Red Moon Rising

by Peter Moore

  The knuckles on the fingers of my right hand are kind of swollen. They look like an old human’s arthritic hands. Or like Loretta’s hands, though not nearly as bad.

  I pick up the pear core with my left hand and go to the kitchen to throw it away. I’m not going to worry about this anymore. It’s probably just some kind of flu. No big deal.

  Except for one thing.

  Vampyres don’t get the flu.

  They don’t get sick.

  Ever.

  Health class is so stupid. Like we haven’t heard this stuff a million times already. But Ms. Vaughn doesn’t seem like she’s about to stop, so I guess it’s going to be a million and one times.

  “Okay, trade quizzes with your partner so we can mark them. Let’s go. Number one: ISTD stands for? Michael?”

  “Um, A: Interspecies Sexually Transmitted Disorder.”

  “Close. It’s D: Interspecies Sexually Transmitted Disease. Put an X through the number if it’s wrong. Two, true or false: a human can be turned into a vampyre through sexual contact. Elyse?”

  “False.”

  “Correct. This isn’t on the quiz, but can a human be turned into a vampyre from a bite?”

  We all say no, in completely bored voices. Like anyone still believes that idiotic myth.

  “What are the ways a human can be turned into a vampyre. Danny?”

  This is like third grade stuff. What a waste of time. “They can’t. The only way to be a vampyre is through genetics. If your parents are vamps.”

  “Absolutely correct. Next question, three: a human can sexually transmit HIV to a vampyre, true or false. Sydney?”

  “False. Vamps are immune to all human diseases.”

  “Correct. Next: if a male vampyre mates with a human female, she can become pregnant, true or false? Tomas?”

  “If he’s stupid and doesn’t use protection, sure. But if he’s smart, he’ll deny it’s his.”

  Not so many people laugh. We’ve heard all his jokes before, and we just want the period to end.

  “That’s very honorable, Tomas. Now, moving on: if a female vampyre mates with a male wulf—”

  “Eww,” Tiffany Welsh says, loudly enough to make sure everyone hears her.

  “Tiffany…”

  “No, seriously, Ms. Vaughn. Why would a vamp girl do it with a howler?”

  “How about, like, really low self-esteem?” Elyse says.

  A bunch of the girls laugh. The vamp boys look at each other and grin smugly.

  Ms. Vaughn folds her arms over her chest, making herself look smaller, which she does whenever she gets uncomfortable. “First of all, let’s start with you not using derogatory terms.”

  “So we can’t say face-case or moondog or crumpskull or lunabitch, either?” Tomas asks.

  “It’s not like there’re any wulves in here anyway. The only one in this class is Craig Lewczyk, and he’s still out sick.”

  I keep my mouth shut.

  “Regardless,” Ms. Vaughn says, “I don’t want those kinds of expressions used here.”

  “Sor-reee,” Tiffany says. “But seriously, why would any self-respecting vamp girl want to have sexual relations with a lycanthrope?”

  She is so obnoxious.

  Vocabulary quiz from Constance, eighth grade: Natatorium. Nobody knew; she told us it was an indoor swimming pool building.

  I hate the smell of chlorine. And I hate this heavy, humid air. Faded Millbrook High School Champion banners hang from the ceiling; we don’t have our own team name because we’re technically part of Millbrook.

  “What’s the point of making it mandatory to go to ten school events if we don’t want to be here?” I ask Claire.

  “To keep attendance up, I guess.”

  “Nothing like fake school spirit, huh?”

  “Stop your whining. It’ll be over soon. At least it’s Friday.”

  It is Friday. Which means tomorrow night is my date—or hangout or whatever it is—with Juliet Walker. Emphasis on whatever it is.

  “What if I’m reading her wrong?” I ask Claire.

  She tilts her head back and turns her eyes to the ceiling. “Please, not again.”

  “I trust your opinion.”

  She looks at me, a half-smile on her face. “That’s the best you can come up with?”

  “It’s true.” There’s the eardrum-piercing shriek of a whistle, followed by a splash as the swimmers hit the water. My ears are ringing from the whistle, which is amplified by the tile and the high ceiling. “Seriously. I need to know if she likes me, and I trust you.”

  Claire turns back to the pool. “First, you’re making me sick, so don’t bother trying to act all sincere with me. You’re not good at it. Second, you’re asking the wrong girl. I don’t have a whole lot of experience with…relationships, or whatever. As you know.”

  I look back down the pool, watching the girls slice through the water. Gunther’s current girlfriend, Alana Gibson, is swimming in practically every race. Gunther and his crew are a few rows in front of us.

  There’s a pack of wulf kids sitting at the very end of the bleachers, near the starting blocks. There’s at least five yards between them and everyone else. They’re obviously here just to get their extracurricular cards stamped.

  When Alana wins the 100-meter butterfly by two-and-a-half body lengths, Gunther and his guys go wild.

  One of the referees taps the microphone, setting off a squeal that reverberates through the pool house. “Once again, the winner is Carpathia’s Alana Gibson.”

  Gunther and his buddies whoop and whistle over the referee’s announcement of the names of the vamp girl who finished second and the human girl who finished third.

  The wulf kids cheer and shout, too, but there’s a different tone to it.

  “Why don’t you mutts shut the hell up?” Gunther shouts at them.

  One of them, a kid named Charlie Hogan, grins at Gunther. “Hey, man. We’re just cheering for our girl.”

  “She’s not your girl,” Gunther calls. “Notice that she walks upright.”

  Alana Gibson pulls herself up out of the pool. Her slick red bathing suit hugs every curve, and water streams down her long legs.

  I turn to Claire, who’s staring at her.

  “Easy, now,” I say.

  “Yeah, same to you.”

  Alana has to pass right in front of the wulf kids to get back to the swimmers’ bench. They watch her, all of them grinning as she comes close. She slips her thumbs under the straps on her shoulders and pulls the bathing suit up a bit.

  The wulf kids yell, “Hey, Alana!” and “Nice strokes!” when she passes by. I’m watching her face as the guys call out to her. She rolls her eyes, but there’s definitely a hint of a smile.

  “Hey, can’t you do something about that smell?” Alex Fourier calls to the wulves. “The whole place stinks like wet dog.”

  “Go chase cars or something,” Gunther yells.

  The wulf kids shout back at them, mostly curses. Since wulves don’t have the same bleeding problems that vamps have, they don’t worry much about avoiding fights.

  The assistant swim coach, Mr. Wentworth, walks over to the wulf kids. “If you boys can’t act civilized—”

  “Try housebroken!” Gunther yells.

  A bunch of people around us laugh, but I don’t. Claire doesn’t, either.

  “You’re going to be removed,” Mr. Wentworth finishes.

  “We’re going to be removed?” Charlie Hogan says, his eyes wide. “What about what they said?” He points his thumb over his shoulder at Gunther’s crew.

  “I didn’t hear anything from them.” Wentworth raises his voice, loud enough for a lot of people to hear. “You, boy, on the other hand, were rude, obnoxious, and disgusting. Any more trouble from you, and you’re all suspended.”

  Gunther claps his hands. “Yeah, suspend him,” he says cheerily. “By his neck, from a lamppost!”

  Hogan gets to his feet, yanks off his varsity wrestling jacket, and gl
ares at Gunther, but John Fusco elbows him and shakes his head. Hogan sits back down.

  “We’re just showing school spirit,” Fusco says to the assistant coach. “Go, Carpathia. Rah-rah.” His voice is monotone.

  Mr. Wentworth walks away. The swimmers for the next race are standing on the starting blocks, watching the show. The starter is also watching, the whistle dead between her lips.

  “I’m so glad we didn’t get thrown out,” Hogan says loudly. Then, even louder, he shouts, “Because we’re really pumped to watch this intense sport.”

  “It’s way cooler than mixed martial arts. Or football,” Fusco says. “All the action of…watching. Grass. Grow.”

  “That’s because you mongrels can’t swim,” Gunther calls back.

  “Yeah, they can,” Taylor Lattimore says. “They can doggie-paddle.”

  Gunther’s boys laugh.

  “You roasters aren’t athletes,” Hogan shouts. “You can’t wrestle or play football, because one little boo-boo and you’ll have a blood flood.”

  Gunther strides over to where the wulf kids are sitting. His guys follow.

  The wulves stand up. Deadlock.

  Gunther is a full head taller than Charlie Hogan, but Hogan is built like a fire hydrant.

  “We stick to refined sports,” Gunther says. “All you moon-dogs know how to do is smash and bash. Limited animal brains, lower form of life.”

  Hogan’s nostrils flare and he balls his hands into fists.

  Mr. Wentworth gets up again and moves toward them.

  “Do it, troglodyte,” Gunther says.

  But Hogan doesn’t hit him. He grabs Gunther by the front of his shirt and shoves him hard. Gunther goes into the pool, hitting the water with a big splash.

  The crowd roars.

  Gunther heaves himself out of the water. His expensive clothes drip heavily. Two teachers have come to walk Charlie Hogan out. He’s laughing.

  “This is a Rolex, face-case!” Gunther screams at Hogan. “If it’s ruined, you’re paying for it.”

  “Sue me,” Hogan calls over his shoulder.

  “You couldn’t afford it. I could buy and sell your whole family.”

  Mr. Wentworth and two custodians escort Charlie Hogan to the doors of the pool house. The vamp kids cheer, while Gunther looks up into the bleachers and clasps his hands over his head in a champion gesture. Then he tosses his blond hair, sending a spray of water onto some vamp girls, who squeal with delight.

  The rest of the meet can’t match the excitement of the floor show. Carpathia wins, mainly due to Alana Gibson.

  “Well, that turned out to be a decent meet after all,” Claire says to me as we climb down the bleachers.

  “That was an outstanding meet,” I say while pulling on my leather jacket. “Did you hear Gunther scream about his stupid watch?”

  We shuffle along with the crowd toward the exit. I lean into Claire. “Oh. I came up with a really good solution to our problem.”

  “What problem is that?”

  “About how to tell if Juliet Walker likes me or not.”

  “Right, see, that’s not our problem, that’s your problem,” Claire says, staring hard at the back of Tiffany Welsh’s head, impatient because Tiffany is yakking instead of trying to move forward.

  “Whatever. Anyway, I figure the simplest way to do this is for you to come tomorrow night so you can watch and give me your opinion.”

  “Gee, really? I can? What an honor!” She sneers at the back of Tiffany’s head and mimes punching it. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

  “I’ll be forever in your debt.”

  “You’re already forever in my debt. And anyway, it’s a stupid idea. You’re trying to figure out if she likes you so you show up with another girl?”

  “You’re not another girl.”

  She jams the point of her elbow into my solar plexus, half knocking the wind out of me. I should have seen it coming.

  “Good luck getting me to help you with anything after that,” she says.

  “You know what I meant. I’m saying, you’re not a girlfriend. We couldn’t pretend to be together even if we wanted to. Just come. I know you don’t have any plans.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it’s Saturday night. What plans would you have besides hanging out with me?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Fine. It’ll be fun watching you try to flirt.” She stands on her toes, trying to see what’s holding things up. “Would you guys move?” she shouts.

  We finally get outside, and the crowd spreads out. Claire’s dad is supposed to pick us up. “He said to wait for him there,” Claire says, pointing to a far corner.

  Just as we head in that direction, we hear the voice of our school’s golden boy. “Nope, not this weekend,” Gunther says. “I’m going hunting with my father.”

  “Yeah? For deer, or elk?” Victor Harmon asks.

  “An elk is a type of deer, dumbass,” Gunther says. He’s still wet and his shirt is clinging to him. “Anyway, I don’t care what I shoot as long as I get a good kill. Maybe I’ll accidentally shoot a wulf. Now, that would be a tragedy.” He turns to the side, raises an imaginary rifle to his shoulder, squints into an invisible scope and makes a ka-pow sound.

  I can’t tell if he knows I’m behind him or not.

  “And maybe he’ll accidentally shoot himself,” I say to Claire. “Golden Boy? More like a dirtbag poser.”

  “Wow. I guess he’s fallen off his pedestal,” Claire says, shaking her head.

  We take maybe five more steps before I hear Gunther shout.

  “Hey, wulf boy.” Gunther’s holding open the passenger door of his Porsche for Alana Gibson. “Did you just call me a poser?”

  I turn to Claire, who looks as surprised as I feel. I didn’t think Gunther could hear me.

  He shuts the door. “That’s pretty funny coming from you, since you’re the one trying to pass as a vamp.” His smile is big. His friends think he’s hilarious. He puts on a confused face. “Did you also say you wished I’d shoot myself?”

  “I didn’t say that I wished you would.” Not out loud, anyway.

  He walks around to the driver’s side and opens the door. “You don’t have to be scared. See, I don’t care if you want me dead. I feel the same way about you. And by you I mean all your kind, but you especially. You don’t even have to be dead. As long as you’re gone.” He smiles big, his perfect white teeth gleaming.

  “Is that a threat?” Claire asks him. “Did you just threaten to kill him?”

  Gunther laughs. His idiot friends join in. “No,” he says. “I’m not threatening him or anyone else. I’m just saying how I feel. What I wish.” His eyes have held mine the whole time he’s been talking.

  Obviously, I need to ignore him and walk away. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing for me—and ‘my kind’—that you’re not in charge. Even though you think you’re the king of this school, you don’t actually have any power over what happens or doesn’t happen to any of us.”

  Gunther raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Okay, wulf boy. We’ll see.” He pops the collar of his shirt, still wet and still expensive.

  I look at him. Claire squeezes my arm, but I’m determined not to lose this stare-down.

  Gunther raises his imaginary rifle at me, squints, and pulls the invisible trigger. His lips form another ka-pow, but he doesn’t make a sound. He lowers his “gun,” then winks at me as he gets in the car.

  Claire rolls her eyes. “That was just so cool and fun. Thanks for the experience. Now can we get out of here?”

  But I’m not going to leave before he does. It would be like giving up.

  Gunther starts the engine, then the car takes off.

  I’m not sure what just happened, but I have a feeling I didn’t come out on top.

  Saturday night. It’s 9:40 p.m., and Juliet is late. Claire and I are standing in the shadows of Bartlow’s Market. For thirty-five minutes we’ve been watching a bunch of kids hanging out at
the far end of the parking lot. I’m nervous; Claire’s annoyed.

  “I’m thinking she might not show,” I say. “Are you thinking that?”

  “I’m thinking I should never have said yes to you. I have better things to do with my time.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “Okay, but still.”

  I’m wondering if it’s possible that one of those kids is Juliet and she’s been there all along. No. I’ve been checking constantly, and my vision is sharp. Sharper than usual, even. Juliet isn’t there. “Do I look okay?” I ask Claire.

  “Not really.”

  “What?” I’m wearing jeans, a new green Oxford shirt over a got heme? T-shirt, and my leather jacket. “What’s the matter?”

  “Well, you look like you always do, and that’s not so good. No offense.”

  “Thanks. If you’re trying to make sure I don’t get overconfident, it’s working.”

  Claire takes a look at me. I step back for inspection. “It wouldn’t have killed you to shave,” she says.

  “Yeah, right. I just did, like two days ago.”

  “Well, maybe you’re extra manly, but whatever; get rid of that stuff. It’s gross.”

  I touch my face—she’s not kidding. My chin and jaw have stubble. Impossible. Vamp facial hair doesn’t grow that fast; I usually shave three or four times a year, but lately it seems like I’ve done it nearly every other week. Now it’s every few days? What’s that about?

  Claire pulls back the sleeve of her vintage green army jacket, the one she keeps in her locker because her mother won’t let her wear it, and looks at her Tiffany watch. “How long are we going to wait? We’ve been here over half an hour.”

  “I’m ignoring that, because you sound like a child. Anyway, you remember the signal, right?”

  Claire laughs. “Wait, you’re talking about a secret signal, but you say I’m acting childish?”

  “I’m serious. When I put my hands behind my neck, then raise them up to stretch, that’s the signal. I’ll go into the store, then you wait at least one full minute before coming in after me. That way you can tell me how you think it’s going.”