are on the Reds and have the potential to transform into Vampires.

  “What class is she?” I ask.

  “Sophomore,” Angel says. “A lot of the junior and senior football guys are already stalking her.”

  “Fresh meat,” Weezer says. “Why can’t those mofugs date girls their own age?”

  “Mofugs?” I ask Weezer.

  “Mother-fuggars. Duh.”

  “High school guys always date down,” Angel says. “Sorry, it’s the truth.”

  “I don’t date down,” I respond sarcastically, thinking about the summer I’d dated Angel.

  “We don’t date at all,” Weezer says with fake pride, but I know he regrets it as much as I do.

  “All I’m saying is don’t underestimate upperclassmen,” Angel says. “Girls like Shelby date older guys.”

  Weezer nods at me, because neither of us has had a girlfriend in a while. We’ve admitted to each other that we’d kill to have one, but I never thought we’d compete for the same girl. It just never crossed my mind.

  Now there’s a new girl in school, and that could change everything. If she’s Goth, she’s probably on the Red pill like Weezer and me, which means she’s deciding if she wants to be a Vamp. And it also means she’s holding back raging hormones like the rest of us. I can’t wait to meet this Shelby Rork.

  Friday, October 10

  I’m late for school, which is really my modus operandi, according to the security guard at my school. Jogging along the railroad tracks, I trip on the rocks with my backpack slung over my shoulder.

  In this digital age, why are textbooks getting heavier?

  Winded, I slow to a fast walk so I don’t sweat too much before class. Mom is angry because she had to wake me up after her shift, and she knows I ignored Kira last night because Kira admitted she’d been up until dawn reading another Vampire novel. How come girls read that trash? It’s all fantasy, and none of the reality of what it’s like to live as a real Vampire. Transforming is hard. It’s not all love and romance like you might read in a book like Twilight or see on TV. If I run into another Normal girl named Bella, I swear I’ll lose my freaking mind!

  The open field, which is more prairie than a useable practice turf, crunches under my boots from early morning frost. I like how the sun warms my skin, yet I pull my black shades off my head to protect my eyes. I’m not yet a Vamp who fears daylight. If I choose to stop taking the Red pill and transform, then the sun and I will be enemies; but for now I enjoy its radiant warmth. These are the kind of trade-offs Vampire Goth consider as they decide on whether to live as Normals, or to stop taking the Reds and transform naturally into a full-blooded Vampire.

  Security at Stearns County High is tighter than a choke collar, and I should know because sometimes I wear one. I run my backpack through a scanner while an old sheriff’s deputy named Denny glares at me. I nod politely as I remove my metal bracelets and my skull and cross necklace, but it’s the rosary I pull from my pocket that surprises him.

  “Hey, Denny, ‘sup?” I say.

  “Late ‘cause you were at church this morning?” Denny asks, with forced sarcasm.

  “Yep, Our Lady of the Bedside.”

  “How about that blood bank robbery the other day?”

  I shrug. “What about it?”

  “Couple of Goths stealing blood. Any idea who them thugs are?”

  Officer Denny retired from the Minneapolis Police Department and works part-time as a deputy here in St. Cloud. He’s probably reliving his old good cop interrogation methods. I know, right? Like I have time for this every morning!

  “I don’t know every freak in St. Cloud,” I respond, annoyed. “Hell, they could be gangs from Minneapolis.”

  He nods and scratches his soft, corn-fed belly. “No need to get all riled up. You hear anything, you know where to find me.”

  “If I hear any real details, I’ll call a real cop.” I grab my backpack and all my random metal jewelry.

  “Stop by the office for your late pass. You’d better have a note,” Officer Denny says.

  In the office I give the secretary a note from my mom and I’m out the door again, jogging with my heavy backpack to English Lit. When I arrive and walk through the door, all eyes turn to me. It’s something I’m accustomed to because of the way I dress, and I’m the only freshman in this class full of sophomores. Ms. Andreesen has adorned her classroom with pictures of famous Minnesota writers like F. Scott Fitzgerald, Sinclair Lewis, and Laura Ingalls Wilder. None of them wrote a single word about Vampires. What about Amanda Hocking?

  The protocol for lateness is to hand the hall pass to the teacher upon entering the room, so I walk right up to Ms. Andreesen and do so.

  She glances at the note. “Better three hours too soon than a minute late,” she recites from Shakespeare.

  The empty desk in the front row is mine, and I slump into my seat with my backpack dropping to the floor. “Better a witty fool than foolish wit,” I reply.

  She’s surprised at my quick Shakespearean rebuttal, and she returns to lecturing about Hamlet. This is one of my favorite classes because I like reading, writing, and anything English. And the Renaissance is my favorite period in history. I’m not sure why, maybe it’s the outlandish clothing and men in tights. It was cool to be a freak back then.

  Something’s different about the classroom this morning, and I thought I sensed it as soon as I entered; but when all eyes turned to me, I locked my attention on Ms. Andreesen. Now I can’t ignore what I sensed a moment ago. I taste something, or somebody, different in the air.

  I don’t even have to look over my shoulder to know that there’s somebody new in this classroom. I have that sixth sense that tells me the person is a female, and she’s sitting three seats behind me and to my left. Weezer and I have used it at the mall and movie theaters to avoid certain bullies, or to follow girls from a distance. Aside from that, I’ve never found any other practical use for our pheromone GPS.

  Whoever she is, she’s caught my scent, too. I’m not sure how I know this, either, but for the first time I feel like somebody is scenting me! I busy myself by pulling my notebook out of my backpack, pretending to take notes from the lecture, but I can feel her studying my body. It’s a thrill, but also unnerving, as if somebody were right over your shoulder, smelling your neck and hair.

  It’s hard to resist the temptation to turn around, so I drop my pen. When I bend over to pick it up, I look back and I see her. She’s Goth. This must be Shelby, the girl Angel and Weezer tal
ked about last night. Our eyes lock and I see her pupils constrict for a moment. She smiles before blushing and looks up at Ms. Andreesen.

  The room is silent until Ms. Andreesen interrupts my comatose state. “Darius?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you met Shelby Rork?”

  “Uh, no, I, uh...hi,” I say with a quick glance back, before returning my attention to Ms. Andreesen.

  “Shelby, this is Darius Hunter.”

  “Hey there, Darius,” Shelby says.

  I turn back again, this time playing it cooler. “’Sup?”

  “If you came to class on time, Darius, you could’ve been more formally introduced like the rest of the class,” Ms. Andreesen says.

  Snickers and whispers from the other students fill the room. I’m embarrassed, and still coming down off the euphoria of Shelby watching me from the back of the classroom. It’s an odd introduction, for sure, and well worth the gawking and whispering. I don’t feel anything from her at the moment, so my guess is she can turn it on and off as needed.

  For the next thirty minutes I wait for the bell to ring and when it does, I’m one of the first students out of his chair. Ms. Andreesen hollers over the shrill sound, “Remember the homework: your Hamlet essays are due next week and you should write daily in your journals. Soon you’ll write your memoirs!”

  I make a mental note about the assignments and I’m out the door, into the crowded hallway. Shelby is nowhere in sight after class, and I head straight to the bathroom. I never go here during school, not even to take a leak, because the Stoners hang out here as if the bathroom is their smoking lounge. Too many Goths have been dunked head first into the shitter to make it worth a trip to the bathroom. But today I’m sweating so badly from English Lit that I duck into the first bathroom I find.

  It reeks of urinal cakes and Axe Body Spray to cover the cigarette smoke, or maybe my Goth nose is sensitive to that stuff. I grab paper towels, run them under cold water and wipe my forehead and neck. Two Stoners are sitting on the radiator chewing tobacco and spitting into cups, bragging about a party they were at last night.