Dance With a Vampire

by Ellen Schreiber

  “This secret has nothing to do with him.”

  “What if it slips out?”

  “It can’t slip out. It’s the most secretest of all secrets. Aren’t you even curious?”

  “I’d feel funny if I hid something from him.”

  I was slightly jealous of her sudden allegiance to Matt when it meant leaving me, her best friend, in the dark.

  “You think he tells you everything?” I snipped. “From the time he rises to the time he sleeps? Every thought he has? Every song he listens to?”

  “That is his choice. Besides, I believe he tells me everything,” she said confidently, just as Matt joined us.

  “I’m not supposed to tell you this,” Matt began, “but a few of the guys on the soccer team have booked a limo for prom.”

  Becky smiled and gave me a knowing glance.

  She was right. I’d have to carry my secret to the grave.

  That evening, when I arrived at the Mansion’s gate, my usually awaiting vampire was a no-show. I hiked up the long driveway in my Morbid Threads black-and-white-striped tank, black flowered embroidered skirt, black knee-high fishnets, and Black Kitty Mary Janes.

  I rapped on the door with the serpent knocker. The Mansion door stood still, as if it were peering down at me, barring me from returning to see my vampire-mate.

  I knew it—Alexander was having second thoughts about me.

  I walked around the side entrance. The Mercedes was parked at the detached garage. I knocked again, but no one answered.

  I returned to the front door and pounded my fists on the wooden entrance.

  I could hear the bolts unlock, and slowly the Mansion door creaked open. Jameson popped his head out.

  “Miss Raven, I’m surprised to see you.”

  “Alexander and I were supposed to meet by the gate.”

  “I thought you knew, Miss Raven. Alexander’s gone.”

  Gone? My heart felt like it fell out of my chest and dropped between the weed-filled cracks in the Mansion’s uneven front steps.

  “He moved back to Romania?” I asked, my voice cracking.

  “No, he went out for the evening. I thought he was meeting you.”

  “So did I.”

  Jameson seemed worried. “Alexander was behaving oddly this evening.”

  “There’s someone he visits when he feels troubled. I think I might know where he has gone,” I said.

  “Can I drive you somewhere?”

  “That would be wonderful!”

  Jameson drove the Mercedes as slowly as if he were pushing the car with his feet. I figured by the time we reached Alexander, I’d be as old as the creepy man himself.

  Jameson finally parked in front of Dullsville’s cemetery.

  “I’ll just be a minute.”

  I ran between the tombstones and straight to Alexander’s grandmother’s monument.

  There, crouched by the memorial, was my boyfriend, placing a handful of wildflowers by the grave marker.

  “Alexander—”

  He glanced up at me, surprised.

  “We were supposed to meet at the Mansion,” I said.

  “I lost track of time. I just came here for a minute to get some wisdom. My grandmother was a wonderful woman. She was different from our family but always longed to be one of us. You remind me of her.”

  “You don’t want us to be together—now that you’ve heard what Valentine said.”

  “Now I understand why, when we were at the gazebo, you said you liked me for who I was. You were worried Valentine would say something.”

  I nodded. “It was just a moment in the cave. If I had known ahead of time, everything would be different.”

  “Would it?”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “I don’t trust myself. I’ve let you into my world far too quickly.”

  “Please, don’t say that.”

  “I never meant to frighten you.”

  “Me, frightened?”

  “I don’t want you to become like me. I’ve never asked you to join my world. I don’t want you to be afraid that I will put you in that position.”

  I pulled him close. “Please, don’t say such things. If more humans were like you, the world would be a much better place.”

  “Maybe we are deceiving each other—you thinking you can be a vampire, and me thinking I can be with a mortal.”

  “Please, this is exactly what Valentine wants. He’s trying to take revenge on us by destroying our relationship. We were fine before he came.”

  Alexander’s sullen eyes started to sparkle.

  “You are right. I am playing right into his blood-reading hands.” Alexander took my hand in his. “I would be nothing, in your world or mine, without you.”

  Alexander kissed me as Jameson flickered the lights on his car.

  14

  Morbid Manicure

  I have a treat for you girls,” my mom said as Becky and I climbed into her SUV the afternoon of prom. “I scheduled two appointments for manicures for your big night tonight.”

  “Yay!” we both cried out in unison.

  “Thank you so much, Mrs. Madison,” Becky gushed.

  Mindi’s, an ultra-swank conservative salon, with its signature bright black-and-white-striped awning, was located in Dullsville’s main square, between Fancy Schmancy Gifts and Linda’s Lingerie.

  “Maybe we can go there, too,” I whispered to a blushing Becky when we got out of the SUV, referring to the sexy intimate clothing store.

  Becky and I followed my mother into Mindi’s chichi salon. The stylists were clad in crisp white tops and black rayon pants.

  The chairs were filled with Dullsville High promgoers getting makeovers, haircuts, and pedicures. All heads—being cut, blow-dried, and colored—turned toward me as if I (clad in tight black zippered shorts, black tights, Frankenstein boots, and a Gothique T-shirt) wasn’t worthy of entering the salon.

  “Pick out your polish,” my mother instructed, pointing Becky and me to a Lucite shelf hanging on the wall next to the hair section. A ton of products lined the white wooden shelves—snazzy accessories in a rainbow of colors and fabrics, combs (skinny and wide-toothed), and brushes (round, flat, and lamb’s-bristled). Dozens of shampoos and conditioners for every type of hair—frizzy, curly, straight, dry, oily, thick, and thin—were also displayed. I was amazed at what a bottle filled with soap and a few vitamins and minerals claimed to do. For the prices Mindi’s was asking, I’d think they were filled with champagne.

  Becky and I perused the nail polish selection while my mother checked us in. The shelves were filled with a spectrum of colors from pink to purple, red to clear. Becky quickly chose a bottle of Pink Persuasion.

  I scanned the polishes. Nothing resembled black, not even a deep purple or brown among them.

  My mother joined us, buzzing like it was my wedding day. She was exhilarated, caught up in the prom spirit as if she were going herself. Since I had been an outcast for so long, she herself had never been included in the high school’s events.

  “So what have you decided on, girls?” she asked.

  “Becky picked a beautiful pink,” I said.

  My best friend proudly showed my mother her selection of a pretty pastel nail color.

  “Lovely choice, Becky. Raven, what have you picked?”

  “Well…”

  “We’re ready for you,” a pixie-like girl with spiky short red hair said, her white shirt stretched tightly around her pregnant belly. “I’m Cami.”

  “I’ll pick you up in half an hour,” my mom said. “Remember, when the girls have finished, don’t touch anything! You don’t want to smear your manicure.”

  Cami led Becky and me past a dozen hairstylists’ chairs to the nail room—or what I’d call a vampire’s nightmare. The walls were made of mirrors, and bright fluorescent lights filled the ten-by-ten-foot room. Alexander wouldn’t last two seconds in here.

  A half-dozen white manicure tables—each with a black desk lamp,
white hand towels, and pastel polishes—faced the mirrored walls. A few pedicure bowls were sitting on the floor, all occupied by the feet of adolescent fashionistas.

  Jenny Warren and her Prada shoe-snob friend, Heather Ryan, sat underneath foils with one foot in a spa bath and the other resting on a pedicurist’s lap, their flawless model’s toes being primped for their walk down Prom Princess Road.

  Cami showed Becky to her seat, then directed me to the vacant chair next to hers. As I settled in, a middle-aged veteran manicurist nodded to me as she stood over her client, whose hands were drying underneath a heating lamp.

  Becky and I watched as Cami started removing Becky’s nail polish.

  “You must be Raven,” my manicurist said, placing a plastic finger bowl filled with sudsy water on her table. “I’m Jean.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I responded with a smile.

  I glanced over at Becky, who was engaged in conversation with Cami as if they’d been friends for years. Cami looked like she’d just graduated from beauty school.

  My manicurist, however, with her crazy colored bifocals, resembled my grandmother. Her own thick nails weren’t painted and looked weathered. Who could blame her? By the end of the day, she was probably too exhausted to decorate her own nails.

  “What color have you picked?” she asked, looking at me above her bifocals.

  “Well…I haven’t decided yet.”

  Jean began removing my black polish with a cotton ball. It took her a few minutes to get it out of the nooks, the dark color embedded in my nails.

  “Your mother said your dress was a dark red.”

  “Yes,” I said, our conversation stilted.

  Jean opened her drawer and pulled out a bottle of red nail polish. “How about this?”

  “I prefer something darker.”

  Jean placed my hands in the finger bowl filled with warm, bubbly water.

  “This color is very popular.” She held out a bottle of metallic pink.

  “I was thinking of black.”

  “How about something more feminine,” she said, ignoring my request.

  I could feel Becky slink down in her chair next to me. Becky and Cami continued to talk but kept eyeballing Jean and me.

  Jean rose and went to the front desk. In a moment, she returned with a few bottles of reds and pinks.

  “I thought you’d want to look like Cinderella, not Frankenstein,” she quipped, placing the colors on her manicure table and sitting down.

  “I’d really like black.”

  “But we don’t carry black,” she insisted.

  “No problem. I brought a bottle with me.” I reached for my purse, accidentally dripping water on her desk as I lifted my hand out of the bowl.

  Jenny and Heather giggled at me.

  “Hold on,” Jean grumbled. “Allow me.”

  Jean mopped up my spills with a hand towel and threw it into a small white wicker laundry basket underneath her desk. She picked up my Corpse Bride purse, examined it as if it might bite her, then pulled out a half-filled bottle of Morbid Mayhem.

  Jean placed my polish on her desk as if she were holding a bottle of poison. She squeezed eucalyptus-scented lotion on my hand and vigorously massaged it into my skin. She filed, smoothed, and pushed back my cuticles and reluctantly began to paint my nails a morbid black.

  “So who are you going to prom with?” she asked.

  “My boyfriend.”

  “Would I know him—or his family?”

  “He doesn’t go to our school.”

  “Is he from out of town?”

  “No, he’s homeschooled.”

  “That’s interesting…. What’s his name?”

  This was more like an inquisition than a manicure.

  “Alexander Sterling.”

  “You mean the Sterlings on Benson Hill?” she asked, surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve heard about them. They moved into the Mansion a while ago.”

  “That’s right.”

  “His parents are never around. I was hoping his mother might come into the salon.”

  “They travel a lot.”

  “I see. And what is your boyfriend like?”

  “He’s a lot like me.”

  “Wears black nail polish?” she teased.

  “Sometimes,” I said with a smile.

  I was beginning to take a liking to ol’ Jean, and I think she was warming a bit to me. Not only was she flip and sarcastic like me, but I had something she wanted—firsthand knowledge of new townsfolk I’m sure had been gossiped about in her salon since the day the Munster-like family inhabited the Mansion.

  Becky rose and sat with her hands underneath the dryers, leaving me alone in the corner with Jean as she applied a clear top coat to my nails.

  “I had a client come in yesterday to get a French manicure,” she whispered. “She said she met your boyfriend at a restaurant. She was spreading all sorts of gossip.”

  “You mean Mrs. Mitchell?”

  “I don’t like to spread things around,” she said seriously.

  I bit my black lip to keep myself from laughing. “After meeting you,” she continued, “I can’t believe the talk of the town. You are such a dear, and I imagine your boyfriend has to be a gentleman.”

  I smiled at Jean. “She calls us vampires behind our backs just because we wear dark clothes and nail polish.”

  “I see…”

  “She really needs to get a job, that woman.”

  “Well, I have to be honest, I’d rather see you in red polish, but I think this black is quite striking. I’d order some for the salon,” she whispered again, “but I’m afraid you’d be the only one to wear it.”

  “Keep it,” I said as I sat next to Becky and placed my hands underneath the dryer. “Next time Mrs. Mitchell comes in for a French manicure, make it a Romanian one, like mine.”

  15

  Dance with a Vampire

  Dullsville High School’s prom night—one evening I was lucky I wasn’t a vampire. If I had to wait until sunset just to rise from sleep, I’d never have time to shower, fix my hair, change from combat boots to witchy boots, decide between onyx and spiderweb earrings, rework my hair, and reapply my eyeliner. Most important, I would be nothing without a mirror.

  I looked like a medieval dark angel. All that was missing was my vampire teeth.

  Glancing out the window, I saw Alexander pull Jameson’s Mercedes into our driveway. As I reapplied my lipstick and made the final touches to my makeup, I could hear the doorbell ring and mumbled greetings.

  “Alexander’s here,” my mother called up to me. “I’m coming,” I answered.

  With one hand I gathered the bottom of my dress, and with the other I carried my open parasol. I descended the staircase like the bride of Dracula.

  Alexander and my parents were seated in the living room.

  When Alexander saw me, his eyes lit up and he immediately rose. My heart dropped. He appeared more gorgeous than I’d imagined. Alexander looked like a sexy vampire idol in a silky chic dark suit with a red handkerchief poking out of his breast pocket. His hair hung in his face as his midnight eyes sparkled. He flashed me a sweet smile.

  Alexander held his hand over his heart. “You are so beautiful. I believe you’ve taken my breath away.”

  He politely kissed me on my cheek. His soft velvet lips sent chills racing through me.

  Alexander handed me a black rectangular box.

  I opened the box. A red rose with white baby’s breath was attached to an elastic lace band with red rhinestones.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “It matches her dress to a T. How did you know?” my mother asked.

  “I want to put it on,” I said excitedly.

  My mother helped take the corsage out of the box and handed it to Alexander.

  “I thought this was safer than sticking you with a pin, like I did when we attended the Snow Ball,” he said as he slid the corsage over my wrist.

&nb
sp; “Billy,” my father called. “Come down and see your sister.”

  “We have to take pictures,” my mother gushed.

  “No!” I said.

  My parents looked at me oddly.

  “It’s bad luck.”

  “What are you talking about? Generations of people have taken pictures of their proms and have them in photo albums for years. It’s a tradition,” my mother corrected.

  Alexander’s eyes turned sorrowful. I could tell he felt he was denying me memories to cherish for a lifetime.

  He grabbed my hand. “Mrs. Madison, I’ll never be able to get out of my mind how beautiful Raven is today. A picture could never compare to her real beauty or be able to capture her heart and soul.”

  My mom was stunned. She put her hand over her mouth like she was watching a made-for-TV movie unfold in her very own living room. “You are making me misty-eyed.”

  “We have to go,” I finally said.

  “We have dinner reservations,” Alexander stated proudly.

  “Really?” my mother remarked. “Where?”

  “It’s a surprise,” Alexander answered sweetly.

  Billy Boy sauntered down the stairs and sized up my Victorian garb. “For a vampire, you look awesome,” he commented.

  “You say the most wonderful things!” I hugged my bewildered brother and my gushing parents. Then Alexander and I flew out the door.

  “Are we going to Hatsy’s Diner?” I asked as we drove toward town.

  Alexander continued to drive in silence as I tried to guess where he was taking me. Finally he parked in front of Dullsville’s cemetery.

  “Old Jim, the caretaker, is at Lefty’s Tavern for the night,” he stated knowingly. “No one will bother us, except for the occasional mischievous ghost.”

  Alexander led me by the hand between the tombstones to the back end of the cemetery. A weeping willow’s branches were draped over a rectangular wooden table covered with a black lace tablecloth and set for two with fine china and sterling silverware.

  Alexander lit the antique candelabra and politely held my chair out for me.

  Beside each plate was a covered dish. The setting was beautifully morose. I wondered what the main course could be. I’d watched way too many horror films and I imagined opening the aluminum covers to find severed heads. However, when Alexander lifted them, a delicious sight and smell lay before us—a dinner of lemon chicken, buttered green beans, and rice pilaf.