Vampire Crush(2)
Author: A.M. Robinson

As for the building itself, nothing has changed since last May; it could still double as a penitentiary, albeit a penitentiary with a lot of jail spirit and a streamer budget. The narrow windows are more suited to a castle turret than a place of learning, and on a gray day it’s difficult to distinguish brick from sky. Unless it benefited from a surprise makeover this summer, the inside isn’t any less gloomy.

The front sidewalk is peppered with clumps of students desperate to soak up the final seconds before the last bell spurs a mad stampede toward the front door. Usually I cut through the gauntlet of chatter and make my way to class, but today I’m not hearing the normal buzz about summer pool parties, new cars, and mean bosses at Dairy Queen. Instead it’s about a group of new students who tried to shake everyone’s hands in the hallways.

"I heard they were foreign exchange students," says Danny Baumann, his sunny, all-American head towering above the cluster of football players to my right. "From Bulgaria, or someplace else in South America."

No one would be surprised to learn that Danny Baumann spent the entire semester of World Geography planning his fantasy football league. I know this because I spent the entire semester studying Danny Baumann. Ours is a secret love. I lean in to hear more, but Lindsay Allen cuts my eavesdropping short by hopping in front of me.

"Hey! Good to see you again," she says, startling me with a hug. Five-foot-nothing, she’s a red-haired dynamo who reigns over Student Council and anything involving wind instruments. She gives a mean rendition of Lady Macbeth’s soliloquy at Speech meets, and the rumor is that it once made the drama teacher cry. More frightening? She moved here less than a year ago, but she’s my competition for editor in chief. When she pulls away, she’s already talking a mile a minute.

"So Mr. Amado wants to see you before the bell if you have a chance. He thinks we should get a head start on the welcome-back issue of the paper," she says and then readjusts her thick-framed glasses.

Great. She’s beaten me to the newsroom, aka Mr. Amado’s journalism classroom. Her glasses also look very editorial. I’m losing this thing already.

"What does he want us to handle?" I ask, dreading the answer.

"The new student profile thing," she says. "It’s gonna be fun! And a little annoying. Hey, I called you a few times over the summer, but you never got back to me."

"Oh. Right. I was . . . busy." As excuses go, it’s fairly lame, so I try to make it better by explaining that the leader of the journalism camp was in love with homework. The truth is that I meant to call her – I did – but something always seemed more important. Thankfully the ten-minute bell rings, and Lindsay makes panicked noises about having three more teachers to see before running off and saving me from digging a deeper hole.

When I get to the journalism room, Mr. Amado’s busy writing his name and an "inspirational" quote in small, spiky letters on the whiteboard. The room is a haphazard jumble of desks, article clippings, and computers, many of which are so old that their keys have only the ghosting of letters. I love this place. I take in a deep breath and then start to cough. It also smells like rubber cement, even though they switched to electronic layout years ago.

Mr. Amado drops the marker in the tray and turns around. "Sophie! Nice to see you."

"Lindsay said that you wanted to discuss the welcome-back issue?" I say when I’ve recovered.

"Right!" he says, clapping once as he moves behind his desk. "But first, have a seat in the front row and let’s go over what our goals are for this year."

He points toward a desk in the front row. I sit, taking a moment to study the deranged art scratched across its top, including a sketch of what is either Mr. Amado in drag or an attractive female Bigfoot. I’m still debating when he rolls over in his chair, brow furrowed like he’s going to tell me I have brain cancer.

"I hope that you know what a great journalist and writer I think you are," he says. "Your work last year was exceptional. If my grade book didn’t tell me otherwise, I would have thought you were a senior. I’m honored to have you back on my staff."

Well, this is a step up from cancer. "I know that you want me on the new-student thing, but I actually had a great article idea for the first issue," I say, tugging at my backpack’s zipper and pulling out my story notebook. "Have you ever wondered how many of our library’s books have never been checked out? I bet if we compare our percentages to the state average you’ll see just how illiterate the student body really is. I mean, you can already see it, but just think – "

"Sophie," Mr. Amado interrupts gently and then tells me to listen. "Like I said, I love everything you’re doing, but our school paper is generally supposed to be less investigative and more . . ."

"Fluff?"

"Celebratory."

"Oh."

"It’s not that your article on the health code violations committed by lunch ladies in the cafeteria wasn’t stellar – it was – but I think we are ruffling too many feathers. I also think they spit in my soup when I’m not looking."

I have a snappy comment ready about progress and how it can’t happen if you’re afraid of lunch ladies, but I swallow it. Seeing that no response is forthcoming, Mr. Amado sighs, rolls over to his desk to grab a folder, and rolls back.

"We have a lot of new students this year. Eight in the junior and senior class alone," he says, handing over the folder. "I want you and Lindsay to handle them for the ‘Getting to Know Our New Tigers’ feature. You have four; she has four. Frame the profiles however you like, but just make sure it’s a human interest piece." The corners of his mustache lift in amusement. "You’re not trying to get them to confess their innermost secrets. If they shot a man in Reno just to watch him die, good for them. We don’t want to know about it."

This assignment sounds about as fun as naked paintball. A part of me thought being a junior would mean that I could stop scouting out the mall’s best frozen yogurt or asking random students if they liked the new Saw movie.

"Everything okay?" Mr. Amado asks.

"So we’re talking favorite foods, hobbies, colors, movies, pets, and hair products, right?" I ask, doing my best to stop sulking and fake excitement.

"It’s up to you," he says just as the warning bell rings. As he walks me to the door, he tries to be reassuring. "You’ll do great, don’t worry. And hey – I promise that your next story can be about how the members of the Green Team don’t recycle."

One can only hope.

Chapter Two

A few years ago the administration suddenly realized that forty-five minutes isn’t enough time to teach the history of Roman civilization or complex math. Now we still have eight classes, but we only go to four of them in a day. This means that savvy planners can finagle days without vectors, formulas, equations, decimals, or any other mathematical things designed to crush one’s spirit. This year I’ve arranged it so that I have two art classes in a row, then English, then back to Journalism with Mr. Amado. First up is Drawing II with Mrs. Levine, a perpetually unhappy woman who is rumored to have dated all three of the gym teachers at once. No one knows the whereabouts of Mr. Levine. Some say that she ate him.