Blood Orange Soda: Paranormal Romance

by Larranaga, James Michael

  “Later in the evening.”

  “Don’t expect an answer from him right away. He’ll need time to think it over.”

  It took years for my own dad to transform for the woman he loved. How could I really expect an answer tonight?

  “I know,” I say to Jack. “At this point I’m just raising the question, what if he could save her? Then afterwards, I have to go to the railroad bridge to fight Bao.”

  “I’ll run interference for that, too,” Jack says. “I’ll make sure your mom and Kira stay at the party. You nervous?”

  I haven’t told him about my arrangement with Bao because I’m pretty sure he would disagree that I should let Bao win. I can’t risk it, though. Jack could be in huge trouble if he’s convicted for buying Blood Orange Soda from gangs and supplying it to a minor.

  “I’m nervous, yeah.”

  “You’ll win, but don’t win too big. Don’t take your aggression too far,” Jack says, patting me on the shoulder. “And this 5k race will relax you.”

  “I’ve never raced before. I’m not sure how it all works.”

  Jack shrugs. “I ran races when I was younger. Road races are simple. You line up with a crowd of other people and when the gun goes off, you run. Follow the people ahead of you. When you cross the finish line, they’ll tear a tag off your bib number and there’s food and drinks at the end.”

  “Okay, I’ll find my place in the pack and follow everyone ahead of me.”

  “I brought you a costume.”

  “I’m not wearing a costume,” I say. “Nobody mentioned anything about—”

  “Dude, this is the Halloween Haunt, when Normals get their freak on. You’ve got to wear a costume. I thought Goths liked dressing up.”

  “We do, I mean, no, we don’t dress up, we dress down,” I say. “Black, minimalism. We’re not GAP kids, we’re Goth kids.”

  Jack reaches into his gym bag and hands me black running tights and a black shirt. “Hold it up.”

  Holding up the costume, I see it’s mostly black, with white on the front.

  “Skeleton costume,” Jack says, laughing with pride. He hands me a hooded mask to go with it. The face of the skull is sinister. “Perfect, huh? You want to fit in, right?”

  Standing at the front door, looking at my reflection on the storm window, I agree it’s a decently cool costume. The bones will make me look even skinnier than Weezer. I actually like it. He sees me smiling at my reflection.

  “It was either this costume or Batman,” Jack says. “A Vampire wearing a Batman costume? Well, it’s just redundant.”

  I’m wandering through a herd of runners in Halloween costumes, trying to pin my race number to the front of my own costume, which I’m sure looks ridiculous because I’m nothing but bones and a race number. Shelby’s dad is dressed like a Zombie runner, which actually looks very authentic, and he keeps nudging me to move up to the front with the faster runners.

  “Go up there. Only joggers back here,” Mr. Rork says.

  “I’ve never raced before—”

  “All the young athletes are up front, Darius. Get up there.”

  Moving up, I elbow past runners who are stretching and notice my counselor, Mr. Striefland. He’s dressed in a classic prisoner’s jumpsuit, with black and white stripes. An ironic choice for a guidance counselor trying to keep students off the street. He doesn’t recognize me in my skeleton costume, so I call to him.

  “Mr. Striefland!” I wave.

  He moves forward. “Darius?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.” I pull my mask off.

  “Great costume, Darius,” Mr. Striefland says. “Good luck!”

  “You too,” I reply.

  I jostle through the smelly, nervous herd of runners and the closer to the front, the fewer costumes I see. These are the real athletes, the ones who are here to race, not celebrate Halloween. In front of them there’s a separate group of elites, maybe fifteen men and women in spandex tights and shirts with sponsor logos. I stay at the front of the pack with the regular runners.

  A woman dressed as Elvira, Mistress of the Dark (yawn!) is the official race starter. When she fires the gun, we’re off. At first I feel a lot of elbows and arms bumping into me, as we all try to find our free space on the road. I surge ahead to escape injury, and I find myself between the elite runners ahead and the regular runners behind me.

  The Halloween Haunt 5k is a road race that starts in the parking lot of St. Cloud State University. The course winds through residential streets and crosses the Mississippi River before we eventually make our way back and finish on the university track. In theory, that works great. And I’m sure the person who designed the course chose the route for its scenery; but what he or she neglected to check is the train schedule, because a mile into the race, we approach railroad tracks.

  A train horn!

  I know my train schedules and when the freight cars pass by my neighborhood, and I have a pretty good idea of when they’ll pass through town. I’m running twenty yards behind the lead pack. Remember, none of them is wearing a costume. I’m the skeleton chasing the elite runners through the streets of St. Cloud. How bizarre is that?

  Feeling good despite how itchy the costume is against my skin, I’m sure I’ll fade back into the middle of the pack with Shelby’s dad near the second mile but for now, I’m cruising.

  Another train horn, but louder.

  It’s a west-bound train blazing into town. This racecourse crosses over these tracks! I notice the elite runners in the lead pack looking at each other, never breaking stride as they talk about their options. They pick up the pace, as if they’re sprinting to the finish line, and I do the same. They’re going for it. They’re running to beat the train and I am, too. I lengthen my stride and pump my arms the same way I’ve done hundreds of times outrunning the freight cars by school. I catch up to the lead pack and the tracks are only fifty yards away, so I find one more gear and push hard, running through the big boys carefully so I don’t elbow anybody.

  Looking over my shoulder, the pack is suddenly ten yards behind me, but most of their heads are turned in the direction of the oncoming train. Everyone considers whether or not they should wait for the train to pass. I go for it and sprint harder, just as the railroad gates start coming down. I make it across the tracks and count: one, two, three, four, five, and the train screams across the road. I look over my shoulder and two elite college runners from St. Cloud State University are behind me. They took a chance and made it, too. The other 3,000 runners are on the other side of that train.

  Now what?

  Slowing, I wait for the collegiate guys to catch up and they’re laughing. They raise their palms and I give them both a high five as we run.

  “You’re one brave skeleton,” the head-banded one says to me.

  “Yeah, I dodge trains all the time,” I say between breaths.

  The smaller runner laughs. “First time for me…never again! Good day for a PR.”

  They both push the pace but I’m not sure why, because we could easily place in the top three with everyone else waiting for that train. Heck, I could slow to a jog and still place third easily.

  “What’s a PR?” I ask.

  They laugh wildly. “Your personal record,” the tall one says. “What’s your fastest 5k?”

  “I dunno, this is my first race,” I say, running shoulder to shoulder with them.

  “Seriously, man?” the short one says. “Then you’re guaranteed a PR today,” he says with laughter.

  We’re together through the second mile and there’s a small crowd of people cheering us with confused expressions on their faces. They must wonder where all the other runners are. I look back and see the next pack as small dots on the horizon. They’ll never catch us.

  At 2.5 miles my breathing labors and I pull my hooded mask off my face so I can breathe easier. The evening air is crisp and cold, and it feels refreshing to hold the mask rather than wear it. By the time we cross the Second Avenue Bridge a
gain, the collegiate runners are at least a quarter-mile ahead of me and there’s nobody behind me, so I drop to a slower pace, still fast, but not as fast as I started. When I enter the stadium and run onto the track, I make my final lap in front of a crowd of cheering fans. I see video of myself on the scoreboard screen. It’s odd to see a skeleton running by itself on a track with cheering crowds. I hear my name over the stadium speakers and then I hear Jack, my mom, and Kira cheering for me as I round the last turn. My lungs are on fire, and I see the college runners standing on the inside of the field, cheering and drinking from paper cups. I cross the finish line in third place—granted, an unfair third place—and my time is flashed on the jumbo screen: 16:42. I slow to a stop with my hands on my knees, gasping for deep air, then feel a hand on my shoulder. I look up and see a race official standing over me. He’s a skinny old man with stubble for a beard and bright-green Nikes.

  “Nice race, young man. How old are you?”

  “I’m a freshman at Stearns County High.”

  “You’re in high school?” he asks in disbelief.

  “Yeah, why?” I gasp.

  “You keep running like that and you’ll have more scholarship offers than you know what to do with.”

  I wobble off the track onto the football field in the middle and I grab a bottle of water and a banana. More runners are entering the stadium now, but they all look frustrated. These are the runners in the elite pack that were left behind. I don’t blame them, because I don’t deserve third place, but it’s cool that I ran a PR. Nobody in my family has been athletic. We’re musical people, and it feels strange to have somebody impressed with my athletic ability.

  Making my way to the bleachers I find my mom, Kira, and Jack seated up near the top of the stadium. They wave, and I wave back as I climb the stairs. My legs feel heavy as stones. When I reach the top my mom gives me a hug.

  “Way to go, honey. I’m so proud of you! How did you feel?”

  “I went out with the lead pack and I got lucky when the train came by.”

  Kira offers me a high five and Jack shakes my hand.

  “Is there an award for your place?” he asks.

  While I was running I questioned how much of my performance was due to Soda and how much was my training. Do they test athletes at these events?

  “I dunno. Let’s skip it,” I say to Jack. “I have to shower and get over to Shelby’s for a sound check before the party.”

  Angel and Weezer pick me up at my house after I’ve showered and I sit in the back seat, observing their mood. They’re getting along now, no ice-cold distance between them, and they seem like old friends again—probably better that way. We’re all amped about this gig because it’s far bigger than any of the gigs we’ve played. And we’ll have students from Apollo and Stearns County High watching, so it could make for some interesting viral videos.

  Angel looks up into her rear view mirror at me. “You look chill. You buzzin’ on Soda?”

  “No, I haven’t had a drink since this morning,” I say. “Finished my race and I’m relaxed.”

  “Runner’s high,” Weezer says.

  “Not sure I’d call it a high. I do feel mellow, though.”

  “You get a boost of endorphins during exercise,” Weezer says. “It’s cool, a cheap high, but for me running is too much work.”

  I describe my race to them as we drive, and Weezer laughs at the absurdity of me in a skeleton costume, out-running a train and chasing both collegiate runners through town. Angel nods and smiles at me through the mirror, but I know she’s nervous, and it’s not about the gig. She’s thinking of the fight. She’s trying to figure out a way to prevent the whole thing from happening. This time, however, there’s nothing she can do to stop Bao.

  We pull into Shelby’s long driveway and we’re directed by a parking attendant to pull in on the edge of the lawn near some pine trees. This will be a humongous party. I step out of the car first and Angel and Weezer follow, looking at the manicured yard, the large home and the lake behind it.

  “Your girlfriend is rich,” Weezer says.

  “What difference does that make?” Angel asks Weezer.

  “Nothing, I’m just sayin’; look at this place.”

  “Come on, wait until you see the backyard,” I reply.

  We walk by the catering crew unloading a truck, and I take them along a stone path to the backyard, where the party tents are standing. To the right, along the woods, is our stage and band gear. Alex and Marcus are tuning our instruments and playing riffs on Weezer’s guitar.

  “Hey, who gave the roadies permission to play my ax?” he says.

  “Relax!” I shout to him as he runs down the lawn to the stage. He and Marcus argue before Weezer takes his guitar away and straps it on. He plucks a string and tunes it slightly, then picks an impromptu solo that’s way too loud. Everyone turns to look at Weezer onstage. He stops, takes a bow, and hands the guitar back to Marcus.

  “He’s such an ass sometimes,” I say.

  Angel nods. “Yeah, he’s really just a boy. He’s a close friend, though.”

  “Weezer isn’t your type?”

  “I’m not really sure what my type is.”

  That’s a good segue for a discussion about the other night. “I wanted to talk with you about our kiss.”

  “That’s kind of a big topic. Can we discuss it later?” Angel asks.

  I don’t want to press her too hard or she could storm off, and we wouldn’t have a drummer tonight. I give her space and back down.

  “Yeah, sure.” I say. “We can talk later.”

  Angel looks up at the deck, and we both see Shelby with her mom. “Does Shelby know about the Soda?”

  “Yeah, I told her.”

  “And…?”

  “She’s pissed that I kept it from her and that I told you and Weezer first. She’s totally over-reacting,” I say.

  “Girls get jealous. Sometimes they have reasons to be jealous.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Never mind. I’m going down to the stage to see if those roadies set up my drums the way I like them.”

  She walks across the lawn in a denim jacket with her collar up and her blond hair tied in pigtails with twine. She’s dressed kind of Vampy tonight: black jeans and knee-high boots, a pair of drumsticks stuffed in the back pocket of her jeans. She reaches for them and begins playing air drums as she walks away. To my right I feel Shelby watching me, and I look up to the deck and see her smiling.

  “What took you so long?” she calls down.

  I wave at her and her mom, and Mr. Rork steps out of the kitchen onto the deck.

  “C’mon up!” he hollers.

  I nervously climb the staircase to visit with Shelby and her parents. Below me is all this sweaty activity to set up the party, and up top there are cold drinks and ice sculptures of swans and unicorns. Mr. Rork is wearing a formal black tuxedo, white shirt and a blood-red handkerchief in his breast pocket. Mrs. Rork is stunning in her long, obsidian-black dress with spiderweb lace on the shoulders. Their choice in clothing is Vampire vogue.

  Shelby’s dressed more informally than her parents. She’s wearing a black velvet jacket with a tight pinky rose T-shirt. Below the waist she’s in a black leather mini-shirt, black tights and floral pink Doc Marten boots.

  I’m way underdressed for this affair in my high-tops; ripped blue jeans, white T-shirt and black hoodie. I kick myself for discouraging my mom and Kira from dressing up. Men down on the lawn are wheeling large ice sculptures to the backyard. The sculptures are gigantic gargoyles, sneering, with big teeth. This is all over the top, and if F. Scott Fitzgerald had written about wealthy Vampires, this is what The Great Gatsby’s parties might’ve looked like!

  “I picked up your award for third place. You won your age group,” Mr. Rork says, placing the third-place medal around my neck before he hands me the ribbon for my age category. The medal is heavy, and I’m sure if I wore it under my shirt at school Office
r Denny would confiscate it. I wouldn’t blame him, because I was doped on Soda, a banned substance, and I feel guilty about accepting any award.

  “I told you he’s special,” Shelby says, kissing me on the cheek.

  Mrs. Rork hands me a fruit tray. “Blood orange?”

  “Say what?”

  “Try them,” she says. “They’re delicious.”

  Relieved that she wasn’t referring to Blood Orange Soda, I pick up a slice of blood orange using a toothpick. It’s a familiar bittersweet flavor on my tongue. No blood aftertaste, though.

  “And help yourself to the shrimp cocktail,” Mr. Rork says.

  Smiling, I nod as Shelby pulls me away from her parents to the edge of the deck where we look out onto the yard below.

  “They know nothing about your Soda,” she says. “Our secret.”

  Shelby likes secrets.

  “It would upset them, huh?”

  “They’re ultra-conservative,” she says. “It’s none of their business, anyway. Who are they to judge?”

  “Yeah, exactly.” The taste has triggered a craving for the real Soda, and I look over at the stage where Marcus and Alex are hanging out. Where did they put that box I gave them?

  “We’ll have appetizers to start, and over there they’ll serve pork roast and tofu burgers,” Shelby says. “Dessert will be sorbet, over there by the DJ. My dad will make a toast at around nine. Maybe your mom wants to say something, too?”

  “My mom would never get onstage, but Jack might.”

  “Oh, Jack would be perfect!” Shelby says, squeezing my arm.

  Not sure why, but I’m just not feeling much of an attraction to this girl tonight. This whole Vampire party atmosphere and the obvious difference between her family’s lifestyle and my family’s is hard for me to ignore. How will my mom feel when she arrives? What will a Normal like Jonathan think of this party?

  We open the party with Mr. Rork welcoming everyone on the back lawn, and he’s surprisingly less confident onstage in front of 200 people than he is one on one. The students from both schools aren’t mixing or mingling and they need a noisy distraction, so Mr. Rork tells the DJ to wait, and he introduces our band.