Beth_Fantaskey-Jessicas guide to dating the dark side.

by Jessica's Guide to Dating the Dark Side (lit)

  "If you're so into Faith, then what the hell was that?" I pointed to the leather chair, where we'd just been tangled up to­gether like the laundry on the bed. Where I'd sworn Lucius was about to kiss me—at the very least. "Back in the chair? When you had your arm around me?" I demanded. "What was that, Lucius?"

  Lucius lowered the T-shirt he'd been folding, arms drop­ping to his sides. "That, Jessica," he said sadly, "was very nearly a mistake."

  A mistake? Had he really just said, "A mistake"?

  Rising to my full five foot four inches, and mustering a strength that I never knew I possessed, fueled by an indignation I hadn't known I was capable of, I drew back my open hand and slapped Lucius Vladescu so hard across the face that his head snapped sideways.

  He was still rubbing his jaw when I slammed the door.

  Stupid Romanian bloodsucker. He was lucky I hadn't be­stowed another exalted scar on his imperial body. If he ever messed with Jessica Packwood—Antanasia Dragomir—again, he'd really get the royal treatment. Lucius Vladescu could take that to the Bucharest Federal Savings and Loan and bank it— right into his damned trust fund.

  Chapter 35

  "FOCUS, JESS, FOCUS," I urged myself.

  But the more I tried to force myself to concentrate, the fur­ther concentration slipped away from me. It was like I was grasping at soap bubbles floating on air. Bubbles filled with meaningless numbers and mathematical ciphers. Plus signs, minuses, square root symbols swirling around my head. They all popped the second I grasped them. Popped and disappeared.

  Somehow, in spite of skipping several practices, I'd made it to the countdown round of the Lebanon Regional Math Olympics, where the top students competed. No pens. No paper. Not even a chance to reread the questions. Just the mod­erator firing off oral problems and ten of us standing there try­ing to answer first.

  I wanted to win so badly. This was one arena where I could shine. You didn't have to be beautiful, or blond, or rich, like Faith. . . .

  Stop it, Jess. You can get to the state level if you get your head on straight.

  Glancing at the modest crowd lined against the cafeteria walls, I saw Mr. Jaegerman sweating in today's polyester suit selection—a hideous taupe number—watching me. He smiled and offered a thumbs-up. Mike Danneker was sidelined, too, having been knocked out during the sprint round, when he got inexplicably panicked by some routine polynomials.

  Mike cupped his hands around his mouth. "Don't blow it," he stage-whispered. Like that was helping.

  The moderator finished shuffling her papers. "Question number two. A distracted bank teller transposed the dollars and cents when she cashed Mrs. Jones's paycheck, handing her dollars instead of cents, and cents instead of dollars. After buy­ing a cup of coffee for fifty cents, Mrs. Jones realizes that she has exactly three times as much as the original check left. What was the true amount of the check?"

  I could do this. A Diophantine equation. That's what it was. So why wouldn't my brain function?

  I thought harder and harder, and the harder I thought, the more the whole language of equations seemed foreign to me. It was as if a part of my mind was just shutting off. Dying. It had started weeks ago, when I'd begun drifting away from Jake and toward Lucius. Away from regular humanity and toward a world where blood smelled delicious. Calculus had begun to make my mind wander. Algebra had slowly lost its appeal. And now I was standing in a room full of top mathletes, where I should have been a dominant force, and instead all I could think was Dollars? Cents? Coffee sounds good. . . . Where can you get a cup of coffee for fifty cents? But I didn't want coffee. I wanted to go to the state level. Think, Jessica. . . . But no thoughts came. Not the right kind, at least. Would coffee really help?

  "No!" I hollered, not even realizing I'd said the word out loud until the already quiet room went completely silent, and all heads swiveled toward me.

  I started sweating like Mr. Jaegerman on a June day get­ting excited about a word problem involving a high wall and the angle of the sun. Humiliated. I'd been humiliated.

  "Sorry," I said, addressing everyone and no one in particular. They were all still staring—my competitors, my team­mates, the spectators—and so I left my designated spot on the cafeteria floor and walked, with what I hoped was a little dig­nity, toward the door.

  Out in the hallway, I leaned against the cool, tiled wall. What was happening to the left side of my brain? The part meant to control analysis and objectivity felt numb. And tingly. Like it was being chewed away by the right side, the random, intuitive, non-logical side. I pressed my fingertips against my temples, massaging them, trying to ease an ache that I knew wasn't really physical.

  "Jessica, are you okay?" Mr. Jaegerman burst through the door and jogged to my side, puffing a little, dabbing at his fore­head with a handkerchief. I knew what he was thinking. His prize racehorse had just broken a leg in the last furlong. He'd invested four years in me, and I had come up lame.

  "Math just seems .. . hard lately," I tried to explain, staring at Mr. Jaegerman with no small degree of desperation. "I don't know what's happening. I can't concentrate."

  "Are ... are things okay at home?" Mr. Jaegerman at­tempted to ask. The effort to forge a real human connection be­tween us—one not bridged by numbers—made the sweat pool above his upper lip and cascade around the corners of his mouth. He used his tie to dab his chin. "Not. . . boy trouble?" he ventured gamely, sputtering. He seemed on the verge of some sort of spasm. Like he'd wandered too far into a deep cave only to realize that there was no oxygen there.

  If I'd actually started to unload, he might have passed out right there in the hall. I had to save him, let him breathe.

  "No, it's not a guy," I lied, sparing Mr. Jaegerman a heart attack.

  "Oh, thank God," he cried, clutching his chest. He imme­diately realized what he'd said. "I mean . . . of course, if it was a boy, you could tell me ..."

  "It's fine," I insisted. "It's nothing like that."

  But it was something "like that." Actually, it was that ex­actly. Only Lucius wasn't a boy, really. He was a man. And I wanted him back. Too late, I wanted him back. But I knew it was hopeless. He wanted Faith.

  "I'll do better next time, Mr. Jaegerman," I promised. "I'll hit the books tomorrow. Focus."

  "Good girl, Jess," Mr. Jaegerman said. He reached out to pat my shoulder, hesitated, then withdrew his hand.

  "Let's go back inside," I said gamely. "I can at least listen from the sidelines, try to solve the problems for fun."

  "Yes, yes," Mr. Jaegerman agreed, clearly relieved that our too-personal moment was over. "That's an excellent idea."

  I followed my coach back toward the cafeteria. But to be honest, solving problems didn't sound fun or excellent at all. It sounded like the most miserable activity I could imagine.

  Chapter 36

  DEAR VASILE,

  Were you aware that here in the United States, "choices" are so abundant that some feckless, feeble-minded individuals actually find themselves overwhelmed and in need of psychological counseling (I know—we laugh!), all because they are unable to navigate the seemingly infinite options inherent in literally every small act?

  Here, even ordering a pizza (at last, I stumbled upon some­thing edible) requires multiple decisions. Large? Extra large? Miniature meatballs and pepperoni? Some sort of vegetable? More cheese? Less cheese? Cheese concealed, like a stringy sur­prise, within the crust? And speaking of crust. . . Thick? Thin? Hand-tossed? Or should one reconsider the entire order and opt for "Chicago-style deep dish"? Or "Sicilian," even?

  Really, Vasile, calling for "delivery" (I have also finally dis­covered that I command a virtual army of erstwhile servants, all patrolling about in battered "Ford Escorts") requires as much strategizing as some generals devote to a battle in which actual blood, not just tomato sauce, will be spilled.

  Speaking of which, I was sorry to learn that the Dragomirs grow weary of waiting for the return of their princess and the completion of the pact.r />
  They always are an impulsive, impatient lot, are they not? But really, to accuse me of not "doing my best" to fulfill my ob­ligation—and then attempting to stake a Vladescu in a fit of ire . . . That sort of thing can precipitate a nasty skirmish, Vasile. And I find the whole prospect, suddenly, so tiresome.

  Must we vampires always resort so quickly to violence? Could we not all sit down over a "refreshing Bud Light" and "just chill," as my television and my teammates relentlessly urge me to do? (You would be amazed to see the effort that American teen­agers put into securing any quantity of beer, which is verboten until age twenty-one. It's astonishing, really, Vasile, all for a bit of fermented hops. One would think it was blood.)

  But returning to the minor flare-up of tensions between the Dragomirs and Vladescus. Please advise both sides to remain pa­tient, reminding them that we are vampires. What is the hurry when we have eternity?

  And while we are on the subject of impetuous Dragomirs and violence . . . Our princess-in-waiting dealt me quite an impres­sive blow across the side of the face the other day. You, of all vampires, know how difficult it is to make my head snap side­ways with an open hand. I must say, I rather admired the force behind the slap. Very authoritative. And the way her eyes flashed, very regal.

  As for the cause of my humbling at the palm of Antanasia's hand . . . Perhaps that is best reserved for another missive.

  In the meantime, might I impose upon you to ship, posthaste, some of my formal wear? Say, perhaps, the Brioni "tux" I se­cured in Milan. And dispatch a discreet set of cuff links, too. I trust your judgment. Keep in mind that most of my fellow party-goers will be attired in "rental" tuxedos. (Were you even aware that one could rent clothes, Vasile? Does it not seem a bit. . . cringe inducing? Slipping into trousers worn by a succession of predecessors of dubious pedigree and uncertain hygiene? But it is true.) My point is, I desire, of course, to present myself in a man­ner befitting my station—without unduly upstaging others. De­liberate sartorial one-upsmanship is just crass, don't you think?

  Thank you in advance for your assistance,

  Your nephew,

  Lucius

  P.S. What the hell. Why not sign off with the traditional American greeting? "Merry Christmas," Uncle Vasile. "Happy holidays to you."

  P.P.S. Really—"counseling"!

  Chapter 37

  "JESSICA, THE PHONE is for you," Dad said, poking his head into my room. "It's Jake."

  "I didn't even hear it ring," I admitted, sitting up and ac­cepting the cordless from his hand. Id been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking as usual about faithless vampires and the fact that my brain seemed to be disintegrating, and wishing that my life was just normal again. "Hey, Jake," I said into the receiver with less enthusiasm than I knew I should have. "What's up?"

  I should break up with Jake. I knew it, and yet I hadn't done it. Why? What am I waiting for?

  "Hey, Jess," Jake said. "I was just calling . . . well, I was wondering if we're still on for the Christmas formal. I haven't seen much of you at school. . ."

  "Yeah, I guess I've been busy," I said. "I've been thinking we should get together and talk, though ..."

  Outside, I heard the sound of a loud squeal, then laughter. I pulled aside the curtain. Lucius and Faith were in the yard, having a very vigorous snow fight. As I watched, Lucius swept up Faith and plunged her into a pile left by our plow, rubbing snow onto her pink wool hat. "Oh, Lucius," she screamed, kicking at him. "You are such a jerk!"

  Yes, Lucius . . . yes, you are.

  "Jess—are you there?"

  "Oh, sorry, Jake." I let the curtain drop. "I'm here."

  "I was asking about the formal, because I have to rent a tux . . .

  Outside, more delighted, horrified squeals.

  Jake added, a little uncertainly, "I really hope you still want to go, Jess."

  What a nice guy. A nice, nice guy. . .

  Beneath my window, Faith shrieked, "Don't touch me!" It sounded as though she wanted quite the opposite.

  I clutched the phone, forcing myself to pay attention to Jake. Was I really sure I wanted to break up with him? Was I going to stop living just because I'd been thrown over by an overbearing foreign exchange student who'd tried to seduce me in his apartment only to admit that it would have been a "mis­take"? Was I going to waste my entire senior year lying in bed, worrying about being a vampire, for god's sake?

  No, I would not.

  "Of course I want to go, Jake," I said, forcing my voice to sound far more cheerful than I felt. "I'm looking forward to it."

  Relief flooded his voice. "Great, Jess. I'm going to get my tux tomorrow, then. If you're sure ..."

  Will Faith Crosse never stop shrieking in my yard?

  "Of course I'm sure, Jake," I said, adding just before we hung up, "It's going to be great."

  I stretched back out on my bed, pulling my pillow over my face, covering my ears to shut out how much fun my former blood-pact betrothed and Faith were having outside.

  As I lay there hating them both, my teeth began to ache. At first, it was just a small, dull pain, but every time the sound of Faith and Lucius's mock battle carried to my ears, the hurt grew sharper, until it was almost like my teeth were too tightly wedged in my mouth, straining against my gums, and I wanted to claw at them, to pull them out, to find some way, the key, that would release them to become what they so desperately wanted to become.

  Rolling off my bed, I rooted in my dresser, searching for my vampire manual, running my finger down the table of con­tents. There it was: Chapter 9, "Finding Your Way to Fangs!"

  I flipped to the proper page.

  "Girls will begin to feel their incisors ache as they approach age eighteen, although some 'early bloomers' may notice changes as young as age sixteen! The sensation often, although not exclusively, occurs during times of emotional stress, not unlike your initial thirst for blood. Try to be patient and accept the 'dental discomfort' as part of vampiric maturation, just as you learn to accept menstrual cramps as part of your concurrent growth into womanhood. Re­member, when you are first bitten, your fangs will be released to ex­pand and blossom, and you will soon forget the temporary twinges that carried you into full vampiredom!"

  My fangs could be released by a bite from a vampire. Of course. Lucius had told me about that during our shopping trip. Women couldn't grow fangs until they were bitten. I stashed my guide away.

  The good news was, I had a vampire handy in my back­yard. The bad news was, I wanted to run a stake through his heart before he had any chance to come near me—not to men­tion the fact that he didn't seem to give a damn about me any­more. What was a "blossoming" young vampire to do?

  Chapter 38

  "YOU ARE SO LUCKY that at least one of us reads Cosmo and Vogue," Mindy chided me, clomping into my room bur­dened by at least ten shoe boxes. The pile was so high she couldn't even see around it. "Mindy and her shoe collection to the rescue!"

  My best friend dropped the boxes to the floor in a tum­bling pile, and her eyes grew wide when she saw me. "Holy shit, Jessica!"

  "Is that. . . good?"

  Mindy ran over, grabbed my bare arms, and spun me around, looking me up and down. "You look . . . you look gorgeous."

  "Okay," I calmed her down, prying off her fingers one by one. "Take it easy, because this dress cost me practically every penny I earned at the diner over the course of the whole summer."

  "It was worth every cent," Mindy said, nodding. "Every freakin' cent."

  I glanced in the mirror that hung on the back of my bed­room door. "It is beautiful, isn't it?"

  "You are beautiful," Mindy corrected. "The dress just lets the rest of us know. Where did you get it? Because that is not some polyester job from the mall."

  "I went back to that snooty store where I got my dress for Halloween," I said. This time, it had been up to me to boss Leigh Ann around. But I had learned a lot from Lucius. Who knew, just a few months ago, how much could be accomplished s
imply by holding your chin high and talking down your nose?

  "This is, like, real velvet," Mindy said, rubbing the fabric with awe in her voice.

  "Yes, the top—the bodice, as Lucius would say—is velvet, and the skirt is hand-loomed Japanese silk." I smoothed my hands over the pure black dress. It was as dark and soft as an August night sky just before a storm. Strapless, the dress was cut straight and hugged my size ten body like the world's best, custom-fitted glove. Not too tight, but just close enough to show off every arc and hollow of my form. Looking in the mir­ror, I was glad I wasn't too skinny. This wasn't a dress made for a boyish figure.