Marianne put her hands on her forehead and spun around in a circle, taking in all the carefully laid out Goth decor. There was a box of chocolates on her pillow and a red garland of tissue paper cupids taped up in an X across her canopy bed. She had to huff a few times before she could get any words out. “Turn the camera off.”
Patrick laughed but kept filming. “I didn’t know your taste was so dark.”
“It’s not.” Marianne walked up to the necklace and slipped it off the light bulb and into her hand. “Oh my word, this can’t be what I think it is.”
“Why would your boyfriend decorate for you like this if you don’t like morbid stuff?”
She spun around quickly, clutching the necklace in her hand. “Turn that thing off. He’s not my boyfriend.”
“You’ve gotta see your face,” he laughed, trying to keep the camera steady.
Marianne lurched forward and tried to grab the camera from him. “He is not my boyfriend.”
“He sure seems pretty in love with you.” Patrick held the camera higher, trying to back away from her. “Someone needs to tell him that.”
“I did!” Marianne practically did a pull up on his arm but didn’t manage to pull it down an inch. “Give me that camera. All evidence of this needs to burn.”
“Burn whatever you like, but this footage is off-limits.”
“I demand you give that to me, you fiend.”
“Oh, and here I thought I was an angel of light.” Patrick twisted his wrist to point the camera at her.
“Stop it,” she said, still clawing her way up his arm. She looked directly at the camera. “Dark Lord Alvin is not my boyfriend.”
Patrick was backed up all the way against the wall now. “But he was your boyfriend, right? Wait…” He moved his head to peer at her around the camera. “What did you call him?”
“You heard me,” she grumbled. “And what is this? Are you trying to get me to confess so you can put this up on YouTube?”
“I would never do that to you.” Patrick put his other hand on her shoulder to restrain her when she gained a few inches by standing on a pile of laundry. “I just know that you’re going to want this later.”
Marianne finally gave up and slumped down. He was too stinking tall. “You’re probably right.” She stepped back from him and sat down on the floor in the middle of the room. “Ahhh...” she moaned. “This is all just so embarrassing.”
Patrick frowned. “Fine. You win.” He clicked a button on the back of the camera—it sucked in the lens and shut off. “It’s no fun if you’re not going to fight back.”
Marianne looked around her again in disbelief and threw the necklace on the bed. “This is so creepy.”
“Agreed.” Patrick smiled and sat back onto the edge of her dresser. He gestured at the mirror beside him with this thumb. “And you didn’t even read the poem yet.”
“Huh?” Marianne saw that her vanity mirror was graffitied all over in Alvin’s tiny handwriting. “Tell me he didn’t use a Sharpie.” She got up and walked over to the dresser.
“Makeup, I think,” said Patrick, smearing the stem of a rose sketch with his finger.
Marianne looked down at the dresser. On top of a pile of schoolbooks was the corpse of an eyeliner pencil and a pile of shavings. She picked up the pencil and examined it. “That twit.”
“No, it comes off easy. See.” Patrick held out his blackened fingertip.
Marianne shoved the mangled remains of the pencil in his face. “He just cost me twenty-two dollars. This was mine!”
Patrick frowned at her. “It was for art, Marianne. Have some class.”
She’ll show him class. She reached out swiftly and drew a line across his forearm.
He was unimpressed with her revenge. “In case you haven’t noticed, Marianne, my arms are already colored on.”
Oh, yeah. “I should have done your face.”
“I’m so scared,” he said in a flat voice.
Marianne cocked her head at him. “Maybe I will.”
“Whatever makes you feel better.”
“You shouldn’t have said that.” Marianne pushed the books out of her way, sending them flying to the floor, and took a seat facing him on the dresser. “I just love doing makeup.” She reached out her be-penciled hand and hesitated above his left eye. Alvin’s creepy soundtrack was still playing.
“What are you, like five years old?” Patrick held totally still. “And don’t you even want to read your love letter?”
“Nope-p.” She started filling in and enlarging his perfect eyebrow to make it all pointy and scary. “You can read it to me as I work.”
Patrick laughed, messing up her stroke.
“Hold still. You gave me permission, remember?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Patrick held his head motionless. “Do you think the guys at work will like my new look?”
“Oh, you’ll look fabulous, darling,” said Marianne in a cheesy English accent.
Patrick smiled at her, his sparkly brown eyes watching her face as she worked. “I want to paint my face in the shades of your soul.”
Marianne pulled back immediately. “Excuse me?”
Patrick pointed at the mirror. “I’m reading aloud the poem you inspired. It’s rather catchy, I think.”
Marianne went back to drawing on him. “You scared me for a minute there. You have to warn me before you go and utter such words.”
“Sorry. I guess I didn’t factor in the sheer power that his poetry would have over you.”
“Funny.” She shifted slightly to work on his other eyebrow. “Start again from the beginning. I want the full effect.”
He smiled and started reading again, only moving his eyes. “‘I want to paint my face in the shades of your soul, your sinew and skin, mine alone to behold.’”
Marianne gasped. “I don’t know whether to feel grossed out or sexually harassed.”
Patrick grimaced. “Both, I think. But here we go... ‘Abyss and the nadir, we descend them together. The black trial, a band that binds us forever, and weeps beneath a mantle of shadows.’”
Marianne interrupted again. “What the hell’s a nadir?” She brushed back parts of his messy black hair so she could give him a widow’s peak.
“The lowest possible point. Okay, here’s the next verse... ‘I want to drench myself in the beauty of your blood. Your crux and tincture, stains of my belov’d.’”
“Okay, dude, don’t blink.” Marianne started underlining Patrick’s eyes. “And what’s tincture?”
“Color, tint... ‘Your crux and tincture, stains of my belov’d. Hollow, frail, and lost, this fire razes us both. Grief, oh, grief! Whisper to our hearts your tender truth and lure us toward the peace of unity.’ That’s the end. He signed it, ‘Raven’s Dark Lord.’”
Marianne sat back. “Wow.”
“I think I should add, though, that he spelled peace, P-I-E-C-E.”
“Well, I’m convinced.” Marianne threw the little pencil across the room onto the pile of laundry. “I think it’s obvious now that Alvin and I belong together.”
“Nothing could be clearer.” Patrick shrugged. “So, what have you done to me?”
“You’re a vampire now.” Marianne crossed her arms and surveyed her work. He actually looked pretty good.
Marianne reached over and took the camera from him. She hit the camera’s power button and turned it to photo mode. “Smile. No, a little scarier.” Click. “Good. Just one more.”
Marianne jumped down and retrieved the silver necklace from her bed. “We have to complete the look.” She slipped the long chain over his head and took three more photos. Marianne turned, covered the flash with her hand, and took a photo of the poem on the mirror. Then she sighed and turned the camera off again. “Fabulous, darling.”
Patrick pulled off the necklace and studied it. “Is this supposed to be a fang, or something?”
“Yeah. Romantic, huh?”
“I... guess.”
“My bi
ggest fear is that the glass part screws off.”
Patrick gave her a confused look and started fiddling with the fang. Sure enough, the two-inch-long glass tooth detached easily from the silver skull holding it. Patrick held the vial up to his eye. “Are you supposed to keep your stash in here or what?”
“Stash?” Marianne laughed. “Is that what your mind jumps to? What kind of past do you have, boy?”
Patrick coughed. “We’re not discussing me right now.”
Marianne smiled. “I’ll let you try to figure it out while I get a trash bag for all this stuff.” Marianne paused on her way out. “You can be looking for the syringe while I’m gone. That’s a hint.”
“Nooo...”
“Yes.”
Patrick closed his fist over the necklace. “His blood, or yours?”
“Oh, mine, naturally.” Marianne grinned. “He wants to wear my crux and tincture around with him everywhere.” Marianne’s smile faltered at non-expression on his face. “What?”
“It’s just lucky for the Dark Lord that I didn’t know about this when he was raging all over you.”
Marianne got the butterflies all over again. “Be right back.”
She dashed to the kitchen, fetched two white kitchen bags, and came back. Patrick was on his knees scooping silk petals into a pile. Marianne shook out one bag and knelt down by him. “I’ll do this. You can go wipe your face off now.” She pulled open the top drawer of the dresser and pulled out a packet of makeup removing wipes. “And clean the mirror while you’re at it.”
Patrick took them from her and stood up. He bent down in front of the mirror and started rubbing at his forehead. “I’m going to smell like a girl.”
“You’ll live.” Marianne tossed all the petals into the bag and moved on to the ones on the bed. “Geez. He really did put a lot of time and thought into this whole thing. It kind of makes me feel bad.”
“He threw a doll at you,” said Patrick.
Marianne shrugged. “He didn’t hit me.”
“He tried.”
“Hmm… this is true.” She nodded.
“So, Marianne... He doesn’t exactly seem your type.”
“Oh!” Marianne couldn’t believe that she’d forgotten to explain. “It wasn’t a proper relationship, for me anyway. I met him through this friend of mine at school. She’s Goth, too. He seemed to really like me, and he hadn’t ever had a girlfriend, and he was so sweet when he asked me... I let my pity run away with me.”
“Interesting,” said Patrick quietly.
“It was only for two weeks.” Marianne crossed the room to the stereo and trashed Alvin’s CD. She grabbed the stack of her own music and flipped through the cases. She looked at Patrick in the mirror’s reflection as he rubbed off the poem. “Jack Johnson or Radiohead?”
“Radiohead.” Patrick looked back at her through the mirror, and Marianne’s stomach did a little jump. He hadn’t quite gotten all the makeup off his eyes and he looked like an Abercrombie model.
“Yeah, good,” said Marianne, who’d forgotten what she was supposed to be doing. She slid the disc into the slot and pressed play. “And I never let Alvin touch me, by the way. I pinched him every time he tried. It’s very important to me that everyone knows that.”
“Noted.” Patrick smiled. “But still, it was a sweet thing for you to do for him.”
“And a big mistake, as it turns out.” Marianne waved her hands around the room. “He even cheated on me, the rat.”
Patrick came over to her and dumped two handfuls of candles into her bag. He gathered a few stray petals and threw them away, then pulled the necklace off the dresser. “This, too?”
“Everything.”
Patrick put it in and picked up the coffin-shaped box of chocolates off her pillow. “We could give these to the kids. Mickey would like the box.”
Marianne got down on her knees and looked under the bed. “You haven’t found a syringe anywhere, right?”
“Nah. He probably had it in his duffel bag.” He walked over to the dresser and tossed the box down, but it rolled off a nail polish bottle and spilled onto the floor. “Shoot.”
Marianne started to crawl over, but Patrick crouched down and waved her away. “I’ll get it,” he said. “You can start pulling down the cupids.”
Marianne turned, put one foot on her bed to step up, and heard Patrick gasp behind her.
9
Prophylactically Challenged
Marianne looked over at where Patrick was bending over the box of spilled chocolates. She saw him quickly pocket something that made a little crackling noise.
“What’s that?”
Patrick turned his face away from her. “Nothing. Just candy.” He sounded like he was trying not to laugh.
“Don’t lie, now.”
“It’s nothing.”
Marianne dropped the trash bag she was holding and went to kneel by him. “Show me.”
Patrick just shook his head.
“It was my gift, and I want it. Right now.”
Patrick sighed and pulled the secret out of his pocket. He held out two little square candy wrappers in the palm of his hand.
“What?” Marianne looked up at him; he was laughing again. “What are they? Those little Limon packets, like from the ice cream truck?”
Patrick gaped at her. “Yes.” He nodded, trying to compose himself. “Yes, they’re the little lime candies from the ice cream man.”
Marianne tried to reach for them, but he pulled his hand back. “Stop it,” she said and snatched one off his hand.
She turned it over a couple of times in her hand and then read the package. “What’s Durex? Play vibrations, lubricated latex…” Marianne gasped and covered the condom with her other hand. She looked up at Patrick in horror. “These were in the box? On my pillow?”
Patrick nodded. “He really likes you, darling.” He pried her hands apart and took the defiling object from her.
Marianne wiped her hands down her jeans and then got up and ran to the kitchen. She grabbed the sponge, covered it with antibacterial soap, and scrubbed at her palm.
Patrick strode in behind her a second later. “What are you doing?” He dumped the condoms in the kitchen trashcan.
“Don’t put those in there! My parents might see.” Marianne pumped another dollop of soap into her palm and started on her other hand. “I don’t know… I don’t want herpes or anything.”
“They’re unused and hermetically sealed, Marianne. I think you’ll be all right.” Patrick fished the packages out and stuck them in his pocket. “And secondly, that’s not how you get herpes.”
Marianne paused her scrubbing and looked up at him. “No?”
“Um, and thirdly,” he added, shaking his head. “Did you never take sex ed?”
“No, actually.” Marianne turned back to her scrubbing. “I was mostly raised in a hamster ball called homeschooling, and my then mom opted me out of all that stuff in high school. She didn’t want me putting those thingies on anything, even bananas.”
“By thingies, I suppose you mean condoms.”
“Shh!” Marianne looked nervously out the window for her parents’ car; she’d just die if her Mom came home and joined this conversation.
“Even so...” Patrick leaned back on the counter next to her, watching her OCD display. “How could a man-eater like you not recognize a condom when it’s put right in your hand?”
“Well, I’ve never actually seen one in person,” said Marianne defensively. “And I just wasn’t expecting—” She spun around to face him. “Man-eater?”
Patrick grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward him, distressingly close, her nose nearly touching his chest. Her mouth was still open in shock when he put his other hand under her chin and tilted her face up to look at him.
Patrick smiled a little. “I told myself I wasn’t going to do this again.”
Marianne blinked once. “Do what?” she breathed. Her hands were still soapy, and the one he held in his
was trickling suds down her forearm.
He didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared down at her with that uncomfortable smile on his face. “Are you going to make me say it?”
“I…” Marianne stared up at him, hardly able to think with his hand on her chin like that. It was as if her mind was working ten times its normal speed, and yet she wasn’t getting anywhere. The minutes’ worth of thought that passed in that few seconds came down to this: The moment she’d been wanting had finally come. But, however wonderfully it turned out, she didn’t want to actually experience it or have to participate. She felt like a coward, but that was fitting because she actually was a coward.
“I’ve asked you out twice already,” said Patrick. “You’re doing a real number on my self-respect, you know that?”
“Um… what?” Marianne swallowed. “I didn’t know… I never…” Considering the fact that she had absolutely nothing to say, she trailed off.
Patrick just waited politely, then asked, “What were you saying?”
“Nothing.” She scrunched up her forehead, trying to look confused so he would take over the conversation again. “I have no idea what’s going on.”
He matched her expression. “I’m asking you out for the third time in a week.”
“Oh.” She swallowed and waited, but he obviously still considered it her turn to speak. Well, if he could be direct, so could she. “Why?”
He looked at her more closely and spoke slowly. “Because I want to date you.”
How was she still standing? “You do?”
“Um…” He really didn’t seem to know how to respond to that. “That’s the usual reason for this type of harassment, yes.”
Marianne stepped back, pulling her hand away from him. “I didn’t know… I mean, I didn’t think you really meant it before.”
“You thought I didn’t mean it?” Patrick frowned and crossed his arms. “So, you’re saying I’m a liar?”
“What? No!” Marianne stepped back again.
“Yes,” he said seriously. “You are. And I would like you to stop doing that.”
Marianne nodded.
Patrick nodded back. “Now,” he said, gesturing toward her, “to the question at hand.”
Marianne Page 9