The Art of Being a Vampire, page 1
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Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Quinn, Kate Karyus.
Title: The art of being a vampire / Kate Karyus Quinn.
Description: New York : West 44, 2024. | Series: West 44 YA verse Identifiers: ISBN 9781978596719 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781978596702 (library bound) | ISBN 9781978596726 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: American poetry--21st century. | Poetry, Modern-- 21st century.| Poetry.
Classification: LCC PPS584.Q419 2024 | DDC 811.008’09282--dc23
First Edition
Published in 2024 by
Enslow Publishing LLC
2544 Clinton Street
Buffalo, NY 14224
Copyright © 2024 Enslow Publishing LLC
Editor: Caitie McAneney
Designer: Leslie Taylor
Photo Credits: Cover (girl) Jordan Whitfield/Unsplash.com, (trees) Pat Tr/Shutterstock.com, (vampire) Subbotina Anna/Shutterstock. com; Series Art (dripping blood) r2dpr/Shutterstock.com.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer.
Printed in the United States of America
CPSIA compliance information: Batch #CS24W44: For further information contact Enslow Publishing LLC, New York, New York at 1-800-398-2504.
To my amazing editor, Caitie—this
book wouldn’t exist without you.
My Mama Was
what you
might call a
cautionary tale.
And a living
breathing
model
of the
slippery
s
l
o
p
e.
She was
the only
girl
in all of
Jerkins, Alabama,
to claim the
beauty queen
trifecta.
(That is,
winning
all three
Miss Pickle Crowns.
Little Miss Gerkin.
Miss Teen Bread and Butter.
Ms. Big Dill USA.)
She went from that
to ending her life
at 34 years
of age.
Dead
in a
dank apartment
with an
eviction notice
taped
to the
front door.
My Daddy,
most everyone
agrees,
was one of
the most
useless
human
beings
to walk the earth.
Grams said
Mama loved him
stupid.
Which is the
worst
kinda way
to love
anyone
or
anything.
She loved him
even after
he pulled
her under
with him.
Even after
he gave her
a baby
neither of ’em
wanted.
Then
left her
so’s he could
run away
with a woman
who didn’t yet
have the
two things
he’d given my mama.
Stretch scars
and a
drug habit
she couldn’t kick.
Mama Didn’t Love Me Stupid
Didn’t love me smart neither.
There was
affection,
sure.
Sloppy
and
trembling.
Mostly
I made her
feel bad.
Guilty for the
empty fridge.
The outgrown clothes.
Guilty for all
the times
I went to foster care.
Guilty for all
the times
she fell
back into her
old ways.
My Fate Seemed Sealed
Mama using
on one side,
and a
deadbeat dad
on the other.
Only Grams
gave me
hope.
Though not
too much of it.
“Likely,
blood will tell,
and you’ll
go the same
way as
yer mother.”
But with the help of
Jesus our Lord
and savior,
Grams said I could
be better than I was born to be.
She’s Daddy’s mama,
but she said,
“He ain’t none
of mine now.”
Grams said
bad blood
is like poison.
Better to
cut off
a sick limb—
even her own son—
than risk
his weakness
spreading
to her.
Grams told me
I had to
do the same.
Or I’d end up
“a garbage person—
just like
the rest
of ’em.”
When I
asked her
which part
of the Bible
that was from,
she answered
with narrowed
eyes.
“Don’t get
smart
with me,
Shelby Ann.”
I Never Did
find Jesus—
at least
not in Grams’s church.
She mighta
pressed the issue
if she’d stuck around,
but she met Jim
while protesting
at a pride parade.
Not long after,
they married
and moved to
Arizona.
Grams’s house
had been a place
to escape
Mama’s chaos,
and also find a
hot cooked meal.
Without Grams,
I needed another
safe place.
The Next Year
I found my
new escape.
A photography class
at my
high school.
But it was
more than
just an escape.
Photography,
and
my camera,
was
something
to love.
And I
didn’t
have to
worry
if it
loved
me
back.
It’s a Dying Art
That’s what
my teacher,
Mr. Bailey, said
about taking
photos on film.
According to
Mr. Bailey,
any dummy could
point and shoot
with a digital camera.
But without
autofocus
and
fancy
computer software
to fix screwups,
you had to
get it right.
Or else you’d
lose the shot.
I guess it was
lucky our school was
poor
and couldn’t afford
nothing better
than what
we had.
“These old Nikons
are twenty years old,”
Mr. Bailey
would say,
holding up
one of the battered
camera bodies
we used in class.
“And they’ll last
at least another
twenty—maybe more.”
For me,
all that mattered
was being able to
hold it up
to my eye.
And with
the lens
between
me and
the world,
I could block out
all the
ugly
in my life.
I was able to be—
for at least
a little bit—
something better
than what I was.
Life Is Funny
But not in a
HA HA
kinda way.
For example,
take the day
my whole world
changed.
I stayed after school
to use the darkroom
and develop some film.
As I hung the
dripping photos
to dry,
Mr. Bailey
came in to look.
I’d taken my camera
and hopped on a bus
to an old church that
I’d read about online.
The light streamed through
tall windows
set high up
along the back wall.
I knew that I’d gotten
some really good shots.
But I wanted to hear
Mr. Bailey say it.
I guess I’d gotten
used to him
going on and on
about how talented
and special
I was.
But this time,
he saw my photo
with the
ribbon of light
making a statue glow
and he just said,
“It’s pretty,
but I don’t
feel anything.
Where’s
the
heart?”
I stood there,
shocked silent.
He told me my photos
never felt personal.
Like I was afraid
to put what I truly
felt, and who
I truly was,
on film.
Well, he was
right
about that.
Taking photos
was my escape
from my real life.
I wanted to take
pictures that were
beautiful—
<<
my life wasn’t.
Of course,
I didn’t say
none of that
to Mr. Bailey.
He wouldn’t—
couldn’t—
possibly understand.
And then
as if
to prove
my point,
I went home
and found
my Mama’s
dead body.
Poor Mama
She must have
lain dead
for hours
before I
made it home
and found her.
I was glad
at least
she was
in bed.
I almost coulda
pretended she
was sleeping
or passed out.
Those things
weren’t unusual.
But she was
still and silent.
Eyes blank.
When I’d left
for school
that morning,
she’d been
awake
and pacing.
Waiting for
Apollo
(her current squeeze,
though more like sleaze)
to come with
drugs like
he’d promised.
I guess
he showed up
eventually.
I Called 911
The operator
made me check
for a pulse.
Just to make sure
she was dead.
For a second
it got me
hoping.
Maybe I was wrong.
I was just a kid,
not a doctor.
But the moment
my fingers
touched Mama’s
cold skin,
I knew
there weren’t no
blood beating
beneath it.
Not anymore.
I hung up.
Reached for
my camera
from school.
I just wanted
to feel it in
my hands.
The same way
I’d squeezed
a stuffed bunny
when I was little.
But the usual
comfort wasn’t there.
Mr. Bailey’s
words still
echoed inside
my head.
I wanted
to pull him
into this room.
Rub his nose
in this scene.
See? I’d say.
Does this
look like
art?
Mama.
Mama.
I wanted to
rage at her,
but she was
gone—
for good this time.
Somehow that
seemed like
Mr. Bailey’s
fault, too.
Him and
everyone
else who
didn’t understand.
Who
didn’t see.
Who let this
happen
to Mama . . .
and me.
I guess
my thoughts
weren’t
quite
right
in my head.
Cause
I decided
that I would
show
Mr. Bailey.
I would
show
everyone.
He wanted
something
real and raw?
He wanted
heart?
Well here it was.
I’d tear free
a chunk of mine.
I Lifted the Camera
But instead
of focusing
on Mama,
I pointed it at
the big ugly
oil painting
portrait
over her bed.
It was part
of her prize
when she won
Miss Teen Bread and Butter.
In the painting, she’s
impossibly
young and
beautiful.
Her hair
defying gravity.
Topped
with a
glittering crown.
Her smile
is so easy.
The young woman
in that painting
has no idea
what’s to come.
In the next year,
she’d meet my
daddy.
Then all the
trouble would begin.
But in that moment,
she’s innocent.
And hopeful.
And totally
clueless
about how
bad things
will get.
Getting down
on the floor,
I was able to
put Mama,
dead and cold,
in the foreground.
I left her
dead body
fuzzy and blurred
while placing
the portrait
in crystal clear
focus.
It looked like
Mama’s
younger self
was looking down
on what she’d
become.
I went through
a whole roll
of film.
Adjusting
the lights
and angles.
Lost in the work.
Then there was
a knock at the door,
and I realized
someone had finally
come to take
Mama away.
I Never
showed those
photos to
Mr. Bailey.
I developed
the film
the next day.
Going to school
like nothing
had changed.
Like Mama
was still
alive.
Normally,
I loved the magic
of watching
a photo appear
in the pan
full of chemicals.
But this time,
I
looked
away.
People always
said
that my
soft curls
and
sweet smile
made me
look the spittin’ image
of Mama.
I’d never seen it.
But there
in the
darkroom,
I felt like it was
my own face
coming into being.
My own fate.
I always
named my photos.
It made me
feel fancy.
This one
I called
Fear the Future.
Cause Mama didn’t,
but I do.
I wrote the name
on a manilla folder.
Then slipped the
barely dried
photo inside.
Eventually,
it got packed away
in the same box
that held Mama’s ashes.
Nobody Wanted Me
That’s been the story
of my life.
Mama’s death
sure didn’t
change that.
Grams couldn’t
take me
cause of Jim’s
health.
My daddy
moved around
so much,
nobody even
bothered to keep
track no more.
Eventually,
an Aunt Clara
I’d never even
heard of
before
came forward.
She’s daddy’s sister,
