Vampire Crush(11)
Author: A.M. Robinson

As if on cue, the door to the speech room bangs open, and students start to trickle out. When Neville emerges, I jump in front of him and rush through my boilerplate proposal: interviews, new students, embarrassing icebreaker questions, please help me. I leave out the part where, after I know his favorite B-movie, I am going to grill him senseless.

"Of course," he says, placing a hand on my back to usher me into the nearest empty classroom – health class, if the mutant ovaries on the board are any indication. Once we’re seated he looks at me expectantly. Not wanting to scare him off too early, I start out with questions that I consider boring. But when I ask if he likes it here at Thomas Jeff, his face lights up.

"I do! Everything is so lawless," he says. "Yesterday I fought with a young man who said that I was staring at his girlfriend. And I was, but not for the reasons he believed." He points to his earlobe. "She had a hole as big as a button, right here."

It’s hard to imagine a place that could make Principal Morgan’s reign seem like anarchy. "Where did you go to school before?"

He hesitates a second too long. "Here and there."

"Where was here and where was there?"

"Oh, I don’t remember," he says before leaning over to peek at my notepad. "What other questions do you have?"

I back off for the moment, and we chat about hobbies. He’s not much into sports, although he knows enough about boxing to punch you in the nose if you trap him in a corner; he’s always loved acting but it has been a while since he has had the opportunity; the speech meets have been wonderful because they’ve given him a reason to dust off his old monologues. Since things have been going so well, I decide to ease back into more sensitive topics.

"So, you’re staying with Vlad, right?"

Neville has been the perfect interviewee, receptive to all my questions and nice enough to phrase all his replies in neat little sound bites. But now I see a wall go up behind his eyes, and he does nothing other than give a sharp little nod.

"How long have you known each other?"

"A few years."

"How did you meet?"

His eyes slide to the side like a senator who’s just been asked that same question about the new intern. "The usual."

"Which is?"

"Class," he says quickly.

"What class?

"Music class."

I hope he is a better actor than improviser. "That’s interesting," I say. "What do you play? I can’t wait to get Vlad’s side of the story. Oh, maybe we could take pictures of you both with your instruments!" I threaten, knowing that a person would have to be crazy to have something like that published in a high school newspaper.

"No, I don’t want that!" he panics. "Don’t write that."

I hide my smile in my notebook. "I’m sorry?"

"No, I was thinking of . . . another friend. George. Yes, George."

"How did you meet Vlad then?"

He leans back, his eyes flicking toward the door. After a discreet cough, he pushes his sleeves up, revealing a small, strangely iridescent tattoo on the inside of his forearm. Considering he got in a fight after ogling some girl’s ear gauge, I would never have pegged Neville as someone who had even a dot of ink. It’s a star with eight points, light in the middle and darkening to a shimmering blue as it approaches the tips. A swirl sits in the center – no, wait, not a swirl, an ornate letter "D."

"That’s an interesting tattoo," I say. "What does the ‘D’ stand for?"

Neville follows my gaze and stares at the tattoo as though it’s a scorpion perched on his arm.

"Ex-girlfriend?" I ask.

He snorts. "Hardly. There must be something else we can discuss. I will tell you about the time I played Oberon in A Midsummer Night’s Dream."

"What’s the significance of the star?" I ask, refusing to be deterred, but then try to soften the question. "I’m sorry; I’m just really into tattoos. I’m thinking of getting one, but I really want it to, you know, mean something."

"There is no significance," he says with a new edge to his voice. "I would be rid of it if I could, but the damned thing won’t come off. They make sure of that."

His inflection makes me pause. "You mean tattoo artists?" I ask innocently. "Because that’s sort of the point."

"No, I mean the – " Neville stops, his mouth compressing as though he’s trying to bite something back. He covers it up with an easy smile, but I can tell he’s annoyed with himself. When my eyes flick to his tattoo again, he shoves his sleeve down. "Are we done? I should be heading home."

"No," I say, deciding that it’s time to attack while he’s rattled. "What’s the real relationship between Vlad and Marisabel?"

His eyes widen. "That’s not . . . I don’t . . . they’re siblings," he finishes lamely.

"Right. Then what sort of company do Vlad’s parents work for that sends them on an extended business trip to Europe? And how are your parents okay with six teenagers living together? And what does Vlad mean when he says that he’s – "

He stands up so quickly that the student desk crashes forward. Before I can react, he leans toward me and grabs my hand, his grip crushing. "It was wonderful chatting with you," he says. "I mean it; I enjoyed our talk. But you should stop asking so many questions," he says. "Please."

And then he’s out the door before I can even ask him to wait.

I replay the interview on the drive home, cursing myself for being too aggressive and wondering about the tattoo and Neville’s mysterious "they." I think back to the tiny snippet I overheard that first day in the cafeteria, when they were at odds over the importance of going to Basic Skills; Vlad definitely acts as though he is the boss of something and an organization of some sort would explain why they all arrived knowing one another. As I pull into the driveway behind Caroline’s silver VW Bug, I brainstorm possibilities – a cult? A social experiment? A new low for MTV reality shows? – but all of them seem preposterous and none of them explain why his number-one priority upon arriving was to make a beeline for Caroline.

Which reminds me: The first order of business is to convince my sister to dump Vlad. Normally I try to avoid discussing guys with Caroline. When we were eight, I told her that the boy she had a crush on picked his nose and she punched me. But considering that dating Vlad seems far more dangerous than a few stray boogers, I’m going to have to try again. Still, I wish I could delay the talk until later, like after she’s eaten a tub of ice cream. Or better yet, after she’s been accidentally hit with a tranquilizer dart while on African safari.