Ms. S.
WTH! I love that she liked my writing, but I’m not at all interested in talking to Mrs. Sanchez, who has a hint of a mustache and wears earrings from the seventies. I can’t imagine what she might have to say that would be of any use. I’ll just keep on writing my poems and be more careful about sharing them. Thank God Ms. Schell didn’t call Aunt Penny because of my poems. What I don’t need is more trouble with the “authorities.”
Aunt Penny is the best and I do love her, but because of why I’m here she seems nervous about everything I do. My mom has called from Florida three times already, and Penny basically freaks out every time, chain smoking herbal cigarettes and drumming her fingers on the granite counter top. I feel guilty that I put Aunt Penny in this position, but I still blame my mom for sending me here. Although Daytona, Florida is not the classiest place to live, I did at least have some friends there.
Here at Butler, I am something of a pariah (I looked it up after Ms. Schell said it in class), and every day seems more and more lonely. I know I could find new friends if I went to church, but just the thought right now makes me a bit sick. The pitiful truth is that, right now, my best friend is Aunt Penny’s hamster Charlotte.
Chapter 4: Friends and Enemies
Of course, my mom totally believes that she did the right thing by removing me from “temptation.” In her church, the Southern Baptist Church I grew up in, homosexuality is a sin and must be shunned. Hopefully cured—as weird as that sounds in the 21st Century. Mom tries to say that phrase about “loving the sinner and hating the sin.” Somehow she views this as compassionate, but all it does for me is make me feel more rejected and miserable. I miss Taylor like a missing body part, and I still don’t think that God would actually send someone to hell for loving a particular person. Still, the only way I can keep out of trouble and earn my way back to Florida is to shut down my attraction to everyone, of any gender, and mind my own business. Which is what I’m trying to do right now in Algebra Two: focusing on the lines and numbers and little squiggles Mr. Partridge is putting on the whiteboard. I’m drawing animals all over my paper: raccoons, cats, bunnies, and elephants. Most of the cats look suspiciously like Mr. Strange.
As is generally the way, Mr. P. chooses to call on me the moment that I’m totally absorbed in getting a raccoon’s facial stripes just right.
“Ms. Behrends.” I look up. Everyone in the class looks at me.
“Yes, sir?”
“Could you please share with the class your answer to the problem on the board?”
This is what I see on the board:
f(x) = (x3+2x2)(x−3)
Think fast, Emelia. Say something—anything!
“Uh, I’m sorry, Mr. Partridge. That’s one of the problems I wasn’t sure about…”
Someone off to my left giggles.
“That’s unfortunate, Ms. Behrends. Perhaps you would prefer a refresher back in the Algebra One class…after changing schools, I mean.”
Thanks, Mr. P. Call attendance to my sketchy math skills and my status as new kid in one single insult!
* * * *
At last Algebra groans to a close and it’s time for another adventure in failure: Chemistry. I had not chosen to take Chemistry; had avoided it thus far in Daytona by taking Environmental Science in my sophomore year. But Butler requires Chemistry for all juniors regardless of previous coursework, so here I am. I make my way to what’s becoming my accustomed place at the table closest to the back door—just in case there’s a fire or an explosion in the classroom. This table seems to be reserved for those who are either really bad at chemistry or social outcasts—or both. Today the group consists of me, a girl with olive skin and wavy dark hair, and an African-American girl with her hair pulled so tightly into braids that she looks like she has a constant headache. She’s in American History with me in the morning, so I’m pretty sure her name is Trinity, or Unity…or something vaguely religious like that. I smile at her and pass the worksheet around to my tablemates.
The long-haired girl speaks first, “Hey, Charity—here we go again…Emelia, right?” I nod. “I’m Hillary. Don’t worry, we may not get a good grade, but we haven’t actually set any fires yet.”
“This week,” adds Charity.
A laugh escapes my mouth. This period might not be so bad today. We settle in and read the instructions, collect the materials from the storeroom, and start setting up. I volunteer, as the least experienced, to record the process. We have a few false starts, and make quite a mess, but actually manage to get the desired outcome. As I’m writing up our process and outcome on the daily log, I notice Hillary taking her dark hair down in order to tidy it up before the end of the period. As she lets it out of the several clips and bands holding it, the wavy mass seems to take on a life of its own, spilling into her lap and down her back. Hillary sees me watching and grimaces.
“What a mess, huh? At the start of every school year, I beg my mom to let me cut it. It’s a pain in the ass to take care of.”
“It is pretty, though.” I’m careful not to say anything more personal.
“Pretty or not, I swear I’m cutting it short my first week in college. Away from the parental units!”
I can think of lots of replies to this, but decide that discretion is the better part of valor in this case. I pack up my stuff and prepare for the final ordeal of the day: P.E. Charity has already left the classroom and Hillary has tamed her Italian roots into submission and headed toward the front exit. I choose the rear—down the back stairs to the hellhole that is Butler High School’s gym. The only saving grace today is that I get to stay for Creative Writing after school.
I’m not wrong about the anticipated sinister nature of girls in the locker room at Butler. They seem to be obsessed with pointing out someone as a lesbian the minute one girl stares a bit too long at another. As usual, I have to undress in front of these stupid girls and put on red shorts and a white T-shirt, and then take a shower after class ends. A recipe for disaster…
This afternoon, when I’m in the middle of changing, I look over at the girl next to me: Keshia Moody, who’s slim and curvy and cute. I can’t help but notice. Immediately, I look away and pull on my shirt, covering my vulnerable-feeling breasts. I guess I’m blushing pink, because Keshia frowns and moves away from me. And Deshawn Johnson, who basically rules the school, giggles in a most snarky way. Then everyone looks over at me, which feels like a swarm of wasps converging on my person.
During class, the incident seems to be forgotten; we play volleyball and my team loses—whatevs. I guess the part that freaks me out the most is that I did look at Keshia, and I did notice her body. I hate this—I hate me.
* * * *
The Creative Writing group is dope, the best thing that’s happened to me in Shively. Ms. Schell runs it like a professional Writer’s Workshop; each member (there are eight at the first meeting) will have a turn to bring copies of their work for everyone and the discussion that day will focus on helping that author. I must admit, this is one aspect of Shively that is way better than Daytona. At my old school, the only writing happening on official school time was the time-honored and deathly boring “five-paragraph essay.”
After the workshop, I am anxious to get home to my computer. I’m waiting for Aunt Penny’s tan Camry to pull up in front of the school. I know she means to pick me up, but I also know Penny isn’t the most organized person. Good thing she only has to be responsible for feeding herself and her hamster—and now her wayward niece.
Finally she pulls up, with a smile and a “Hey there, Emmy” for me.
“How was the meeting, Em?”
“Dope…I mean, great. You know how much I like Ms. Schell—and I think the group will really help me with my writing…”
“That’s great. I want you to be okay here, you know.”
“I do know, Penny. I appreciate everything you’re doing. Really.”
“Thanks, Em. I hate to tell you this now when you’re in a good mood, but your mom c
alled after you left this morning. She wants you to call her back tonight.”
* * * *
So I’m sitting at the counter in Penny’s kitchen after dinner, watching Charlotte stuff hamster pellets and bits of carrot into her cheeks, and waiting for my mom to pick up. I’m literally praying this conversation doesn’t ruin the high I still have from the Creative Writing meeting, surrounding me with a comfortable cushion of acceptance. It was also huge fun to talk about my writing at dinner while enjoying my aunt’s stellar beef burgundy and crescent rolls.
Now poor Penny, as usual during phone calls between Daytona and Shively, is also perched on a counter stool, smoking and making tapping noises with her nails. I’m grateful for her support, but the tick-tick-tick is tightening the knot in my stomach.
“Hello? Is that you, honey? Emelia?”
Heavy sigh. “Yeah, Mom. I’m here. Aunt Penny said you called…?”
“I did. I just want to know you’re getting on there, and maybe making friends with some…nice girls. (Translation: nice-totally-straight-Christian girls.) Are you?”
The dinner I so enjoyed turns to stones in my stomach. Why does everything she says make me remember the look on her face when she walked in the bedroom that Saturday morning? Is she trying to make me feel guilty, or is it just my own internal condemnation?
“Mom, everything’s okay here. I went to the Creative Writing Club today—it was great—it’s with Ms. Schell, my English teacher—part of school….”
“Well, that sounds like…fun, Em.” The discomfort she obviously feels talking to me hangs in the air of the kitchen like the fog driving into Daytona on a winter morning. We have winters in Florida; it just doesn’t get very cold. I wait for my mom to say more.
“Mom, I need to go—I have homework to do and school starts so early here…”
She sounds relieved. “Of course, Emelia. I do love you, you know—in spite of…everything.” Everything. As if all my good qualities are somehow mitigated by my problem.
Another heavy sigh. “Mom, I love you, too, gotta go, here’s Penny.” I hand the phone over like the baton in a relay race.
Penny takes it from my hand and reluctantly says, “Hi, Andrea. How’s everything in Daytona?” And then (cleverly preventing further discussion of me,) “How’s your job going? Did you get that situation ironed out with Marlon?”
My aunt motions me out of the kitchen with a wave of her hand and a wink. We both know my Mom’s favorite topic is the trials and tribulations she suffers daily at the hands of her evil troll of a Walmart branch manager. I’m free to go back to my puke-colored room and start a new poem.
Chapter 5: Fun with Chemistry
There’s this new girl at school who came from some place in Florida. She sat at my table in Chemistry the other day along with Charity Bloom and introduced herself as Emelia. She’s tall and slim, with this crazy hair the color of a pumpkin pie. And she’s pretty good company, too. Kind of funny, but in a quiet way. When I took down my hair at the end of class, she said it was pretty, but that’s all—nothing too personal. I like that. Admittedly, I don’t have many (any) friends at Butler. Maybe I’ll give this Emelia a chance…
“So, what torture’s in store for us today, I wonder?”
She doesn’t answer, but gives me an eye-roll and a wry grin.
“Chemistry is so lame,” I venture. “Although, I do have a fondness for formulas and spells.”
This time, Emelia smooths back her pumpkin pie hair and looks at me curiously.
I take another chance. “Don’t say anything, but I’m going to be a witch soon. It runs in my family.”
“Yeah, okay. Whatever…” And another eye-roll.
I laugh it off, since she seems a bit freaked in spite of the casual response. “Just kidding. Have to do something to lighten up this fifty minutes of chemicals and numbers. Ya know?”
Charity has now joined us at the “Losers in Chemistry” table. Charity is what I call a situational friend. We aren’t friends really, except we hang together for Chemistry. And now, Emelia. I have a weird feeling this girl has a secret behind her, but I put that thought to the back of my mind for now.
Today turns out to be a film day, which is awesome—I can read my book in peace if there’s enough light. Plus, there’s no chance we’ll blow up our table. The lights go out, and the stupid film about homogeneous mixtures starts—blessedly, there’s enough pale yellow glow to read in. As I read, I can feel Emelia looking sideways at The Book. Wonder what she thinks? Can’t tell.
When the lights come on forty minutes later, Charity is asleep with her head on the table. Also, there’s a fourth person there: a rail thin guy with pink cheeks and spiky blonde hair. He grins at me and says, “Hey—how did you like the movie?” Emelia turns to stare at him, flipping her ponytail back over one shoulder.
I try to imitate the Caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland and look down my nose at him, imagining I have a hookah in my hand and smoke wafting out of my mouth.
“Who. Are. You?” Followed by a disdainful scowl.
“Dax,” he says. “Dax Neville. You know my sister—and me, I think. And why are you pretending to be the Caterpillar? I’m definitely not Alice…”
Emelia gives a choking sort of laugh and looks at me, just as the bell rings for class change. Leaving Dax in the dust of literary references, we walk out, followed by Charity.
Threading our way through the maze of students, I’m pleased to see that Emelia is keeping up with me. “What about that skinny kid, Dax? Where’d he come from? I mean, I don’t think I’ve seen him in Chemistry until today.”
“Not sure,” I answer, “but I think he got promoted a grade after school started. His sister Kylee is a junior like us, and Dax is her younger brother.”
“Kylee Neville. She’s in the new Creative Writing group with me. She seems okay, but kind of in the popular crowd, right?”
The ins and outs of the cool kids do not interest me. But the fact that we now have a Creative Writing group at Butler might.
“What’s the deal with the writing thing? Who sponsors it?”
Emelia grins and flips her ponytail again. “That’s one of the best parts. Ms. Schell is the sponsor, and she’s awesome. So open to whatever we want to work on, and treats us like we have actual ideas, ya know? Do you write…Hillary?”
Hah—she remembers my name. “A bit. I don’t have that much free time because I’m usually studying The Craft. But spells and charms are kind of like poems, aren’t they? Maybe I’ll think about it—the group, I mean.” Emelia says nothing, but gives just a hint of a smile. We’re now at the stairs that lead up to my history class, and I start to climb. Emelia goes the other way, down to gym class. I can tell by the look on her face that gym isn’t her favorite.
“I feel for you.”
“Thanks.” Another of the now-familiar eye rolls. “See ya.” And she turns her back and is swallowed up by the crowd.
I hope history’s a review so I can make some notes—I’m almost ready to officially Call Down the Moon.
Chapter 6: Introduction to a Vampire
I generally end my rest mid-morning, but I seldom emerge from my private space until later in the afternoon. It is not true that all vampires will perish in the sunlight; I suspect that writers of fiction created that part of the legend. For myself, I can take the sunlight, but it saps my energy. Yet, I want to be out when the young people—kids—are still around the school. The last time I spent years present in human life, Andrew Jackson was the leader of this American land and only men wore trousers. If I ever hope to mingle with the people here, I must copy the manners and dress—and the language—of these young people. And I do want to associate with someone; the daily existence of a perpetually seventeen-year-old vampire is quite lonely.
It must be time for their lessons to end, as I can hear noise and activity where their vehicles are parked during the day. I’ve grown accustomed to the roaring of these metal beasts, and enjoy watching
the young girls drive away in them. Females have more freedom in this time—I like this aspect of Kentucky in the 21st Century. Someday, maybe I will drive a car, too.
I sit at the edge of my lair and watch. I have not yet become familiar with the names of any people here, except for the older man who teaches the boys to play some kind of ball game in the afternoon. They call him “Coach,” and I would like so much to learn this game from him. But it seems to only be for boys, like trousers were in Boston when I lived with Lily. Customs have changed much, but the fact that some privileges are for men only seems to remain.
One tall, dark-skinned boy with braided black hair approaches the field where they play. I think his name is Dexter, although the others usually call him Ice.
“Hey, Coach,” Ice shouts, “I got to leave early today. Sorry. Orthodontist appointment.”
I wonder what that word might be. Sounds like some sort of physician. Ice looks healthy, though, so I cannot quite figure it out. Perhaps a dentist?
Ice, several other boys, and Coach gather on the field, and I sit a bit further out, but still hidden by the tangle of vines and branches covering my cave. I am reluctant yet to be seen, although I have been out several times for clothing and supplies, and to wash up inside the school when the students are not in the hallways. Another myth: vampires don’t like water. In reality, I like to be clean—I always did, even back in Salem before I was made. And Salem, Massachusetts in the last part of the seventeenth century was not a particularly clean place.
I awoke in this town where I returned to the ground after the fiasco in Boston. I’ve been awake for three months, measuring by the cycles of the moon.
When I found my cave, it seemed like such a perfect, hidden spot, with empty ground all around, and this large empty building. Then, one morning, adults started coming in—I know now they are called teachers—and soon there were what seemed like armies of young people in the building five days every week, chattering like magpies and swarming all over the empty land with their vehicles. I find them fascinating, but still a bit frightening. Still, if I can learn to act and speak like them, perhaps I can find friends—maybe even a new love. I miss Lily still.
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