Vampire Crush(16)
Author: A.M. Robinson

I stuff the questions in my folder since I’m already late to journalism. Luckily, Mr. Amado is already in full newspaper mode and doesn’t seem to care. After making an offhand comment about being glad that I could join the class, he tells me that he’s about to start the progress check. I slide into my seat next to Lindsay, who is studying her folders with a queasy expression.

"Since your finished articles are due next Tuesday," Mr. Amado says, "you should have all of your fact-gathering done. Lindsay and Sophie, I’m starting with you. Let’s see it."

We pull out our info. I make a hasty excuse for the state of Vlad and Marisabel’s interviews.

"That’s okay," he says. "Today we just want the info. Lindsay?"

Lindsay hands over her typed responses, still silent. Mr. Amado flips through them and then frowns. "There are only three here. Have you talked to all of your subjects?"

She clears her throat. "I still . . . I still haven’t been able to find James."

"He hasn’t come to school yet?"

"The attendance records show that he was here today. But he wasn’t in my math class like his schedule said he should be." She turns my way. "The only new person was Ted."

"Ted?" Mr. Amado asks. "I must have missed him. I’ll look into it. But you should know that this might set you behind schedule. Good work, Sophie."

We both watch as he walks over to Neal and asks him whether or not he’s managed to expand on the fact that yes, blood had been stolen. I shoot Lindsay an apologetic look that she won’t return. Instead she concentrates on cleaning out her folders, lining up her papers with the precision of a drill sergeant before slipping them back in.

"Lindsay, I – "

"I’m going to work in back today," she says quickly, abandoning me to set up shop next to the computers.

I spend the rest of the period thinking of ways to apologize, working out elaborate fantasies where I play the Good Samaritan, the best of which is where I give a five-hundred-dollar donation to Greenpeace in her name and then let her know by spelling it out in cupcakes across her lawn. Deep down, however, I know that the only way to make this right is to admit that I lied, direct her to James, and let her yell at me. Five minutes before the bell rings, I ready myself to catch her as she exits the classroom, but she heads to Mr. Amado’s desk early. He scribbles something on a pink hall pass, and she’s out the door. I guess this giant rock of guilt will be camping out in my gut for a little while longer.

I stay in the journalism room after school lets out to work on my articles, spreading the responses from Vlad and Marisabel out on the table next to my computer.

Full name: Vladimir Roman SmithsonAge: The common age for one at this schoolHow many brothers and sisters do you have? What are their ages? Seven. Deceased.Favorite Color: GrayFavorite Animal: WolfFavorite Hangout: This is a stupid question.What are the top five songs on your playlist? This is a nonsensical question.Scar you’re most proud of and where it came from? Left arm, swordfight with my father.If you were a car, what car would you be and why? I am not a car, nor do I wish to be one.If you could only have one book on a deserted island, what would it be? The Prince and The Lost Daughter.When you were little, who was your favorite superhero? Casanova.Are you a morning or night person? Night.What’s the weirdest thing you eat at home? No comment.What is the greatest problem in the United States? Elitist groups.What one word would you put on your gravestone? Impossible.What do people like best about you? Whatever I tell them to like.

These bogus answers hardly seem worth the trouble, not to mention that I didn’t ask the dumbface what two books he’d take to a desert island. Marisabel’s are even worse. She answered most of the questions with "I don’t know" and the rest with doodled flowers. That’s it, I think, crumpling the pages into one tiny ball of suck. I’m done banging my head against this stone wall; I don’t care if I have to begin my article, "Vlad likes three things: fencing, himself, and killing off his siblings." I don’t care if I have to lie and – oops – report that Vlad likes finger painting with dolphin blood in his spare time. We’re now entering full investigative mode.

I spend the next few hours tweaking my data, fleshing out Vlad’s non-answers with anything I’ve heard floating around the hallways, not caring at this point how accurate this information is. By the time I look up from my computer, it’s already a quarter to six, so I shut down my documents and head to the front exit. The sun is still bright enough that the windshields of the few remaining cars in the lot wink light back at me. One of them is Vlad’s Hummer, its shadowy bulk looming behind my Jeep like a closet monster.

I’ve got ten minutes before James is set to show up – time to figure out who these people are, once and for all. After checking to make sure that the parking lot is deserted, I peer through the Hummer’s windows, but the tinting means I can’t see anything except for the light shining in from the opposite side. I tug at the handle in frustration, astonished when the door pops open. Unlocked. An invitation to snoop.

The first thing I find is a shopping bag full of clothes with the security tags still attached; some of them have rips down the side as though someone had tugged too hard while trying to remove them. Whatever else they might be, they’re definitely A-plus shoplifters, but that still doesn’t tell me enough. I need names; I need dates; I need anything that could pass as a cold, hard fact. I shove the dresses and pants back in the bag and check the glove compartment, but it’s empty; there’s not even a car registration.

I move to the back, cursing when the movement causes the heavy door to creak shut behind me. I find a week’s worth of unfinished worksheets on the floor and a small cooler nestled behind the driver’s seat. I’ve hardly seen any of them eat lunch, so it’s odd that they’d be packing snacks. I wrestle off the top, but it’s empty.

"Who’s with me?" says a dim voice. Vlad’s voice.

My blood turns to ice. I hit the ground and lie as flat as possible, praying that the tinted windows and large seats will shield me from view. There’s the scrape of feet against gravel and the soft thud of someone leaning against the car only inches from my head.

"The more we stand outside in the light, the worse it will be," Neville says impatiently, his voice vibrating through the metal behind me and making it hum.

"The car stays here as long as I do. Crack a window and wait in the vehicle or walk home. You choose."

My breath hitches. Don’t wait in the car. Please, don’t wait in the car.

"We’ll walk," Neville says, and I almost choke on the relief. "This is not wise. Especially if you think you are close."