Her auburn hair would be pulled into a loose, hurried bun. And yet, the strands that wriggled their way free, that drank the slight perspiration on her face, that plastered themselves against her cheek and her neck, would only somehow add to her grace, as if to accentuate the free-flowing nature of her movement.
“MR. VANCE.” Mrs. Kristoff’s nasally voice shot through me like an arrow, catapulting me back into the drab excuse of a classroom.
I realized my eyes had been closed. I probably shouldn’t have bothered to open them at all. What they took in was Mrs. Kristoff’s fuming, saggy face, and the glib, bemused expressions of my fellow students. I swallowed hard. “Yes, Mrs. Kristoff?” I answered.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “how nice to have you with us! Care to include us in your little daydream?”
“No, thank you,” I replied.
“Well, then, if you don’t care to share, how about you just pay attention? How does that sound?” Her lips drew a thin, pursed line.
I nodded almost imperceptibly, and the turtle of a woman went back to scribbling on the chalkboard. I turned my head sideways toward my friend. Malcolm’s stare was disarming. He was so still. Even I couldn’t read him.
“What?” I whispered.
He lowered his head and a small shock of a laugh escaped his lips. “What is going on with you, man?” he whispered back.
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Deflection. It was the only strategy I could think to use.
“Because you’re different.”
How could I argue with that? “It’s still me, Malcolm.”
“No, something happened. What the heck happened to you? You disappear for a week and when you come back you’re like a freaking cosmonaut.”
“A cosmonaut?”
“Yeah, stiff and totally spaced out.”
“Why is a cosmonaut stiff?”
“Because…he’s cold and Russian. I don’t know exactly but—hey! Don’t change the subject.”
“I wasn’t trying to change the subject. I was just saying it’s a bad analogy.”
“You’re still doing it!”
“Doing what?”
“Changing the subject!”
“No, I’m not.”
Malcolm took a breath and regrouped. “Listen,” he whispered conspiratorially, “it’s me, Malcolm. You know, your best friend in the world, remember? Dude, whatever is going on, you can tell me.”
I sighed. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”
“Aha! So there is an ‘it’!”
“What? No!”
“Yes! Yes, there is something, you just admitted it.”
Damn! “I did not!”
Suddenly he leaned in close. Too close. “Don’t lie to me, Noah.”
My nostrils caught his smell and I scooted violently away, startling him. “Just drop it, Malcolm, please.”
He looked a little hurt, but he let it go for the moment. I felt bad, but I knew I would feel worse if I ended up killing him.
I couldn’t exactly call it a successful day, but it wasn’t a total loss. I had made it all the way through that agonizing lunch period without eating Classie—I figured I deserved some credit for that. On the other hand, something weird was going on with my best friend, and I had completely humiliated myself twice. I really had to get this super hearing, super smelling thing under control. The bright side? At least I wasn’t a butterfly.
Chapter 6
I took my time coming home from school. Something about walking in the cool night air made me feel in control. I’d walked until the moon shone brightly overhead. When I got home, everything seemed uncomfortably mundane. Too normal. I went straight up to my room and locked the door, in a move that was becoming more and more routine.
The moon’s diffuse glow spreading across the neighborhood and the shadows playing in corners around my room were all too familiar. The distance Mom tended to keep from me when I locked myself in my room seemed the same. How was nothing different?
Not to get all existential about it, but I was finding out firsthand how life “just goes on.” Even if you don’t want it to—even if you need a pause, a beat. Life goes on. It even goes on without you. Without me.
I was playing with my phone, wondering what to do next. My new life seemed to be going nowhere. Would I ever feel normal again? Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my hand. Message from Malcolm:
I’M SORRY.
I knew he was apologizing for pushing me earlier to tell him my deep, dark secret, but even so, the weight of those words latched on to something in my chest.
NO, I’M SORRY.
I tried to say it out loud.
“I…”
It caught in my throat. All this nothingness—the apathy and ambivalence of the world toward me, toward this new life I was living—formed into a wave of anger. I couldn’t say it.
I couldn’t say it to Malcolm for blowing him off. I couldn’t say it to the neighborhood girl for eating her dog. I couldn’t say it to my mom for ruining her life. I couldn’t say it to Paige for waiting too long to tell her how I felt. I couldn’t say it to myself, for everything I’d ever done, and for everything I was going to do. How could I say it, when it would change nothing? “I’m sorry.” It was just a whisper. Barely audible. I waited a second with bated breath.
I had my answer. There was no salvation in those words. My heart remained heavy and still. I felt defeated instead of powerful. How was I going to live like this forever?
****
Apparently I thought my time was best spent seeing how long I could hold my breath without going crazy—not doing homework or trying to figure out how to feed myself without causing certain death. Nope, holding my breath was far more gratifying. It kept my thoughts at bay. It helped me keep my mind off the agonizing hunger that growled in my stomach. I figured this would come in handy around people. The less I smell, the less I crave. The less I breathe, the less I smell. Genius, right?
Another day passed. I didn’t hear a word anyone said. I avoided my friends. I avoided everyone. I had to remember to breathe, so I’d look somewhat normal. I floated through the day, trying to go unnoticed. Finally, the day ended, and I assumed my position lying upstairs on my bed with the door closed.
KNOCK-KNOCK.
I heard the knock as clearly as if I were standing downstairs at the front door myself. I could hear my mom welcoming Malcolm in, though I doubt he was able to pick up on the hesitation in her voice.
Malcolm was used to showing up at my place whenever he wanted, but it had been awhile since he’d come by. Our friendship was sort of off sync at the moment, so I prepped myself for the impending awkwardness. I’d told so many lies lately, I was having trouble keeping things straight.
Moments later he poked his head around the door and paused.
“Hey, Noah.”
“Hey, Malcolm.” He let himself through the doorway and plopped down in the chair at my desk. I remained frighteningly still on the bed. I made a mental note to practice being more human. Humans fidget. Like Malcolm. He had found a stray pencil on my desk and was tapping it incessantly against the wood. It was driving me crazy.
“So,” he said.
“So,” I repeated. I hated this part, the whole waiting for which one of us speaks first. It had only happened with Malcolm and me once before. That was when we were five. I stole all the marshmallows out of the mini Lucky Charms box his mom had sent as a snack. Then he slapped me on the back of my head. Our moms intervened and made us apologize to each other. If only it were still that simple.
“I don’t mean to pressure you or anything, but you’ve been acting pretty strange lately,” Malcolm started.
“I know,” I sighed. “I wish I could give you a better explanation, but I’m just really feeling off. Not at all myself.”
“Obviously,” Malcolm chuckled.
I rolled my eyes. There was a heavy silence.
/> “So that’s it?” Malcolm asked.
“What do you mean?”
“That’s all you’re going to say? Not ‘Sorry for being a jerk’ or ‘Didn’t mean to ignore you’ or anything? Just ‘I’m not myself’?”
“I know it sounds stupid, but you have to trust me on this. I wish I could tell you why I’ve been acting like a freak lately, but I don’t really know.”
Malcolm chewed his lip in thought and nodded a little to himself. “Is it Paige?” he asked.
“What? No.” I think I answered that a little too quickly, because Malcolm practically jumped on it.
“Because if it is, man, I get it.”
“Nah, it’s not Paige.” But he wasn’t listening to me anymore.
“She’s hot, she’s fun, she’s kind of perfect in every way, and you’ve been into her for a long time.”
“Malcolm, it’s not about Paige,” I tried.
Malcolm was still on a roll. “And especially after the party, which, by the way, you never told me what ended up happening—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa—what are you talking about?” Why hadn’t I thought of asking Malcolm about the party? This could be a clue to how I got this way. Maybe if he knew what I had become it would explain why he’d been so suspicious of me. I leaned forward too quickly. It startled Malcolm, who jerked back in the chair. I recognized my mistake after the fact, but I was too caught up in what Malcolm had said.
“Dude!” he breathed. “What the—”
“What were you saying about the party? Are you talking about the house party two Fridays ago?”
“Yeah. Why are you looking at me like that?”
My eyes were wide open and focused on the empty space behind his head. “Whose party was that?” I asked urgently.
“Lisa’s.”
“That’s Lisa’s house? And you were there?”
“Yeah, man. You don’t remember? You were there.” He shot me a weird look.
“No, I don’t remember anything. What happened?”
“Aside from Tracy Dixon falling in the pool and you obviously losing your memory, not a whole lot.”
“Were you there the whole time?”
“You must have been more out of it than I thought. I left just before midnight.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Why don’t you remember any of this?”
“Just tell me, please!” I insisted.
“Okay, okay! Chill out. I left because you’d been ignoring me the whole freaking time. Plus, there were no available hot girls.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“It’s cool,” he laughed. “No harm, no foul.”
“Why was I ignoring you?”
“Oh, come on. Are we going to do this all night?”
“Humor me.”
“Fine. First you were ignoring me because all you could think about was how to tell Paige you’re madly in love with her and ask her to the prom. Then you were flirting with some blond in the corner.”
“Wait. So let me get this straight. I was at a party with Paige, and I didn’t even talk to her the whole night?”
“Nope.”
“Who was the blond I was talking to?” My mind was swimming.
“I don’t know.”
“Was she from our school even?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before, so probably not.”
“Did you catch her name?”
“No. Why do you care so much?”
“I don’t. I just need to know what happened.”
“What are you talking about? I just told you what happened.”
“No, yeah, I know, I just mean…I don’t know, details.”
“You’re kind of weirding me out,” Malcom said. “I didn’t catch her name, but she did have a wicked tattoo on her arm.”
“Oh yeah? What of?”
“I’m not sure, some kind of tree or something. It was a whole sleeve.”
I was racking my brain for the slightest hint of memory. There’s no way I totally blocked out the entire night, right? And somewhere in those hidden memories was the key to figuring out how I became what I am. A tree tattoo. Hmm. “Was it all black?” I prodded.
“Uh, maybe? I don’t keep track of every chick you hit on.”
“Oh no, I was hitting on her?” I was totally confused now, and worried that I’d really ruined my chances with Paige for good.
“Well, kind of. You were definitely flirting.”
“Did Paige see us?”
“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?” Malcolm laughed.
“That’s not funny, Malcolm.”
“I know, I know.”
“So did she?”
“I don’t know, Noah. I don’t exactly have a window into her mind.”
“So you don’t think she saw me and that girl flirting?”
“Based on the fact that she’s stoked to be working with you on that stupid history project, my guess is no.”
“She is?”
“You are such an idiot,” Malcolm chuckled.
I felt a wave of warm excitement at the idea that Paige, beautiful Paige, was excited to be my project partner. I also felt the need to stay on point. I needed information on what happened at the party. “So what’s the last thing you saw?” I continued.
Malcolm sighed. “The last thing I saw was you talking to that girl, and then I left, okay? There, you have a map of the night. Satisfied?”
“Why did you leave just before midnight, though?”
“Because I wasn’t having fun.”
“Touché.”
“Also, I have a curfew.” He grinned.
I laughed without restraint for the first time in awhile, and Malcolm laughed along with me. Then he stopped short. His brow furrowed and his mouth pulled into a slight frown.
“What happened to your teeth?”
I stopped smiling. My tongue subconsciously ran over my fangs. I feigned surprise and ran my fingers around my newly formed canines. “Wow, I don’t know. That’s weird.”
“They look like—never mind.”
“You know, I’ve been grinding my teeth a lot lately. That’s probably it,” I suggested. This didn’t sound at all convincing.
Malcolm just shrugged.
I shrugged my shoulders too, trying to be nonchalant.
Malcolm’s eyes lingered on mine. The corner of his mouth twitched, as though he was busy trying to fit a missing jigsaw piece into a particularly challenging puzzle. I held my breath. Finally he broke the silence. “Maybe you should get a mouth guard.”
A relieved laugh escaped my lips. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
After Malcolm left, a strange disquiet settled into my bones. He knew something was wrong. He was a good enough friend to know when to leave it alone, and I think that although the gears were definitely turning, there’s no way he could have figured out the truth. Because the truth, as far as anyone else was concerned, was purely fiction.
I was glad that Malcolm had come over. Having my best friend mad at me made things worse. Everything didn’t seem totally back to normal, but I felt a little better. My mind wandered back to our conversation. I had even more questions about what had happened, but no answers. Who was the blond? Why was I talking to her? I figured I would remember such a distinctive tattoo. And I really hoped I hadn’t screwed anything up with Paige.
Then it hit me—I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. I was such an idiot. For the first time in weeks, I signed onto my Facebook account.
Two hundred and fifty-seven updates. Jeez. Apparently I had missed some massive rumbles in the Zombie Wars game. (I had been bitten. Surprise, surprise). A ton of people (a quarter of whom I didn’t even know I was friends with) had posted well wishes on my wall while I was at home turning into the undead.
I had been tagged in two new pictures. One was a picture of Tracy after she had fallen into the pool: I was standing in a crowd, looking on as she floundered in humiliation. The ot
her picture was of this guy, Jason, sticking his purple tongue out at the camera. Why his tongue was purple, I don’t know. I was in the background. And so was the blond girl.
It was hard to tell what she actually looked like. Her back was toward the camera. Her long golden hair snaked down her back. She was wearing a stormy gray T-shirt. Her head was turned, and her eyes faced down and to the left, as though she were about to look over her shoulder but didn’t want anyone to notice. I could see only a small portion of her face—a high cheekbone, the tip of an angular nose, the edge of a sharp chin. But I couldn’t make out her face. Or her eyes. An intricate blue, green, and black tree pattern wound its way around her entire arm that was resting on a table. How could I not remember that?
I opened another tab and Googled “blue green tree tattoo.” How that translated into “butterfly tramp stamp” I wasn’t sure, but Google had made that leap. I tried “blue tree tattoo,” and a string of useless links popped up. Among them was a Wikipedia article about traditional tattoos throughout the world. Apparently, some Scandinavian tribes in the tenth century sported elaborate blue and green tattoos on their arms, often in the shapes of trees. Hmm. I did a little more digging to discover that those who sported these tattoos were often from warlike tribes akin to the Vikings. I couldn’t find a picture online that matched the mystery girl’s ink, so instead I spent two hours reading up on Scandinavian and Norse mythology. Either this girl really loved Vikings, or she just happened to pick a very distinctive, traditional tattoo. I found the latter hard to believe. Between searches, I kept coming back to her picture with a fleeting hope that I would suddenly notice something I hadn’t seen before, some new detail or key. I kept staring at the photo. My face grew nearer and nearer the computer screen, until I could feel my breath bouncing off it. I was startled by how cold it was.
So, on the one hand I had the whole Slavic vampire butterfly concept, and on the other I had a mystery girl with an ancient-looking tattoo. If I’d actually stopped to think about it logically, I could have convinced myself I was crazy, that plenty of girls had traditional tattoos. I could’ve even made the argument that I was being paranoid, that flirting with a random girl at a party didn’t necessarily mean she had anything to do with my transformation. I could have. But I didn’t. My gut was telling me something that I was not yet able to understand. It was telling me that the butterfly thing, the vampire thing, and the ancient Norse tribal tattoo were all connected. This girl was the key. But how could I get to her? Where was I supposed to go from here?
I Heart Vampires Page 7