The Anti-Vampire Tale

by Lewis Aleman

  This is why Ambrosia is a wonderful friend. She’s forgotten to meet me places when we’ve made plans—dated guys I thought I liked, but she wouldn’t let me stay home on my birthday and now won’t let me drown of humiliation in this pool of coolness. She’s going to hold my wrist until I learn to swim—or at least tread water.

  Lets go of my hand…body keeps moving…still breathing.

  Two drinks plop down on the bar in front of me. I’ve switched from Coke to the hard stuff—energy drinks. The other cup is full of Ambrosia’s too-sweet-smelling, bright-colored concoction she’s been downing all night.

  She keeps begging me to try her drink like it’s some all-powerful elixir that’ll wash all the dorkiness inside me right out of my bladder. That’s just not me—I’m a sober gal. Can’t let go of control of myself—barely have a decent grip as it is. Besides, if I drank like Ambrosia, I’d only be an epically bad, clumsy version of her.

  A chiseled arm in a tight-fitting metal-gray t-shirt rests its elbow down on the bar next to my drinks, followed by the most arousing male scent to ever tickle my nostrils. Two female bartenders smile and wave as soon as they notice him. He waves in one fast, straight motion. One of the bartenders blows him a kiss; the other makes a jealous face at her.

  A hand lands on my back just as the last note of “Space Age Love Song” rings out the speakers.

  Ambrosia must have known the song so well that she started walking to come get me with just enough time before the next song started.

  Thinking of taut muscle wrapped in thin, gray, short sleeves, I say to her, “Hang on, I think I might get something else.”

  When I return my focus to masculine beauty, I see long, red-tipped female interlopers running down the back of his shirt and up to his shoulders.

  Interrupting my dislike of the long-nailed intrusion on my hunk is the beginning of “99 Red Balloons” and an excited Ambrosia voice shouting, “No! Go! Now-now-now!”

  She pulls me behind her into the fray, clearing us a path with her hips. You wouldn’t think hips as average as hers could part the sea of inebriated dancers, but she puts a lot of energy behind their swaying.

  Once we’ve reached a spot she deems acceptable, she raises her free hand straight up in the air and begins twisting her body to and fro.

  I start dancing without any worry. Once the first few songs were over, I relaxed and have actually been having a pretty great time.

  There is something so sweet and childlike about how much Ambrosia loves each and every one of these songs. She’s smiled, cheered, and waved her free hand in the air at the start of every tune so far. Her wildness does clash with the innocence, like a little girl in a white dress and polished Sunday shoes chugging Tequila. Maybe she’s just wild because she’s wounded, and she’s childlike trying to have a youth now that she missed back then. Maybe. Maybe not. But, she’s happy now, and it’s as contagious as a plague of joy.

  Her face turns oddly serious as she stops dancing, grasps my shoulder, and talks into my ear.

  I can smell and feel the hot alcohol on her breath as she speaks.

  “He’s here.”

  I wonder how she could have noticed my attraction to the guy with the gray shirt at the bar, but I grin anyway, his image still fresh in my mind.

  She nudges her head in a direction behind me, and my vision helplessly follows her. I see him—my smile vanishes.

  It’s Lyle, and there’s nothing “gray” about him. Damn it—what the hell is he doing here? Oh. Dang it. I mentioned in the faculty room that I was coming here tonight when they asked where I was going for my birthday.

  Lyle walks closer to me, smiling so hard that I think his mouth may rip open at the corners. My stomach sinks in a pool of awkwardness.

  Lyle’s actually not that bad of a person—he’s a dedicated, anal-retentive geometry teacher who pushes his students hard, but they learn a lot. He’s smart and basically a nice guy. And as he makes his way over here now, he’s not a bad dancer. Definitely not bad for a schoolteacher with an unhealthy obsession with the teachings of Euclid.

  He’s just bad for me.

  Just old enough to have his hair starting to thin and recede, recently divorced which has left him insecure and desperate—making him awkward and persistent, quite an unattractive combination. I’m only at Riverview High for one student teaching class a day—and I’ve only been there for a little over a month, but he’s tried to sell me his undesirable combination every day I’ve been there. Looks like he’s going to be making another sales pitch in 5…4…would it be rude if I screamed?…3 how much would a hitman cost?…2 ahhh! just aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!…1 and the nightmare begins…

  “Ruby, Happy Birthday!” he says raising his cup for a toast.

  I tap my cup against his as gently as possible.

  He moves closer raising his free arm as if he is going in for a hug. My stomach threatens to revolt if my brain can’t save me from this onslaught. Mind is frozen like it’s stuck in an alien tractor beam. Stomach grows more belligerent. Hell is upon me, and my wits are nowhere to be seen.

  Blue flashes in front of my face as Ambrosia rushes between us and pulls me along with her for a quick 180-spin, placing me a little further away from Lyle when we stop.

  He dances as if nothing’s happened. No embarrassment. No signs of rejection. Denial runs strong in this one.

  The walls behind him are textured in a rich and exciting maroon color; people in flashy outfits dance all around him; 16 Candles is projected silently on the giant screen behind the stage—everything seems magical around him—everything’s downright fantastical except him—a colorless minnow in a tropical sea. Sounds like me. But not the me I want to be.

  Not even the wisdom of Molly Ringwald, the eternally cool teenager, and Long Duk Dong up on the screen can penetrate the wall of buzzkill that is Lyle.

  Desperately needing something to shine some light inside the dark pit into which I am rapidly sinking, I look for gray shirt. As if my desperation has summoned him, he steps down the two steps from the bar area to the dance floor.

  Before now, I’ve only seen him from the waist-up at close range at the bar. I didn’t get to see his tight, black leather pants, and might I say, Yowza!

  His smooth, pale, white skin tucked inside the gray shirt and black pants truly is a light piercing the darkness that surrounds me.

  Buzzkill steps in front of the view of my Adonis.

  “Ruby, I should get you a birthday drink. What’re you drinking?”

  “No, it’s okay. I still have plenty left.”

  “Oh, come on—it’s your birthday.”

  “No, really, I’m fine.”

  “A shot? Sex on the beach?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Gotta tell me what you’re drinking, or I’m just gonna pick something for you.”

  “I’m drinking an energy drink.”

  “Oh, energy drink and vodka. You’re a girl after my own heart,” he says downing the last of the liquid in his cup.

  “No, Lyle, just an energy drink.”

  His eyebrows furrow, “Oh, but you’ve gotta try it. Nothing like it for a party!”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll just go get you one,” he says as he takes a step toward the bar.

  “Lyle!”

  “What-chu-need-sweetie?”

  “Just an energy drink. That’s it.”

  “All right. All right,” he says shaking his head, “It’s your birthday—anything you want.”

  He turns and heads toward the bar. Suddenly I feel bad for the expression that must have been on my face. Lyle’s annoying, and he’s shamelessly trying to weasel his way in with me—but maybe I was a little harsh. Think I saw a hint of hurt on his face, but his unrelenting persistence should help him forget all about it in a minute or so. He’s certainly ignored every not-interested signal I’ve ever sent to him, and there have been plenty. Would be nice if he remembered my anger until one second after t
onight’s over. Don’t want him hurt for long, or at all really, but I’d love for him to stay away for the rest of the night. Would be nice for me anyway. I was having a fantastic time dancing in public. What are the odds that’ll ever happen again? Heck, the odds are staggering that it even happened once.

  Now, where is Gray? Scan the dance floor. Group of girls. Drunk guy stumbling. Drunk girl unknowingly flashing everyone a clear view of her underwear while she tries to climb up on the stage—not sure if anyone’s supposed to go up there. Well, at least she’s not wearing a thong. On second thought, in this place, thank God she’s wearing underwear at all. Bouncer rushes to her area—guess no one is supposed to go up there.

  There is a pack of girls who are all dressed up ‘80s style with lots of rouge and blue eye shadow—clips and bows in their hair. They look authentic. Almost wish Ambrosia and I would’ve dressed up too, but then again she’s always dressed as her own character.

  And there she is. Looks like she’s made friends and is dancing with a group of people. She likes Lyle less than I do—didn’t even tell him hello. No wonder she’s set up camp elsewhere.

  Not much dance floor left. My heart starts to sink—maybe he’s gone.

  A heavy guy, who’s been leaning on the stage all night watching girls dance, makes his way back to his usual spot. As he moves along, revealing people he was blocking from my view, Gray appears.

  Perfect skin clings tightly down the steep slope of his imposing cheekbones. Lips so beckoning that the air around them fights in jealousy to slide over them. Piercing eyes. Blue and lit up like a fire. They’re on me. Oh my God, they’re on me.

  Three girls dance around him, but he looks over their heads to me. Can’t look away.

  He steps forward, girls sliding to the side as he passes them. Weaves through the crowd rapidly, despite his broad, muscular frame.

  Eyes on him—his on me, paying no mind to the people he passes, even a girl who slides her fingers across his chest. His hair floats with his steps, just touching his shoulders, flowing like a black sea parted in two directions, a mane like a crown, untamed and setting him apart.

  A few feet separate us now. Too embarrassed to speak. Too hooked to look away.

  Inches. Inches away from touching me, he steps in synch with my dancing.

  Quick glance down his body—slim waist, steel-tipped cowboy boots. My God, how does he move so well in them? Like some sexy ninja.

  I step back and then forward toward him. See if he follows or lets me slip away. Does he want me, or is he just making his way around the floor?

  Boy’s on my every move. About two inches from me no matter what I throw at him—swear he knows what I’m doing before I do it. Throw my arm out like a snake—he follows. Move my head back—moves his forward. Reflexes like an animal. Smooth, fast, beautiful…scary, almost.

  So close, his tight gray shirt drapes over his rippling shoulders and chest like a sheet of water rolling over a cliff.

  He starts leaning down. Blue eyes feel like they’re entering my green ones. Teal sounds like a delicious mix. Precious lips getting closer to mine.

  What is happening to me? My God, I don’t even know his name. Don’t think I’ll pull away.

  An elbow pokes at his left arm—he turns sideways, instantly bringing his dancing body upright, snarling, and fists clenched.

  Excitement faces Buzzkill.

  “Hey, buddy, she’s with me,” grumbles Lyle with a tremble in his speech.

  Gray’s voice slides out his throat, “She didn’t say anything, friend.” Powerful, but smooth, with a hint of rasp. If it were a color, it’d match his shirt.

  “I’m saying it for her. She’s…with…me.”

  Shooting out of my mouth, “No, I am not!”

  Gray looks at me and smiles.

  “Hey, big man, this conversation’s between you and me. Not the girl.”

  Still locked in on me, Gray pays him no mind. Neither do I. Lyle taps Gray’s shoulder roughly.

  Looking back to Lyle, anger flaring in his face for a moment—Gray’s teeth flash before he pushes the emotion away, “Hey, friend, no reason to get ugly in here tonight—lots of girls in here. This one’s got a right to dance with whoever she wants, but so can all the others. Maybe you’ll find someone else you like.”

  Dropping one of the drinks from his hands, energy drink spilling and spreading, cup bouncing on the floor, Lyle says, “Maybe, I should just beat the hell out of you.”

  “Say that you could beat the hell out of me—then the night’d end with both of us in a jail cell together.”

  Ambrosia pulls one of her new friends by the wrist, a blonde with a single ponytail, plenty of curve, and little of it covered by her low-cut exercise t-shirt and stretch pants with giant, pink leg warmers. They dance around Lyle. When he continues to stare at Gray, Ambrosia’s friend bends over very far and dances in that position right next to Buzzkill. Lyle’s eyes drop down and take in the shape of her butt. A smile sneaks over him.

  Gray continues speaking to Lyle, his voice sending a tingle through me, “Wouldn’t you rather end up with someone prettier than me? Someplace better than a jail cell? God knows I do.”

  Lyle looks at me. Then at the strange girl’s butt. Back to me. Strange butt. Then to Gray and says, “Look, I already told you…”

  Ambrosia grabs Lyle’s hand and places it on the strange girl’s waist. Now standing, the girl moves in close and slides her arms around his neck. She pushes her body to him, rubbing against him, slowly leading him away from us. Lyle doesn’t look back.

  Ambrosia bows at us, then resumes bouncing her body to the music.

  Gray moves closer to me. We start dancing again. Still in synch.

  “Sorr-” the first words out my mouth to him are interrupted.

  Another man taps Gray’s shoulder. Long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, pointed nose, almost the same size as Gray.

  Gray doesn’t look pleased, but shakes the man’s extended hand.

  Ambrosia blindsides me with a girl huddle, and whispers urgently, “Bathroom break.”

  Is the whole world conspiring to keep Gray away from me?

  Start to shake my head no.

  “Now!” she demands.

  Before I can respond, she pulls me away.

  Gray stares at his friend who is talking to him. Don’t think Gray likes him much.

  My head turns away from them to watch where Ambrosia is dragging me. Everything is gloomy and mean and coated in despair. Not because anything I see deserves it, but because it’s all a part of pulling me away from him. How odd that everything pales in comparison to a guy with such pale skin.

  Nothing registers but a longing to be back on the dance floor with Gray until she pulls me into the bathroom, spinning around to face me once we’re inside.

  “Ruby, that guy is a psycho!”

  Suddenly feeling offended and hostile—how dare she say this about my wonderful Gray, I ask, “What are you talking about—you haven’t even talked to him?”

  “We hooked up a few weeks ago here. He’s crazy.”

  My heart sinks, and I feel my smile float away to the land of sadness.

  “Oh, no,” Ambrosia laughs, “Not your guy—gray shirt. I’m talking about his friend with the blonde ponytail. His name’s Roderick. Complete psychopath—we gotta leave.”

  My heart jumps at her last word, “‘Brosia, you say that about every guy you date after you break up. They’re all psychos or freaks. You wind up dating half of them again. And sometimes, again and again and again.”

  Shaking her head and not smiling at my little joke, “Look what he did to my neck!” she says pulling her collar to the side.

  At the base of her neck are two fiery dots.

  “Psycho bit into me like I was freakin’ Buffy or something.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “Yeah. And that was weeks ago—the marks are still there. Let’s sneak right out the front door—now.”

  “What
about your tab?”

  “I’ll get my card from them tomorrow. I’ve forgotten to close out a few times before. No big deal—they all know me here.”

  “But, the guy…”

  “Told you he’s psycho.”

  “No—”

  “Oh, gray shirt!”

  “Yes!”

  “Don’t want to leave?”

  Shake my head.

  “Ruby, I don’t like this.”

  Never heard her say that about anything but studying.

  “Ambrosia, I really like this guy.”

  “Really?”

  “Completely.”

  She rolls her lips tightly inside her mouth, thinking. “Okay, you go get your man, chica, but don’t get so focused on Gray that you forget to look out for your crazy Blue friend too. This Roderick guy’s sketchy.”

  “You got it, girl.”

  Walk toward the door.

  I ask, “Hey, how did you get that blonde girl to go for Lyle?”

  “Well, I told her he’s a trust fund kid, and…”

  “And what?”

  “Let’s just say we owe her free drinks for…well, forever.”

  The walk back to the dance floor is nothing but a meaningless maze of people and objects. The only person to make me feel like my skin pulses with electricity is on the dance floor, and anything between here and there is a cruel torture that could never measure up to the Gray one whose name I don’t even know.

  My God, I’m losing my mind, and I’m loving it.

  I don’t see that Roderick guy, but I don’t see Gray either. Hope they haven’t already left—my feelings hurt just at the thought of it. Don’t even know him. Just know how I feel around him. Those arms. Those eyes…so different for me.

  Lyle’s head is buried in the blonde’s neck. Same sights on the dance floor. Ambrosia starts to dance. My knees move with the beat, but with little energy and no enthusiasm.

  Song ends and “Right Round” starts playing. It’s hard to imagine feeling dead on the dance floor with this song playing, but I don’t feel very alive right now—definitely nothing like how I felt dancing with him.