Fifty Percent Vampire, #1, page 16
“Sweet.”
She was about to say something else when Evan interrupted her. “Hey, Astrid!” he yelled, galumphing through the hall toward us. “You’ve come back! Happy New Year!”
I smiled. “Same to you,” I said, blushing. “Did you have a good Christmas?”
“My eyes were sore but now they are healed!” he said. “So what, apart from your delicious self, have you brought me from Romania?”
I blushed even more. He was expecting a gift?
“Hey, Evan, get in line,” said Rachel. “Since when are you entitled to my best friend’s favors?”
Evan turned and strutted away, whistling a happy tune. He didn’t care that Rachel had rebuffed him. I watched him go, admitting to myself that I was pleased to see him too.
We arrived at our first class of the new semester, English. Zoe’s seat was empty. I shivered. My memory of her had faded but the sight of that empty place brought it racing back. Dead for more than two months, Zoe still maintained a strong hold over me, over all of us. Strangely, I found myself missing her. “Have they caught him yet?” I asked.
Rachel shook her head. “I don’t think they ever will,” she said sadly. “My dad says our local police aren’t up to it.”
Not up to it? I refused to believe it. I had to agree with myself though they would have a helluva time trying to catch Angus, if Angus it had been.
Oh well. It was time to put the incident behind me. I hadn’t returned to Rosenberg High to become embroiled once more in the town’s murder of the century. There was work to be done and I was determined to make a success of myself this semester. Virginia Woolf awaited, so I opened my copy of Mrs. Dalloway and began to reread the first page, just as a police car rushed past on the road into town, its siren blaring. I wondered if it was Mike on his way to rescue a damsel in distress. Or Officer Tafani, late for the shift changeover. I hoped so. Somehow I was incapable of wishing that woman well.
A chance meeting with a bicycle
Winter gave way to spring. Valentine’s Day passed me by as though I didn’t exist, and Emma gloated as she counted up her cards. I was beginning to lose hope of Mike ever calling me, but it didn’t really matter any more because I’d fallen in love with Russell Crowe. Jeez, what is it with me and older men? Russell’s ancient enough to be my father. Creepy or what? Nevertheless, I’d viewed all his movies, including Romper Stomper—hmmm, heavy, heavy, heavy—but the one I couldn’t get enough of was A Beautiful Mind. I grew so obsessed I was watching it every evening instead of doing my homework.
In the end Aunt Jean threatened to send me back to George if my grades didn’t improve. So I got my Russell fix down to once a week, on Friday nights after the match. Before we leave this topic though I must say I think Ron Howard did a marvelous job directing that movie. The way poor John Nash’s hallucinations were portrayed I found totally convincing. The things they can do in Hollywood.
In between getting my assignments done, crushing on Russell and agonizing over my waist-to-hips ratio, I was learning how to cook. Aunt Jean was training Emma and me every Sunday after church. An essential part of my all-round education, she said. Part of becoming a woman. “Because how will you survive out there if you can’t cook?” she asked, wiping floury hands on her apron.
Emma was way ahead of me, as she’d been baking since grade school, but, despite the occasional flour storm or egg splatting accident, I was becoming competent at simple things, cupcakes and pancakes and stuff, all of which we tried out on Uncle James. His ironclad digestive system must have liked my offerings because one Sunday lunchtime after he’d munched his way through my not-totally-burned cherry pie, he suggested next time I should prepare a Romanian dish. I gaped at him in horror. Had he forgotten I’d never actually set foot in Romania? Or maybe he hadn’t forgotten and was playing the ‘let’s keep fooling my daughter’ game. Adding a touch of verisimilitude.
Naturally, Emma was enthusiastic about her dad’s idea, and begged me to give it a go, but Aunt Jean and I exchanged worried glances behind her back. Ho hum, time to dust down the guidebook I’d filched from Angus. I remembered a section on traditional Romanian cuisine near the end, just before the basic greetings and how to count from unu to zece. (That’s Romanian for one to ten if you’re not quite there yet.)
From the recipes in the book I chose sarmale. It appeared simple enough. Good heavy peasant food, cabbage leaves stuffed with ground pork and fresh herbs, served with sour cream and polenta. Aunt Jean helped me with the stuffing as I wasn’t used to handling icky meat yet, and we agreed to use an onion in place of the garlic called for. But she made me chop it. I managed not to stick the polenta to the bottom of the pan, and Uncle James said he loved his meal, though Emma hardly touched the plate I put in front of her.
Her opinion didn’t count though; the main reason I was making the effort was to be able to please the men (present and future, naming no names) in my life, and as has often been quipped: the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Angus thought that saying was hilarious. He would joke that the way to a vampire’s heart was through her stomach too—but only if you had a sharp enough stake.
Ha ha, dirtbag, you’re so funny. Could I tempt you with a nice refreshing glass of holy water?
On the first warm Saturday morning of the year, while I was lying in bed dreaming blissfully of young men whose thoughts ought to be turning any time about then to Love, someone bounced into my room and threw back the curtains. I groaned. The hour was unearthly and I was still several sniffs of espresso short of being conscious.
“Wake up, sleepyhead!” yelled Emma. “It’s a lovely morning. I’m taking you for a bike ride. Mom says you can borrow hers.”
“Bike ride?” I mumbled from under my pillow. “Go away. I’ve never ridden a bike in my life.”
“What the heck?” said Emma. “Surely you have bicycles over there?”
“Yes, we do,” I said. “But it doesn’t mean I can ride one.” For all I knew how to operate a bicycle it might as well have been some kind of flying machine.
“It’s easy,” said Emma. “I can teach you. Every self-respecting teenager should be able to ride a bike. What’s that saying of Mom’s? ‘You can’t buy happiness, but a bicycle’s in everybody’s price range.’ Or something like that. I forget.”
Next second she dragged off my bedcovers, so I threw my pillow at her.
An hour later we’d hauled the bicycles out of the back of the garage, and wheeled them into the front yard. While wiping off the winter’s dust and inflating the tires, we found Aunt Jean’s rear tire was punctured.
“No worries,” said Emma. “You can use mine to learn on.”
She rode up and down the street twice to demonstrate the basics and then it was my turn. I stood astride the bicycle and Emma adjusted the height of the saddle. I span the pedals and squeezed the brake levers. So far so good. At least this wasn’t a flesh and blood horse raring to buck me off.
I finished the pre-flight checks and Emma looked both ways to make sure the road was clear. “Okay, it’s all yours. You’re going to love it. Just remember what I said and try not to damage any cars.”
I released both brake levers, pushed forward on the left side pedal, and I was away. Unsteadily at first, but as I pumped the pedals more vigorously I found my balance. It felt wonderful! Emma stood biting her lip on the relative safety of our front yard, but she had no need to be concerned. I could do it. This was easy.
Until I had to slow down and turn at the end of the street.
Panicsville. My brain had neglected to register which was the rear brake lever, the left or the right, and in my haste I yanked at the one on the left so sharply I almost did end up flying. Over the handlebars. Fail, Astrid, monster fail. Emma was suddenly at my side. “Are you okay?”
“I think so,” I replied, picking up myself and the bicycle, a little out of breath. “Let me try that again.” I hurtled back up Wicket Lane, this time managing to screech to a halt inches from the rear fender of Mr. Coleman’s RV.
Well, after that success there was no stopping me. In no time at all I’d left Emma and Wicket Lane far behind and was racing down hitherto unknown streets. I didn’t care where they led, I didn’t care if I never found my way home again, this was as close to happiness as I’d ever felt. I lifted my feet from the pedals and spread my legs wide. Now I was airborne, with the wind on my face and my hair streaming behind me. This machine could take me wherever I wanted to go. Yippee! At last I was free.
At the next crossroads I stopped to choose which way to turn. As I stood catching my breath, the steady thud of someone wielding a sledgehammer hit me in the eardrums. I decided to investigate the source of the noise, which appeared to be coming from the street to my left.
To my horror-stroke-joy the source of the noise was Mike. Shirtless, six-packed Mike, standing in the front yard of a small one-story house, wiping sweat from his brow, his sculpted chest heaving after recent exertion.
“G-good morning,” I stammered. “What are you doing here? I thought you lived in–” I stopped short and bit my tongue. He wasn’t supposed to know I’d found out where he lived. I didn’t want him to think me some kind of stalker.
He smiled, giving me a glimpse of his dazzling white teeth, and I almost tumbled off the bike.
“This is my grandma’s house,” he explained as I straightened myself up. “I’m rebuilding the fence. Grandpa built the original when they got married, and now it’s falling down.”
I was too busy ogling his tanned skin and muscular shoulders to answer, and he seemed to need to fill the silence. “Uh ... So what brings you out here? You’re a long way from Wicket Lane.”
“It’s a fine morning,” I said. And it had just got finer. “So I thought I’d take a ride.”
“You look good on that bicycle,” he blurted. “The color matches your eyes.”
“Really?” I said, glancing down at the bicycle’s frame. It was painted green all right but had a bluish tint as well and I hoped my eyes weren’t that color. At least the frame wasn’t crimson and matching the color of my cheeks.
“Hey, as you’re here, do you want to give me a hand?” he asked.
“Give you a hand doing what?” What I really felt like doing was riding straight back home, sprinting upstairs to my room, and cowering under the bedcovers.
“I need you to hold the fence posts.”
He lobbed a pair of leather gloves at me.
“Put those on. For protection.” He smiled that smile again and the moment he did so I was lost. Going into robot mode, I propped the bike on its stand and walked slowly toward him, sliding my trembling fingers into the gloves as I went.
“I’ve never built a fence before,” I said.
“It’s really not so difficult. Here, take this,” he replied, picking up a wooden stake from the large pile that I hadn’t noticed before and holding it out to me. My world froze. Of all the things in the world he could have asked me to take hold of, he was asking me to take hold of a pointed wooden stake. Vampire’s best friend. Mom, help!
“C’mon, it’s not going to hurt you,” he said.
I wasn’t so sure. I could feel the heat already. Oh crap. I was about to die.
“Astrid, is anything wrong?” He looked down at me, his deep blue eyes full of concern. “Do you need to sit down?” He must have noticed how pale I’d suddenly become.
“N-no, I’m good,” I said bravely, reaching out and grasping the stake firmly in both hands. Mom had drummed it into me that it was the height of cowardice not to try new things. I wasn’t sure though she’d had it in mind for me to try new things having a high percentage chance of resulting in my death. Any second now I was going to burst into flames and burn myself, and Mike and his sledgehammer, and Grandma’s house, to cinders.
“Put it right here,” commanded Mike. “And hold it still.”
My arms were shaking so much I couldn’t have held Mount Rushmore still. The heat from the stake would soon become unbearable. As Mike flexed his muscles and raised the sledgehammer high above his head, I closed my eyes and waited for the crash. He swung once, twice, three times, grunting loudly each time the hammer fell, and my body juddered at each impact.
All of a sudden it went quiet and I felt hot breath on my cheek. “You can open your eyes now.”
I did so, and the stake was standing firmly in the ground, pointing proudly to the sky. I let go of it hastily. Mike tapped the top of the stake to be sure, then dropped the sledgehammer on the lawn and wiped his brow again. Hot work, building fences. “Good job,” he said. “Now for the next one.”
“Next one?” I squeaked. This was more than I could take. No way was I subjecting myself to that dreadful experience again. I would sooner get myself to a nunnery. “Gee, look at the time!” I said, looking at my watch. “I have to leave. Sorry, my aunt wants me home soon for, um, a cookery lesson. Nice seeing you. Good luck with the fence.” I pulled off the gloves and threw them at Mike, who caught them first time and stared back at me in amazement.
I was twenty yards along the street before he found his voice. “Astrid! Come back! Your bike!”
Oh no. I’d forgotten the bicycle, but didn’t dare return for it. I fled round the street corner in a state of panic and didn’t quit running till I reached Wicket Lane.
Emma was waiting anxiously for me in the front yard. “Hey! What have you done with my bike?” she squealed. “Where’ve you been all this time?”
“Um ...” I said, desperate for ideas. “A nail in the road, in Raven Lane, kind of ripped up the front tire.”
“So why didn’t you kind of wheel my bike home? Where did you leave it?”
“I told you already, in Raven Lane, in front of the fire house. I chained it to a hydrant.”
Emma folded her arms. “That’s a lie, Astrid, and you know it. Now please go fetch my bicycle.”
“I’ve told you where it is. You go fetch it,” I snapped, adamant I wasn’t leaving again. I couldn’t bear to face Mike. No man was worth my sanity, not today.
I sat down on the lawn and leaned forward to unlace my shoes. Just then Mike sailed into Wicket Lane, his shirt soaked with sweat, looking awkward on a green-framed bicycle patently too small for him and patently without a ripped-up front tire. Uh-oh.
He cruised to a halt at our drive. “I believe this belongs to you,” he said politely to Emma, who looked my way for an explanation.
“Wow, look, Officer Hanson’s fixed your tire,” I said brightly.
Emma and Mike just stood at the roadside and stared. I felt my best option would be to start digging a hole to the South Pole but instead I scurried into the house and slammed the front door with a crash that brought Aunt Jean running from the kitchen. “What’s going on?” she cried. “Are you girls fighting again?”
The Cherry Tree
After that minor stake-related fracas I stayed out of town as much as I possibly could in order to avoid more unexpected encounters with Mike. Every time, on every occasion we’d met so far that man had caused me trouble. A break from him would do me no end of good. I didn’t know why I was fussing so much about him in the first place, he was just some guy after all. So my next few Saturdays when Mom wasn’t visiting were spent wandering alone in the woods and watching spring happen. My weekly timeout. I spent the whole week cooped up in class with humans and, realistically, that was about as much as I could take. And Sundays meant church, so the only days I had left for myself were Saturdays.
As soon as my chores were done I waved goodbye to Aunt Jean and hid myself deep in the woods. It was a phenomenal time. With amazement I watched the maples bud. The trilliums and bloodroots sprang to life almost beneath my feet. And the song of the robins as they hustled to build their nests filled me to overflowing with joy.
Thankfully, I didn’t encounter many people. A few old guys out walking their dogs along the damp paths sometimes muttered hello as they passed, but nobody my age or younger. Were the kids too scared to venture into the wild woods? Or were their parents forbidding them this precious pleasure? Admittedly, Zoe had been murdered out here, and the killer was still at large, and all my friends were carrying pepper spray in their purses or stun guns in their backpacks, but nothing was going to stop me taking advantage of all this bounteous fresh air and wildness on my back doorstep. Besides, I’d hardly seen anyone out here last fall either. And that was before they’d found Zoe’s corpse.
One morning when the sun was almost at its highest, I came across a grassy clearing in the center of which stood a single cherry tree smothered with glowing white blossom. It was the most beautiful tree ever. I’d never seen a cherry tree in flower before; nothing like that would ever grow in Vampville’s cold climate. The petals were falling like snow, and I so much wanted to go out there to stand beneath the laden branches and have them flutter down around me.
I looked up at the sky. Disappointingly, there were no clouds, just the dazzling sun beating down from the bluest of blue. I wondered whether crossing the thirty or more unprotected yards to the tree would be worth the risk.
Fortunately, I seem to be much less susceptible to daylight than the average vampire. That’s to say, I can tolerate bright sunlight for several minutes, but when the tingling on my skin becomes unbearable I know it’s time to find some shade. It depends a lot on the intensity of the rays and the time of day. And whether I’m creamed up or not. Maddeningly, on this particular morning I wasn’t.
I took a deep breath and stuck out a hand. Ouch! The midday sun immediately burned my skin and I yanked my hand back into the shade. I looked enviously across the meadow at the tree. Those gracefully tumbling blossoms were so near yet so painfully far.
I made up my mind. It would take me just a few seconds to run such a short distance and I figured the shadow the cherry tree cast would protect me once I reached it, so I metaphorically crossed all my fingers and toes and sprinted as fast as I could. To my relief I reached the shelter of the spreading branches unburned.
