Blood Orange Soda: Paranormal Romance

by Larranaga, James Michael

“Eat more food to fill your stomach, and your body will adjust to the Soda.”

  Officer Denny searches for drugs and contraband, as he calls it. If Soda can make a kid buzzed, there’s no way I want to be caught with a bottle of Soda in my backpack. “I’ll pour it into a thermos and drink it with lunch.”

  “And only you should drink it,” Jack warns. “None for your friends, especially Shelby.”

  Thursday, October 23

  I wake to the sound of the furnace exhaling its heat into the upper levels of our home, while I’m curled up tightly in my blankets. It’s colder here in the basement than anywhere else in the house. The muscles along my shoulders and back are sore, and all I want to do is roll over and sleep in. There’s frost on the window, so I know it’s cold out there. Sitting up in bed, I set my feet on the cold floor and open my mini-fridge to grab a Soda. Today is the start of my three-dose regimen. By tonight I’ll be seventeen bottles of Soda into my journey. I’m stronger than I was even a week ago, and I’m certainly able to jump higher. That deserves a bit of celebration, so I roll back into the warmth of my covers.

  I’m almost about to slip into sleep when I hear the kitchen door open and my mom entering the house. She does that same routine every morning when she returns from her night shift. She hangs her purse on the rack, loads the dishwasher, and makes a pot of coffee so she can stay awake long enough to greet Kira and me before we leave for school.

  I think of Jonathan again as I reach for my laptop on the floor and I open it, staring into the glow as I click on my Facebook page. There are messages waiting for me, but it’s only Alex and Marcus from the Vampire Club requesting to be my friend. I accept.

  Jonathan’s Facebook page doesn’t have any contact information, so I navigate to the Chicago Tribune website and search again for stories by him. There’s a list of news stories he’s written, mostly crime and investigative pieces, which is cool. I realize that reporters have their e-mail links below their bylines. Jonathan’s contact info listed at the bottom of one of his stories, and I grab my phone off my nightstand and enter the number into my contacts. It’s too early to call him and I’m too tired anyway, so I slide my laptop to the foot of my bed and drift off to sleep.

  It’s seven fifteen, with my mom standing above me. What the heck? I was in such a deep sleep, the kind where I’m dreaming so intensely, that when I look at her I’m not even sure if I’m actually awake yet. She’s annoyed at my laziness as she picks clothing off my floor and organizes my section of the basement.

  “You’ll be late for school. Get up,” she says. “I’ve been calling you from upstairs.”

  Sitting up in bed, I’m not chilled like I was a couple of hours earlier. I’m practically sweating. Drinking Soda and falling back to sleep probably isn’t a good idea. She lifts dirty laundry off the floor at the foot of my bed and then she picks up my laptop.

  “You sleep with your computer?”

  “Homework last night.”

  She’s skeptical about that, walks to a milk crate and sits down with my laptop. “What homework would you bring to bed with you?”

  “English Lit. I’ve fallen behind and I need to catch up on my memoir assignment.”

  “If I turn this computer on, I won’t find photos of nude women or something inappropriate?”

  Now I’m in a precarious place, because if I deny that I was surfing porn, she might call my bluff and turn on my computer. If I admit to it as my cover, she’ll probably be too embarrassed to look, and then she’d never know I was researching her old boyfriend, Jonathan.

  “You busted me. I was online last night. I’m just curious, you know—”

  “Honey, those sites are not about loving relationships.”

  “I know.” I fake embarrassment, but I actually am sort of embarrassed that she thinks that’s what I was doing.

  “If you have questions about sex, you can come to me any time,” she says.

  “Awk…ward.”

  “Or you can go to Jack. He knows a lot about—”

  “Loving relationships. Yeah, right.”

  “Well, you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bring it up with Jack next time I see him,” I say. “Can I have my laptop back, please?”

  She waits for a second, and then hands it over without turning it on. Thank God!

  “How are you feeling these days?” she asks.

  “Sore and tired. Jack’s workout routine is a killer. He’s got me up to three doses of Soda.”

  She nods. “You look tired. I also see the change in you.”

  “Really, like what do you see?”

  “Your eyes are a deeper blue. You have facial hair you didn’t have two weeks ago,” she says.

  I feel the stubble along my cheek. “It’s about time. How are you feeling?” I ask her.

  “Much better. The blood transfusion helped. Thank you for insisting that we try again.”

  “The blood transfusion isn’t a cure. Jack mentioned there might be a way to heal you,” I say.

  She looks away from me for a moment and then stands. “What did Jack say?”

  “Your First Bitten, Jonathan, might be able to cure the disease.”

  She sighs. “I’ve already explained to Jack that I’m not asking Jonathan for help,” she says, crossing her arms. “Jack never should’ve mentioned that idea to you.”

  When she has that tone and her arms are crossed, I know the conversation is over. There’s no way I can convince her today, so I back off and try to lift her mood again.

  “I guess I’d better shower and get ready for school,” I say. “Do you want to take my picture again next to the refrigerator, to document my transformation?”

  Her smiles. “That would be nice.”

  Weezer is always late for school, so I text him to see if he’s left yet. Apparently my text is his morning alarm, and he agrees to meet me along the railroad tracks for our trek to school. It’s a chilly morning, but the 8:00 a.m. sunshine feels warm on my back, and I shuffle along the rocks and railroad ties. In the distance, I see my friend’s scrawny frame hunched over from the weight of his backpack. I jog to catch up with him as a thermos of Blood Orange Soda sloshes around in my backpack.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I say, not even out of breath.

  Weezer takes a drag from a clove cigarette and blows smoke out his nostrils. “Just chillin’ my cheeks off.”

  “It’s not that cold out here,” I say. “The sun feels warm.”

  “Sunlight gives me a migraine,” he says, squinting through another puff of smoke. “You’re gonna be a Vampire. Stop worshipping the sun. Jeezus.”

  We walk along the tracks, stumbling over the rocks. Weezer and I haven’t walked to school together in weeks. In September we traveled to and from school routinely, sort of a freshman survival technique. After Bao Wang noticed us, Weezer started sleeping in before school, or skipping out of the last hour whenever he could. And that’s when Bao became my bully, because it was easier for him to pick on one Goth instead of two. I’m not angry at Weezer for abandoning me. He’s a frail kid, more sensitive than me, I guess. And he’s completely freaked by Bao.

  “You’re not dressed preppy-Normal today,” I say, noticing his black jacket and boots.

  “All my Normal clothes are in the wash,” he says. “I’m not a total sell-out, you know?”

  “Never said you were. When you’re with Angel, you’re different, though.”

  His pace increases across the railroad ties. “Different how?”

  This must be a sensitive topic for Weezer because his parents are dyed-in-the-wool Vamps. If he chooses to live as a Normal, his parents will disown him.

  “I dunno, you seemed more Normal with her. You’re self-confident,” I admit.

  “It’s all an act. I look more self-confident, but I’m still self-loathing.”

  I look up at him and he’s smiling and wheezing behind his cigarette.

  “Exactly! How about a little less self-confidence and
a little more self-loathing?” I suggest.

  He stops in the middle of the tracks. “Dude, that’s a great hook for a song. Seriously, bro!”

  “Yeah, that about sums up our lives.”

  “That’s why kids on the Reds are so damned depressed,” Weezer says. “We’re all supposed to fit in and live with confidence like the Normals.”

  “But Normals aren’t any more confident than we are. Just because you wear Normal clothing, that doesn’t make you a self-confident person,” I say, expanding our theory. “Deep down inside, everyone is self-loathing.”

  “Write that down, bro,” Weezer says. “See? You’re transforming, and your right brain is working in overdrive. We gotta get those lyrics down, now!”

  I whip out my phone and turn on Evernote and dictate as we walk. This is where Weezer and I really click. Sometimes we can brainstorm and write lyrics and riffs with very little effort.

  “What are some other words that fit that theme?” he asks.

  “Ah, there’s self-deprecating, self-inflicted, self-centered,” I suggest into my phone as my voice becomes text.

  “Yeah, there’s self-centered, self-absorbed,” he says.

  “Self-anointed and self-appointed.”

  He snaps his fingers. “That’s good. How about self-cleaning and self-lubricating?”

  “Ah, no.”

  “Okay, well, you get the idea,” Weezer says. “Use your creative juices to string together lyrics. Think heavy on the bass notes, a real Gothy downer—make it a rap song if you want.”

  “I’ll work on it,” I say.

  Weezer coughs and flicks his cigarette butt onto the rocks and steps on it.

  “See? I knew the band would benefit from your transformation. Text me and Angel as soon as you have the first draft of the song.”

  Even though I’m curious how he and Angel are getting along, I was so tense at Starbucks when I questioned their relationship that I choose not to bring it up. We step off the tracks and wade through the prairie grass, both of us in a walk-jog. Weezer finally breaks the silence.

  “How’s your mom?”

  “Better since Jack gave her a blood transfusion.”

  “Where’d Jack get the blood?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care where he got it,” I say, as I hear the Soda sloshing around again in the thermos in my backpack.

  Truth is, I worry about where Jack got blood for my mom. It’s illegal to buy and sell on the street, and I know he takes great risks in finding clean blood. There was once a time when crack and meth were problems around here. Those senseless drugs ruined neighborhoods and families. Blood is different. It saves people and saves families—unfortunately, sometimes you have to barter, steal, or kill to get it.

  We’re late enough for school that the security line is pretty short, and I let Weezer go ahead of me because I have more metal to remove. When Officer Denny spots me, he gives me another one of his thumbs-up signs and I nod, as if we’re buddies. Weezer slips through security with no problems, but Officer Denny gives me too much of his undivided attention. He watches me toss my necklace and bracelets into the small bowl that he sends through the scanner. Today he waves a wand up and down my legs and arms. The wand beeps.

  “Rosary,” I say, lifting it out of my pocket and handing it to him.

  “Wear it around your neck and you won’t forget it,” he says, handing it back to me. “Open your backpack, please?”

  This is different. He’s never asked me to open my backpack, because he’s always scanned it. Unzipping it, I show him my books but he reaches inside for my thermos. I’m in panic mode!

  “What’s in here?” he asks, shaking it. “Alcohol?”

  “No.”

  He looks up at me, staring at my face and my hair. “You on the juice?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Soda or Venom, are you juicin’ on that stuff? You look different these days.”

  Soda is definitely on Officer Denny’s contraband list. And here he is holding it in his hand. Damn, I was afraid of this!

  “No, I’m off the Reds, that’s why I look different,” I explain. “Ask any of the teachers. They’ve been notified that I’m transforming. If you want to follow me to the office I can prove it.”

  “That’s all right, I’ll check with them myself,” he says, handing back my thermos. “Some kids in this school district party with Soda. Know anything about that?”

  “Officer Denny, honestly, I don’t get invited to parties,” I say, shoving the Soda deep into my backpack.

  He rests his hands on his belt. “If you hear of anything—”

  “I’ll call you.”

  In a cold sweat, I walk quickly down the hall with my thermos of Soda sloshing in the backpack on my shoulder. Adding a third dose each day will be a heck of a lot harder than I expected.

  By lunchtime I’m uber-famished because I skipped breakfast to make it to school relatively on time. And Soda isn’t really filling, it just amps you up the way a Monster drink or Red Bull does. Grabbing a tray, I forage for food as fast as possible for my twenty-five-minute lunch period. I take two slices of pizza, meatloaf with potatoes, and two milks. I even partake in the healthy alternative of yogurt. In my backpack my Soda still sloshes around, calling my name.

  Weezer is sitting with Angel and a group of her friends at the far end of the lunchroom. Shelby is nowhere in sight because she has a different lunch hour. I walk over to Weezer’s table and set my tray down.

  He looks up at my tray of food. “Dude, are you pregnant? You’re eating for two.”

  “I skipped breakfast today,” I say, diving into the meatloaf.

  Angel picks at the pepperoni on my pizza. “I skip breakfast every day and I’m never that hungry.”

  “I’m a growing Vampire, remember?” I say.

  “Yeah, just like my cousin,” Weezer says. “Once you start transforming, you consume everything.”

  “Huh, that’s interesting,” Angel says. “Guys are so lucky. They can eat anything they want and it turns to muscle.”

  Weezer points to an overweight linebacker on the football team. “You mean like his muscle?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Are you two going to the game tomorrow night?”

  Weezer and I look at each other and shake our heads. Even though the last game was “interesting,” it’s not a ritual he and I want to repeat every Friday night.

  “Ah, probably not. We have a song we want to finish.” I keep shoveling food into my mouth and watching the time on my phone.

  “We’ve been through this before,” Angel says. “You can rehearse after the game. Everyone’s going tomorrow night. Bao Wang made it onto the varsity team.”

  “So?” I ask.

  “He’ll be all suited up, so there’s no chance he’ll seek his revenge. He won’t try to beat you up after the game.”

  “Who says he’ll beat me up?”

  “Yeah, why you disrespectin’ my bro here?” Weezer says.

  “I said try to beat you up, Darius,” she says. “I’m not saying he could.”

  Finishing the meat loaf, I stuff pizza into my mouth and pull my thermos out of my backpack, chugging the Soda. It’s no longer chilled, and when it’s warm my body seems to absorb it faster. The buzz hits me so hard I feel vertigo, and brace myself against the table.

  “You okay?” Angel asks.

  “I’m fighting the flu,” I say. “I’m dizzy.”

  “If you’re sick, stop eating all that food,” Weezer says. “If you hurl I swear I’ll beat you good.”

  Angel nudges him. “Weezer, he’s not feeling well. Knock it off.”

  “I’m just saying, if he pukes—”

  “Ohmygod, would you back off for a minute?” she says.

  Angel watches me closely. I regain my balance, finish my second slice of pizza, and focus on the yogurt before I take another sip of Soda, listening to Weezer and Angel talking about the game and what they should wear tomorrow night. They
already sound like a married couple, bickering about their wardrobes, and what time they should leave for the game. I pour back more Soda and finish off the thermos, shoving it back into my backpack before bracing myself again. The room spins around me in a sweeping motion, as if I’m on one of those carnival rides like The Whip.

  “Dude, what’s with you?” Weezer says.

  “The transformation is hitting me pretty hard today.”

  “Darius, look at me,” Angel says, reaching across the table for my hands. “Oh, you’re sweaty.”

  Breathing deeply, I wait for the food to settle in my stomach. I’m having a hot flash and shivering at the same time. I look directly into her eyes as she holds my hands. It’s the only way I can steady myself, and I’m reminded that once again, Angel has always been my rock.

  “Maybe you should go to the nurse’s office,” Weezer says.

  “Give me a minute and it might pass.” There’s no way I can go to the nurse every day after drinking Soda. I must tough it out.

  I breathe deeper, still holding Angel’s hands, and I’m beginning to feel better. My head starts clearing and the room’s spinning slows down considerably. A few more deep breaths and I’m normal again—more mellow.

  “He’s back,” Weezer says. “That’s my man, Mr. Self-loathing.”

  A smile emerges onto my face and I laugh for no real reason other than Weezer has a weird look on his face. He laughs and wheezes at me while Angel pulls her hands away.

  “You two are strange,” Angel says, turning to her friends, who have been ignoring us the entire time.

  This second dose of daily Soda makes me feel giddy, and I get an idea. I grab a paper napkin and soak it in my glass of milk. Weezer knows what I’m up to and he does the same. We’ve both been in many food fights, most of which we’ve started.

  “On the count of three,” I say to Weezer. “One, two…”

  Weezer, always the anxious one, throws his milk-soaked napkin over his shoulder and it sails before splashing into the middle a table of soccer player guys. We look away nonchalantly, super chill, and I toss my wet napkin towards a table of football players. After that, we experience World War III, with food sailing across the lunchroom in every direction. Girls are screaming and running for hallways and boys are hunkered down below their tables, still launching food. Weezer and I climb under the table, laughing so uncontrollably that I nearly cough up my Soda.