I Heart Vampires

by Siona McCabre

  “So, I didn’t include any of mine this time, but I did manage to get samples from four different sources without anything looking fishy.” She slowly pushed the box across the table toward me. Even through the sterile packaging I could detect the intoxicating scent of newly drawn blood—simple, red, dark. Delicious.

  “This should keep you going for a couple weeks if you can, you know, ration a little,” she suggested.

  I nodded somberly, struggling to contain my horrid excitement.

  “Why are you home so early?” I asked, eager to divert my attention.

  She hesitated before answering me. “I’m going out tonight.”

  “Going out with someone?” I asked.

  “Yes, a friend from work. We’re going to have dinner.”

  “That’s cool. Is it Caroline? She seems pretty nice.”

  She began twiddling her fingers, I noticed.

  “No, not Caroline. I’m going to dinner with Rick.”

  Rick…Rick…that name was so familiar.

  GAH!

  Rick! Texting buddy Rick! This was terrible!

  “This is terrible!” I muttered to myself.

  “Excuse me?” my mom responded.

  Oops. Didn’t mean to say that out loud. “I said, uh, this shirt is terrible! I can’t believe I wore it to school today!”

  “Hon, it’s just a T-shirt.”

  “But an old one. I don’t like it anymore.”

  “I’m sorry we didn’t have the funds to do back-to-school shopping for you this year.” She sighed.

  “No, no! It’s okay, don’t worry about it. I just, I’ll change my shirt. It’s all good.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure. Now tell me, who is this Rick?”

  “This Rick?”

  “What?”

  “You sound, I don’t know, funny when you say his name.”

  Normally I’d be sweating up a storm. Instead, I was cold as usual, but that didn’t stop me from being a total spaz. “Nothing funny, why would you say that?”

  “Okay, never mind. So, Rick is just one of my colleagues.”

  “For how long?”

  “He’s been at the hospital almost six months now.”

  “Oh, yeah? What does he do?”

  “He’s a surgeon.”

  “I see,” I said, trying to strike a balance between sounding caring and casual. I had a feeling I was just coming off as agitated and strange, judging by the look on my mother’s face. So, Rick was real, and they were going on a real date.

  In the past, my aversion to my mother dating had been motivated by selfish reasons. My mother and I had a very delicate balance to our lives—she being a single mom, me being a guy without a dad—and I was not about to let a stranger inject himself into our family and disrupt that balance.

  We were the dynamic duo. And whenever she had a man around, it just reminded me how much I missed my father. Then that would stir up a whole hurricane of emotions since we never had found out whether Dad had died or ditched us, so I just preferred to avoid the whole topic. I didn’t care if she liked a guy or not. I never did, and therefore I would do everything I could do get rid of him. I was pretty good at it too.

  But now things were different. More complicated, more delicately balanced than ever. So as much I still couldn’t stomach the idea of my mom kissing anybody, this was now about survival. To me, this spelled disaster. Especially if the date went well.

  How long would it be before Dr. Rick began showing an active interest in his girlfriend’s son? How long before he figured out that I’m unnaturally cold? How long before he started spending the night and discovered I didn’t sleep at all? How long before he popped by to surprise my mom when she was in the middle of stealing blood? Our whole system depended on a level of secrecy that left no room for intruders, which is exactly what I considered the dashing Dr. Rick to be.

  At the same time, I wasn’t blind to the irony that I was the one who told her to try to be normal. I was the one who told her to continue living her life. But this wasn’t what I’d had in mind.

  “Have fun,” I said, trying hard to sound supportive. I’d had enough intruding for one day. I’d have to deal with the Dr. Rick situation later. I snatched the box of blood and darted up to my room, locking the door behind me.

  Laid out before me atop my brown and light blue comforter were eight bags of blood. Mom had told me they were from four different donors, but she wouldn’t elaborate further. Eight bags. All mine.

  The labels had all been torn off, rendering the bags indistinguishable from one another. Where to start?

  At least this time I knew I wouldn’t be subjected to my mother’s evening habits, but I still didn’t know what to expect. Would something similar happen with the other people? Or would I be able to drink the blood in peace and leave it at that?

  There was only one way to find out.

  I reached for the center bag, removed the top, and downed it before the raw power of the smell had the chance to infuse my senses with uncontrollable lust. The blood slid easily down my throat, coating it lightly along the way. The taste seeped through my body and an indescribable wave of hot energy shot through my veins. I groaned slightly in utter satisfaction.

  I quickly cleared the bed and stuffed the bags in my mini-fridge. I remembered what had happened the last time and thought I’d save myself the headache from my feet being swept out from under me.

  As soon as the precious pouches were safely stowed, I rushed over to my bed, lay down, and waited. And waited. Two minutes went by.

  I sat up. Maybe that thing last time was all in my head, I thought. But no, how could I have seen that my mom was texting with a Rick? That was too specific. Another minute passed as I sat in bed. Just as I was beginning to think I was in the clear and nothing extraordinary would happen this time around, fate decided it would be fun to prove me wrong. All at once the world tilted as if Atlas had given up, and the tunnel vision I was all too familiar with began to encapsulate my world in darkness. This time, instead of fighting it, I sat back and let it rush at me with all its power.

  “Let’s get this over with,” I mumbled to myself.

  ****

  A searing white light pierced my vision. Slowly it began to subside and reveal the shape of things around me. It was a bright afternoon. The sun’s rays penetrated the otherwise overcast skies and glittered upon the rippled surface of a small lake. A dusty dirt path wound its way around the lake’s perimeter. The path was lined with a lush lawn, spotted with grand old trees that bent, twisted, and sagged under their own weight. The tree branches created a beautiful patchwork of shadows that swayed ever so slightly in the late afternoon breeze.

  I recognized this place. This was McArthur Park. It was only a five-minute drive out of town, and a hot spot for hippies and college-age couples.

  I was walking leisurely on the path alongside a girl—she was twenty at most. Pretty, shoulder-length brown hair. I didn’t recognize her, but she had a very pleasant, soft face and deep, intelligent eyes behind simple glasses. Once again I felt as though I was on a weird amusement park ride. It creeped me out almost as much as the first time. I knew that I had no control over what was happening. Fortunately, what seemed to be happening was a nice little stroll through the park.

  The girl smiled at me and reached for my hand. Well, not my hand—the hand of whoever was walking in the park with her. The hand of whoever’s blood I’d just consumed. At least it was a guy; I knew that much.

  He not-so-subtly dodged her hand, placing his in his jeans pocket. She looked away as though she were slightly embarrassed but not at all surprised.

  “Holding hands is childish,” he said. His voice was definitely male but kind of nasally, high, and a little annoying.

  The girl just nodded without saying a word. They continued to walk together along the path in silence.

  I continued to be an unintentional voyeur.

  A troupe of jugglers practic
ed their dexterous tricks on the lawn. Another young couple snuggled on a blanket on the bank of the lake.

  “Do you ever wonder how your rating system differs from other people’s rating systems?” the guy asked the girl.

  “Rating systems?” she repeated.

  “Yeah, like how you rate people on a scale from one to ten.”

  “Based on what, how much you like them?” the girl asked.

  “No, no, I’m talking strictly looks.”

  “Oh. Um, no, I guess I don’t really think about that.”

  “I have a really specific rating system that takes over account everything from hairstyle—”

  “Takes into account,” she corrected.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Right.”

  It wasn’t hard to sense the tension.

  “Anyway, it’s a very precise system. I don’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse, to have higher standards than most people.”

  I could see the girl roll her eyes. It seemed impossible not to notice, but he must not have, because he soldiered on.

  “For example,” he said, pointing to a juggling girl, “she’s a seven in my book. Nice body, good face, casually but carefully dressed. You can tell she’s confident because of her short hair.”

  “So girls with short hair are automatically confident?” she challenged.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  Great, I was stuck in the mind of a moron.

  “That girl over there is a two,” he said, pointing at an overweight girl in an ill-fitting summer dress, who was trying to feed the ducks.

  “So what am I?” she asked him flirtatiously as she sidled up closer to him.

  That was a dangerous question, but I figured it would be okay since I’d consider her at least a seven. There was a long pause. Why wasn’t he answering her?

  “A high four.”

  She stopped dead in her tracks. The flirtation rapidly drained from her expression. “A high four?” she repeated loudly.

  “But, hey, when you dress up you’re more like a low seven.”

  Nice recovery.

  The girl’s jaw practically dropped to the dusty ground. “A four, Evan? A four? We’ve been together for two years and now you decide to tell me that, according to you, I’m a four on a scale from one to ten.”

  “I didn’t decide to. You asked. You can’t be mad at me for telling the truth.”

  “Wow. You know, I don’t want to even hear it. What are you still doing with me? I’m a lowly four! Maybe you better find someone who rates better on your system!” She stormed off.

  Evan didn’t chase her.

  What a tool. She was probably better off without him. Wait a minute. When had I turned into such a girl?

  “We’re done!” she yelled back without turning around.

  Then without warning I was in my room again, staring lazily at the ceiling. I cleared my throat and walked over to the mirror. Hair, check. Face, check. Body, check. Voice…

  “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”

  Check.

  I was myself again. For now.

  ****

  Later that night I sat at the kitchen table doing homework (I may have been damned but I still wanted to graduate) and waiting up for my mother to get home from her date. Oh, how the tables had turned.

  I’d gone over and over the latest out-of-body experience. I thought about it in comparison with my previous out-of-body experience. I also thought about it in comparison with every…uh, meal…I’d ever had.

  I didn’t have visions of darting around trees and eating nuts when I ate the squirrel. I didn’t have visions of ball chasing and yipping at mailmen when I ate the neighbor’s dog. I felt comfortable concluding with total confidence that if I drank from the living, I got a sordid little glimpse into his or her life.

  I had promised myself I would not kill anything else, so I guess I just had to put up with the uncomfortable moments. I didn’t want this kind of power. I didn’t ask for that kind of power. But it wasn’t like I had a choice in the matter.

  As I was scribbling down the answers to the last few chemistry questions, I heard a key turn in the lock.

  “Home late on a school night? Tsk-tsk,” I said condescendingly as Mom walked through the door.

  “It’s Thursday, practically the weekend,” she responded, a slight bounce in her step.

  “That’s not a very motherly thing to say,” I warned her.

  “Maybe I’m more than just a mother,” she responded lightly. She was practically sashaying across the floor.

  “Okay, conversation’s over!” I said, slamming my books shut.

  “What, can’t your mother have some fun every now and then?”

  “She can. She just can’t talk about it to me. She also can’t talk about herself in the third person.”

  “You’re no fun,” she pouted.

  I didn’t have to be standing next to her to smell the spice and tannins on her breath. She had managed to cover up her wine lips remarkably well with a deep red lipstick. “You didn’t drive tonight, right?” I asked.

  “Honey, don’t be silly. Of course I didn’t!” She leaned over and wrapped me in a big, warm, tipsy hug. Her arms pinned mine to my sides and she sloppily kissed my cheek.

  “Ugh, Mom, what are you doing?”

  “I just think it’s adorable, you trying to look after me,” she gushed.

  “Yeah, okay, whatever. Just let me go pretend to sleep.”

  That seemed to cut into her merriment. I hadn’t meant for it to. Her smile faded, replaced by the somber expression she’d been wearing since day one of my condition. She cleared her throat and forced a quick smile.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean…” I offered.

  “It’s okay. I know. Good night, Noah. I love you.”

  “’night, Mom.”

  Chapter 13

  The next morning, I got dressed, and noted that I really needed to take a shower at some point. I didn’t stink (aside from the sun screen), but I just felt dirty.

  This time I wore a green Flogging Molly sweatshirt. I’d been wearing so much black lately I’d been getting odd looks from the goth kids, as though they were considering recruiting me. I slathered on my extra-extra-strength sunblock. I doused myself in Axe body spray to cover the smell of the sunblock. I pulled my baseball cap on firmly over my mess of hair. I gathered my homework and put it in my backpack.

  On my way toward the door, I checked on my mom. She was passed out peacefully in her bed. She’d changed into her nightie and washed her face, but had missed the deep red lipstick that still stuck to her lips.

  “Guess you’re doing the night shift tonight, huh?” I asked quietly.

  She didn’t hear me. So I left for the bus stop.

  After homeroom, I was grabbing some books from my locker when all of a sudden I got the sense I was being surrounded. I turned quickly and saw that I was, in fact, surrounded by Jeff Taver and five of his meathead goons.

  Wonderful. This is what I needed right now, on top of having to hear peoples’ thoughts, deal with my mother’s love life (gross), and everything else that was going on.

  “Gentlemen, how nice to see you again,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. I tried to move past Jeff but his cronies blocked me, pushing me against the locker. I knew I seemed lame, but I didn’t have the energy for this petty squabble. I had bigger things to think about.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Jeff asked, his eyes widening in the way that cartoon villains’ do when they’re trying to be intimidating. I could have pointed out how funny he looked when he did that, but I was still hoping to avoid a confrontation, at least until after the weekend.

  “Class,” I responded plainly. Again, I tried to push past him without using my superhuman strength. This time Jeff stepped directly in front of me. His deodorized stench seeped into my nostrils, and I began to feel a surge of aggression.

  “I don’t think so,” Jeff said, lowerin
g his voice.

  You’d think the guy had taken bullying lessons from Saturday morning cartoons.

  “Seriously? What is your problem?” I was getting really tired of this rivalry.

  “My problem is—”

  “Wait, wait,” I interrupted, “let me guess. Your problem is me?”

  “Bingo.”

  “You’ve been watching too many John Hughes movies.”

  “John who?”

  “Never mind.”

  The ring of the bell tore through the din of the hallway, prompting a hectic shuffle to avoid tardiness. Jeff and his moron friends didn’t flinch.

  “So, what? You want to take this outside?” I asked.

  “Fine. Let’s go, right now,” Jeff shot back.

  That’s when the security guard noticed us. “Whoa! Where do you two think you’re going?” he asked sternly.

  “Class?” I tried.

  He eyed us suspiciously. “Try again.”

  I sighed. “The principal’s office?” I answered.

  He nodded. After calling for another security guard, he gruffly escorted us to the principal’s office.

  This was not my day.

  All in all, the principal’s office was fairly tame. Jeff and I got suspended from afterschool activities for a month. Considering I didn’t participate in any (schoolrelated, anyhow), the suspension didn’t affect me—but Jeff was crushed, since he was now banned from his beloved sports. I chalked that up as a victory.

  The quick morning break between classes, however, was a whole different matter. Word had spread of the near-fight and Jeff’s subsequent suspension from sports. As I strolled the halls, I felt the odd sensation of hundreds of eyes following me all at once. Under normal circumstances, I’d be thrilled. What average high school guy didn’t dream about standing up to the school bully? Under normal circumstances, I’d be a hero. But in reality, I was a monster parading as a hero, which just served to amplify my guilt. I found Paige, Malcolm, and Celia all gathered at Paige’s locker.

  “High-five, man!” Malcolm said as I sidled up to them.

  I gave him a short look and left him hanging. I wasn’t in the mood to be celebrated today. My best friend still wasn’t excited for me getting a date to the prom, Paige just wanted to be friends, I was drinking other peoples’ blood with the added creepiness of getting a first-hand view of their weird lives, and I still hadn’t gotten anywhere with the whole tattooed, blond girl thing. Not to mention that now I had to deal with Rick and my giddy mom. Oh yes, and my house had just been broken into only yesterday.