Vampire Crush(37)
Author: A.M. Robinson

The good news is that it’s not a chance to reevaluate my flirting potential; the bad news is that now I know Vlad’s theme.

Bring your bathing outfits and throw caution to the wind! You are cordially invited to our Fall "Luau" this Friday, October 1st.Who:Vlad, Marisabel, Violet, Neville, Devon, and AshleyWhere:235 Preston Dr. (Map included)When:9:00 P.M.What:An end-of-summer pool party. No one will be admitted without a bikini (or for the males, if you must bring one with you, swim trunks).No RSVP NecessaryMandatory bathing suits? In October? Vlad is evil.

A small piece of paper is folded inside. "Hope you can make it!" says Marisabel’s loopy handwriting, and beneath that she’s drawn several hearts and written "Wink," which I assume is the fifty-year-old vampire version of an emoticon. At least this solves the problem of how to get into the party.

After I wedge it into my backpack, Amanda asks, "Are you going to that?"

I say yes at the same time that James says no. Amanda looks back and forth between us a few times before her eyes narrow.

"I mean, no one cool is going to be there. I wasn’t even invited." She turns to James. "We should go to the movies or something instead."

The wide-open hallway suddenly feels as spacious as a sardine tin. "Have fun," I say, shutting my locker and leaving before I can hear his answer.

I ignore the bathing suit situation as long as I can. The last time I went swimming I was eleven, and it was only after being promised a juice box, animal crackers, and my turn with the inflatable raft shaped like a dolphin. I am no longer that stupid. Or that fond of floating toys.

Still, knowing Vlad’s motive for throwing the party, I doubt I’ll be able to get in without showing skin, not even if I say "pretty please with A-positive on top." At 7:54 on the night of Friday, October 1st, I drag myself to Caroline’s door and knock with questionable enthusiasm. When it opens, Caroline has a phone cradled in the crook of her neck and a flat iron hard at work on her bangs. She waves me in with her free hand – that, or she’s trying to dry her nails. I choose to view it as an invitation.

"No, we’re not going to crash it," she tells her phone buddy with a note of finality. "Like I want to hang out in his dirty, musty house ever again." She graciously allows the person on the other end a few opinions. "Yeah, okay, I’ll see that. Meet you at the theater in thirty? Fab." After beeping off, she tosses the phone on her bed, where it bounces a few times before coming to a plush resting place between Grover and a nameless stuffed penguin. After fluffing her bangs and unplugging the flat iron, she finally speaks.

"What do you want?" she asks, arranging herself on the bed so as not to muss her strapless navy sundress and sandals that tie up the calf. She plays with the chunky beaded necklace around her neck, choosing to study it instead of me. Caroline has still not forgiven me for my "Vlad-related amnesiosity."

"Do you have a bathing suit I could borrow?" I ask.

Her eyes narrow. "You’re going to Vlad’s party," she says, more statement than question.

"Yes," I say, keeping things simple. I might actually have an easier time convincing Caroline that Vlad’s a vampire than explaining why I hate parties that have no purpose other than to drink things and mingle.

She studies me for a few seconds, her dilemma clear: She can stay mad at me or play clothes fairy. Lucky for me, the latter wins.

"It’s going to be lame, but okay," she says, hopping off the bed and crossing to her dresser. She flings open the second drawer. "What kind? One piece, two piece – "

"Red piece, blue piece?" I try.

Caroline is not amused, and for once her exasperation is probably justified.

After wading around in the drawer for a few seconds, she comes out holding two red triangles held together by a piece of yarn. In other words, something that looks more like a preschool craft project than a bathing suit.

"No way," I say. "Next."

She rolls her eyes but puts it to the side, digging around until she surfaces with two more options. One is yellow with big pink flowers blooming on the ni**les, and the other has "Flirt" written in purple block letters across the butt. You’ve got to be kidding me.

"I’ll take the red one, I guess," I say, holding out my hand. "You have no shame, by the way."

"I’ll take that as a compliment," she chirps and tosses it at me. "No, try it on," she orders when I make to leave. "We’re not the same size. You might have to be happy with the flower-power boobs."

Reluctantly, I step behind the door and do a quick Clark Kent. After tying the top around my neck, I step out to show Caroline. She makes a face.

"It would be nicer if you weren’t clutching your jeans and T-shirt over your chest like a big weirdo. Drop them," she orders. I unclench my fingers, letting my clothing shield fall to the ground. "That actually looks really nice on you, Sophie. Who knew T-shirts could hide that much boobaliciousness?" All of a sudden she squints. "It would look better with a tan and fewer freckles, but, well, you know . . ."

"Yes. I know." I pick up my wrinkled black T-shirt and drag it over my head before thanking her for the bikini.

She waves a hand in front of her face. It’s a throwaway gesture, but I can sense she’s starting to think about the injustice of my invitation, her non-invitation, and a world gone topsy-turvy. She chatters to make up for the tension as she goes to wrestle a purse from the mound of bags that line her closet floor.

"I have to meet Amanda at the movie theater," she says.

"Is James going?" I ask because I have absolutely nothing resembling willpower at all and should probably be quarantined for further study. But Caroline either doesn’t hear me or chooses not to answer.

"She wants to see that one about the zombies who eat New York or something," she continues, her voice still muffled. "Whatever. The main guy is hot. I just hope no one munches on his abs." She tugs on the strap of a gray suede slouch bag and pulls it free with one swift yank before turning to me with a serious glint in her eye. "Oh, and remember; you have to tell me everything that happens tonight. Everything," she repeats, and then gives me a bright, genuine smile before heading out the door.

Vlad’s place is part of an older subdivision, complete with sprawling grandfather trees and retired couples who are even older. When I drive through the twisting streets, the majority of the houses’ windows are already dark. Every so often I spot the flickering pulse of a television or a lone bedroom light, but for the most part, Shady Grove has closed up shop. Just as I’m turning the last corner onto Preston Drive, a raccoon darts out in front of my car, eyes glowing like iridescent marbles. I slam on the brakes, and it runs for the cover of a nearby parked car. It wasn’t even a close call, but my heart stutters. Thank you, nature, for putting me more on edge.