Vampire Crush(36)
Author: A.M. Robinson

I wait a few moments before pushing through the swinging door. Unfortunately, my delay tactics were for naught; a gaggle of them are huddled in the center of the gym around a bright blond head that I know all too well.

"Vlad, I thought you said you were going to come to our game," pouts one of the team members that I’ve just crossed off my list.

He smiles. I’ve been doing my best to avoid him these past two weeks, but even I know that’s occurred less and less regularly since his kissy lips have failed to locate the girl among the cheerleaders. He’s been losing patience with teachers, and yesterday I even overheard him snap at Ms. Walpole for asking how his paper on Frankenstein is going ("It’s not, you harpy"). But now that he has an audience, he’s all sweetness and light. I watch as he clasps a hand to his heart.

"I know, and please accept my deepest apologies for missing it," he says. "I hope that the upcoming party my friends and I will be throwing is enough to make up for my absence."

"Party?" Marta says.

"Yes," Vlad says. "And there is even a theme."

She claps her hands. "Theme parties are my favorite. What is it? Twenties? Pimps and Hos?"

Vlad just raises his eyebrows mysteriously and puts a finger to his lips. "The invitation will say more. In fact," he says, making an elaborate show of looking at his watch, "they should be in your lockers now."

The girls look at one another and then head for the door – apparently I’m the only one who wants to vomit at the prospect of a Vlad-catered party. I can only imagine what the theme will be . . . "Show Off Your Birthmark Night"? As if I didn’t have enough to deal with already, Vlad has to learn how to multitask.

After verifying that the coast is clear, he pulls the small black journal from his back pocket. He’s been scribbling in it more than ever – in English, in the cafeteria, in the middle of the hallway – and I want to know what. I haven’t had the chance to try and squeeze more information out of the Sophie-friendly vampires. Marisabel has either been absent or too close to Vlad, and Violet seems to have taken a vow of silence; every time I try to speak to her in English, she just presses her lips together and whispers, "C’est une secrete."

Suddenly, Vlad looks up, and before I can think of a suitable hiding spot, he’s heading my way. Since that day in the lobby, he’s looked at me several times with a suspicious glint in his eye. When he’s about twenty feet away, I panic and let my feet walk in whatever random direction they would like to go . . . which happens to be halfway up the bleacher stairs. My flight instinct needs a better sense of direction.

Realizing that I’m trapped, I turn around and try to pretend that’s what I was intending on doing all along. I take a seat, but keep to the edge just in case I have to move quickly.

"What are you doing here?" Vlad barks up at me from the bottom step.

I hold up my notebook and do my best to feign a natural indignation at being harassed by what is supposed to be a near stranger. "Um, reporting on the soccer game. I was just going to jot down some notes."

"You were here yesterday outside the locker room as well. After the other meet concluded, the one where they run around in the forest for no reason."

"Yeah, I cover cross-country, too," I say, trying to keep my voice as even as possible. "What’s the big deal?"

Vlad continues to stare at me, lips pressed so thin that they are nothing more than a slash. The high lighting is hitting his cheekbones in a way that emphasizes the chalky quality of his skin. He’s not looking as debonair as usual – I wonder if he’s stretched himself too thin. But my observations are cut short when his face turns resolute and he takes the first two steps in one stride. My mind scrambles for something to concentrate on when a voice calls out from across the gym.

"Hold it right there, young man," Mr. Hanfield says from the doorway. "You are not supposed to be up there when no game is in session. Bleachers are not toys."

Vlad’s tenuous hold on his temper snaps. "How is standing on it treating it like a toy? And I am not a ‘young man.’"

Talking back only makes the small teacher puff up in indignation. "Come down right this instant," he says, scuttling over to look up at us sternly.

"Unlikely." Vlad stomps a few times, hard enough that the entire section rattles. "That is treating it like a toy."

Mr. Hanfield pulls a small white pad out of his front pocket. "We’ll see how cocky you are when you have detention. Stay right there," he orders and then turns to me. "What about you, young lady?"

"I’ve got no problem getting down," I tell him, resisting the urge to pat him on his sweatered shoulder as I head down the stairs. When I reach the door, I risk a look back just in case Vlad has already mumbo-jumboed his way out of detention, but he’s just scowling as Mr. Hanfield continues to lecture. Another close call – time to declare quits for the day and go home, try to write an article about a game I still don’t quite understand, and then take a nice bubble bath. All I need to do is pick up my backpack and . . .

As soon as I turn the corner I stop dead in my tracks. James is leaning up against the wall of lockers, and Amanda is leaning toward him. She’s in full cheerleading regalia, but she’s hiked her skirt up a few inches to show more tanned leg. I start to feel a little nauseated; I tell myself that it’s just because I’m sickened that James is helping Vlad, never mind that Amanda is the only girl I’ve seen him talking to for the past week (and, if the rumor of an impromptu make-out session with Vlad in the janitor’s closet is to be believed, already off the list). We still haven’t spoken.

"Remember when we went to homecoming in eighth grade?" Amanda asks and then giggles annoyingly. Determined to prove how much this does not affect me, I walk toward my locker and start to twist in the combination.

"Yeah, it was fun," I hear him say. "Danny got that limo and we kept throwing Coke cans out of it."

Amanda giggles again. "That’s not what I remember."

The door of my locker clangs as I slam it open. Oops. Out of the corner of my eye, I see James straighten up enough that Amanda has to step back or lose her balance. He says my name.

"Don’t mind me," I say as I reach for my bag. I’m so intent on not looking directly at him that at first I don’t realize that there’s actually something in my locker that deserves attention. An envelope is wedged in the slats, and the giant black seal on its back is staring at me like an ominous eye. Dear God, I think as I wiggle it out and tear it open, do not let this be another one of Violet’s quizzes.