Bloodlust

by Alex Duval

  “Ah. That will take a while,” Adam replied, and grabbed a curly fry off Jason’s plate. “But I’ll give you the Cliff’s Notes version. You’ve got your two basic groups here: the normal people and the rock stars.”

  “Rock stars?” Jason said skeptically.

  “I exaggerate,” Adam said cheerfully. “What I mean is, there are normal people—like myself. And then there are people who live in DeVere Heights—like you. Although you don’t quite fit the mold. No offense.”

  “What mold?” Jason asked.

  “Not to sound too much like I’m describing some hideous teen soap, but DeVere kids are rich, they’re beautiful, and they’re painfully cool,” Adam explained.

  “And I’m not?” Jason laughed, pretending to be insulted.

  “Don’t get me wrong, you seem decent and all. You just don’t have that ‘je ne sais quoi’ that the DeVere Heights natives possess.”

  “I can live with that,” Jason replied. “So tell me about these rock stars. Who are they?”

  “The first name you need to know is Zach Lafrenière,” Adam began. “Mom’s a writer—with an Oscar. Dad’s a music producer. So, he’s got good blood. And Zach cares about that crap, even though he likes to pretend he doesn’t. His own credits aren’t bad. Basketball star—he led us to victory last year. He’s also had a little part in a movie—not one of his mom’s. And he went to the senior prom with Paige Devereux, when he was still a freshman—which is impressive, to say the least. Now that he’s a senior, he’s the big enchilada, as we like to say around here. Actually, only I like to say it. You probably shouldn’t. You don’t have enough of the ironic vibe to pull it off. Not that I’m judging you.”

  “Which one is he?” Jason asked, glancing around the terrace.

  “He’s not here. Monsieur Lafrenière will not be joining us for a couple weeks, as he’s in France with his parents,” Adam answered. “Visiting the homelands.”

  Jason tried to steer the conversation without being obvious about what exactly it was he wanted to know. “So, who’s the female equivalent of this Zach guy?” he prompted.

  “Who’s the woman?” Adam shook his head. “No contest. Paige passed the It Girl torch to her little sister, Sienna. She’s a senior now. Paige is off in college.”

  “And where’s Sienna? Hawaii?” A little too late, Jason realized that Hawaii probably wasn’t a big deal when you lived in Malibu.

  Adam grinned as if he could read Jason’s thoughts. “Nothing so mundane,” he joked. “She’s right over there. A couple of tables behind us. Black hair, a body that’s impossible to miss…”

  Jason knew who he’d see before he turned around, but he took a fast look anyway.

  She was looking back at him, and she raised an eyebrow when she spotted the purple Borba in his hand.

  Kill me now, Jason thought. He raised the bottle in a toast, trying to cover his embarrassment.

  Sienna smiled—a slow, painfully sexy smile—and raised her Borba in return. Then she turned away, laughing at something one of her friends had said. And suddenly, Jason felt cold, as if the sun had gone in.

  “Besides Sienna and Zach, we have Brad Moreau….” Adam continued.

  But Jason wasn’t listening. All he could think about was how well her name matched up with her: Sienna. It was sexy. Exotic. Unusual. Unexpected…

  Two

  Thank you, God, for the alphabet, Jason thought, which led to alphabetical seating, which led to this Freeman sitting directly across the aisle from Sienna Devereux. English was now officially his favorite class.

  The teacher, Ms. Hoffman, started doing the what’s-expected-of-you-this-year speech. She explained what percentage of your grade came from homework or from tests or from class participation; she went through the reading list; she told them the number of papers and when they were due; and so on and so on. Jason knew he should be paying attention; English wasn’t exactly his best subject. But the thing was, Sienna was so close, he could smell her perfume—a mix of green apple and vanilla and the ocean. Tangy-sweet and yet somehow also mysterious.

  “Jason Freeman.”

  The sound of his name jerked Jason out of his trance. The way that Ms. Hoffman was looking at him made it clear that she’d just asked him a question. Everyone in the room had turned to stare at him in his moment of embarrassment, an assortment of smirks and grins on their faces. He felt a flush creep up the back of his neck, and it only got worse when he saw Sienna watching him.

  “Uh, can you repeat that?” he asked. “I’m a flyover, and everyone knows we’re kind of backward.”

  “You’re from a flyover,” Sienna corrected him, but she was grinning.

  He winced. “See? Backward.”

  A few other kids chuckled, and Ms. Hoffman smiled. “I asked if you’ve already studied Macbeth,” she said. “That’s what we’ll be starting with.”

  Score—Jason had.

  He managed to keep his focus on Ms. Hoffman for the rest of English. He noticed she had a pair of Peoples sunglasses hooked over her white T-shirt, just like Dani and half the other girls he’d seen today. Clearly, being tragically underpaid was not a problem for teachers at DeVere. Either that, or Ms. Hoffman skipped meals in order to keep herself in eyewear. He wondered if even the janitors here wore designer shades.

  When the bell rang, Jason joined the throng of students in the hallway. Soon he realized that Sienna was also walking directly to the door of his next class. The day just kept getting better.

  His physics teacher wasn’t into the alphabetical thing, so Jason took a seat by the window. Physics was one of his strong subjects, so the distracting view of the surfers riding the curls wouldn’t hurt his grade too badly.

  After watching them for a few minutes, Jason couldn’t wait to hit the water—even if it was just the pool. Thankfully physics was his last class of the day. He’d already put his name on the list for swim team tryouts right after school that evening. The second the bell rang to end class, Jason bolted from his seat and took off toward the pool. He found the locker room—the only one he’d ever been in that didn’t smell of sneakers and feet—and suited up.

  “I hope you’ve been practicing over break,” Jason heard someone in the next row of lockers say with a laugh. “With the electronic plates installed, you’re not going to be able to cheat your way into beating me.”

  “Bite me,” came the muttered reply.

  “There are electronic timing plates?” Jason asked in surprise. He knew that for Olympic competitions they had timing plates in the starting blocks and contact plates installed underwater. That’s because in relays, it was all about tagging. The relay team member wasn’t allowed to leave the starting block until he’d been tagged, and the contact plates left no room for error. If a swimmer left the block before his team mate hit the underwater plate, an alarm was sent to the meet official’s headphones and the team would be disqualified. It was pretty hardcore.

  This has to be the only high school in the country with an Olympic-level system, Jason thought with a grin.

  A guy from Jason’s calc class, Brad Moreau, appeared around the corner, carrying his goggles. “We’ve also got high-speed cameras now,” he told Jason. “Absolutely nothing is left to human error.” He sat down on one of the polished wooden benches and looped his towel around his neck.

  Jason remembered that Adam had put Brad in the DeVere Heights “rock stars” category, and he could see why. He had brown hair and brown eyes—nothing remarkable there—but there was something compelling about him that Jason couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  “From what I hear, you’re going to give us some much-needed aid in the relay,” Brad continued.

  Do they give out files on all the new kids, or what? Jason wondered.

  “Small school,” Brad said, reading Jason’s expression. “And Coach Middleton has a big mouth.” He stood up. “Come on, I’ll take you out there.”

  “Cool.” Jason grabbed his towel and followed Brad toward t
he pool door. He was struck by the fact that Brad seemed pretty friendly. He’d gotten the impression from Adam that the DeVere Heights kids didn’t let outsiders in too easily.

  But I’m from DeVere Heights too, he realized suddenly. Jason was so used to thinking of himself as ordinary that he’d forgotten his new status as a semi-wealthy dude. Maybe that was why Brad was acting as if they were already friends. Was Adam right about DeVere Heights? Did living behind that gate—a gate, incidentally, that looked like it should be in a museum as a piece of sculpture—mean that much to everyone out here?

  “There you have it,” Brad said.

  Jason’s mouth actually dropped open when he saw the pool. He estimated it to be fifty meters by ten lanes, with two movable bulkheads so that courses could be set up for twenty-five yards, twenty-five meters, or thirty meters for water polo. It looked like it had a movable floor to change the depth, too. And the water was so blue, it left an afterimage when he blinked.

  “Nice, huh?” Brad asked.

  “Yeah, sure, but where are the inner tubes? A pool isn’t a pool without inner tubes,” Jason joked.

  “And a few girls in bikinis,” Brad agreed.

  “Get in there and do some warm-up laps,” Coach Middleton called from the bleachers.

  Jason was underwater almost before the last word was out of the coach’s mouth.

  I could do this forever, he thought. It was like listening to music to the point where you’re gone, not in your head anymore, not exactly anywhere—more like everywhere. Jason lost himself in the moment. He could feel nothing but his muscles working, the water pressing against him, the feel of it flowing over his skin. Perfection.

  Too soon, the coach blew his whistle and waved everyone over to the side of the pool. “Okay, everybody who’s trying out for the team, Assistant Coach Simkins will take you through your paces.” He gestured to a twenty-something guy with a face tanned almost the same color as his freckles.

  “Let’s head to the other side,” Simkins called, starting around the pool toward the far side. Jason began to swim over with the other newbies.

  “Not you, Freeman. I want you with me,” Coach Middleton said. “We lost a key man on our 200-meter medley team, and I need to get you in place ASAP. From what I hear, you’re up to the challenge.”

  “You got it,” Jason replied. He was up for anything that involved water. And he was starting to get used to the idea that everybody here seemed to know everything about him already.

  “Let’s try you with Moreau”—he pointed to Brad—“Van Dyke, and Harberts.”

  Jason recognized Van Dyke from English. He didn’t think Harberts was in any of his classes.

  “I’ll take anchor—the freestyle leg,” Van Dyke said.

  “You sure you’re up to it? You don’t look like you’re feeling so—,” Brad began.

  “Don’t be trying to nab my spot!” Van Dyke joked. “You need me as anchor, even though it pains me to have to do the last leg because it means I have to watch you clowns burn up time on your laps that I have to make up.” Van Dyke turned to Jason. “I hope you can hang.”

  Jason hoped so too. All three of the guys, but especially Brad and Van Dyke, looked like serious athletes, at least judging by how ripped they were. Although, Jason could see why Brad was concerned about Van Dyke. His face was pale, death pale, the kind of pale that often precedes a massive puke.

  “I’ll start us out with the backstroke,” Brad said. “You can swim breaststroke, Freeman. Then Harberts with fly. Then we’ll see if Van Dyke can stay afloat as anchor.”

  Jason and Harberts nodded. Somehow it felt natural for Brad to call the lineup. Jason walked over to his block and got into position with his feet at the back. He liked to do a single step to launch himself. He was glad he’d been assigned the breaststroke leg. His freestyle wasn’t bad—he’d taken the anchor slot a few times back at his old school—and his butterfly was decent, but his backstroke could use improvement, to put it kindly.

  Jason watched as Brad got into the pool at the other end.

  “Swimmers, take your mark!” Coach Middleton yelled.

  Brad compressed himself into a ball. The coach gave them the signal, and Brad exploded out of the blocks, using his legs to push free. Man, he was fast. Eyes narrowed, Jason watched Brad closely. He couldn’t start before Brad touched the plate in the wall, but he didn’t want to waste one tenth of a second of his leg of the relay by starting late. He only had fifty meters to show his stuff. Then it would be over to Harberts, who would swim butterfly back to this end, where Van Dyke would be waiting to dive in and take the final, freestyle leg.

  Brad touched the plate. Now! Jason ordered himself. He took a step and flew into the air, then hit the water swimming the breaststroke. Go through the smallest hole in the water, Jason coached himself. Don’t pull your arms back. Just scull.

  And then he was done.

  Harberts flew over Jason’s head and plunged into the water as Jason climbed out of the pool and watched him swim down to Van Dyke. These guys are good, he thought as Van Dyke made a low, clean entry at the start of his leg.

  But then Van Dyke sank. Like his body had turned to lead, that’s how fast he went down. Straight to the bottom of the pool.

  Jason’s lifesaving training kicked in and he plunged back into the pool without even thinking. In a second he had looped one arm around Van Dyke’s chest, pulled him to the surface, and towed him to the side. Brad and the assistant coach, Simkins, helped hoist him out of the pool.

  Van Dyke had been pale before, but Jason saw that even his lips were white now.

  “Should I get the nurse?” Jason offered. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d seen the nurse’s office somewhere near the principal’s.

  “Nah. We just need to get him rehydrated,” Brad said confidently. “And get him some air.” He waved Jason away, then Brad and Simkins led Van Dyke into the locker room, clearly supporting most of his weight.

  Harberts jogged over to Jason. “What the hell was that? Is Van Dyke all right?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. He looked completely out of it,” Jason replied, amazed. He couldn’t believe Van Dyke wasn’t on a stretcher right now. It didn’t look like a take-two-aspirin kind of thing.

  “Guess he should have listened to Brad and taken it easy,” Harberts said. “Although ‘easy’ is not Van Dyke’s style.”

  “Competitive, huh?” Jason asked, trying to push the image of Van Dyke’s limp body out of his mind.

  “Extremely, in everything, and mostly with Brad—probably because they usually come in within a second of each other,” Harberts answered. “And because Brad ended up with the girl Van Dyke had his eye—”

  “Set me up, Harberts!”

  Harberts broke off as Van Dyke’s voice interrupted.

  Jason couldn’t believe his eyes. Van Dyke was powering over to his starting block as if nothing had happened.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Simkins called, following Van Dyke out of the locker room. Jason noticed that the assistant coach’s face was pale under his tan, each of his freckles now clearly visible. Obviously, he’d been as freaked by Van Dyke’s collapse as Jason had. Except that, other than being pale, he seemed fine. In fact, Jason thought, he looked more like he’d just scored a buzz.

  “Sure, I’m sure,” Van Dyke replied cheerfully.

  “Well, I’m sure you’re hitting the showers,” Coach Middleton yelled. “I want you in top form for the first meet.”

  At least somebody around here is sane, Jason thought. His old coach definitely would have sent Van Dyke to the nurse—and maybe even would have ordered him to go to the doctor and get blood work done.

  “I’m in top form already!” Van Dyke protested, with a grin. And he looked fine. His cheeks were flushed too, like he’d been running a marathon.

  “I got juiced up,” Van Dyke announced. “Simkins supplied the sweet, sweet Gatorade.”

  Gatorade? Jason shook his head.
Clearly they made it differently out here.

  After practice Jason meandered toward his car, enjoying the warmth in his body from the exercise and a hot shower—not to mention that omnipresent Malibu sunshine. How disturbing would it be to have a seventy-five-degree Christmas this winter? Somehow, decorating a palm tree on the beach wouldn’t be quite the same as stringing lights on a pine tree—but Jason thought he could handle it.

  “Hey, Michigan! Can I borrow your cell? Mine died.”

  Jason already knew that voice. Sienna. He felt his pulse quicken as he walked over to her and the imported Alfa Romeo Spider—hood up—that she was leaning on. “What did you do to your car, Malibu?” he teased.

  Sienna shrugged. “It’s temperamental.”

  “Oh, well, temperamental, that’s beyond me. I could fill up the wiper fluid thing. You out of wiper fluid?” Jason asked.

  “Nope,” she answered. “So I guess you’re no help to me.”

  “And that’s where you’re wrong. I know exactly where to get you a cell phone,” Jason said. But he didn’t make a move to retrieve it.

  “So are you going to? I’ll say thank you and everything,” Sienna promised.

  “Yeah. But instead of saying thank you, just tell me something about yourself.” Not bad, Jason thought. “It’s not right that this whole school seems to have the 411 on me when I don’t know anything about anyone.”

  Sienna laughed. “‘The 411’? I haven’t heard that since elementary school.”

  Oh. “What? You have no appreciation for retro?” Jason asked, attempting to recover.

  “I’m all about the new,” Sienna breathed, taking a step closer. “So what do you want to know? I answered your retro question. I’ll give you two more.”

  Two questions. Jason’s mind started to spin. What did you think of English class? What kind of movies do you like? What are the chances you’d go out with me? All moronic. “I’ll think about it while I go get the cell from my car. My sister has it.”

  “You drive your sister home?” Sienna asked.