Vampire Crush(29)
Author: A.M. Robinson

The next morning I oversleep, ruining any chances I might have had of hitting Mr. Amado with my proposition before the bell. By the time I make it to Mr. Baer’s pre-calculus class, he’s already so lost in Mathmagic Land that he barely turns to take my permission slip. Afraid that he might mistake my proximity as a desire to answer a problem, I scuttle to my seat in the back just in time to continue a worksheet conga line. After selecting one for myself, I hold it over my shoulder for the last guy to take. Nothing. I shake them. Still nothing. Intending to give the delinquent paper-taker behind me a lecture, I turn around only to come face-to-face with James’s smug smile.

"Nice of you to show up," he mouths.

I drop the stack of papers on his desk, pleased to hear a soft curse and the rustle of frantic gathering behind me. After a few moments, he taps my shoulder.

"What are you even doing in here?" I ask over my shoulder, disturbed by how happy I was to see him in the split second before I remembered his end goal. "This is a junior class. ‘Special’ or not, you’re a senior."

The squeak of his chair warns me that he’s moving closer, but I still don’t expect his low voice whispering in my ear. "The power of persuasion occasionally has its perks," he says. "I have your whole schedule. So what do you think we’ll be doing in art class?"

More fun with pinecones, probably, which serves him right. "So this is your plan?" I ask, twisting around. "Stalk me until I find her and then pounce?"

James looks annoyed. "I’m here because I told Vlad I would be," he says, leaning forward. "Remember?"

A flash of guilt clouds the anger. I do remember – no matter how annoying he’s being, he did stop Vlad from killing us in the woods.

"And have you ever thought that I might want to keep an eye on you as you try to smash Vlad’s hopes and dreams?" he continues. "You know, for protection?"

"That was a one-time thing," I insist.

"Sure it was."

The skepticism in his voice makes my blood begin to boil. "Okay, Saint James, are you still planning on making an after-dinner drink out of whoever we find?" I ask, and when he doesn’t answer, add a prim, "That’s what I thought," before turning to fake attention in the equations Mr. Baer is scribbling on the board. The chair behind me squeaks again.

"Have it your way," he whispers in my ear, "but just so you know, don’t expect to go anywhere without me following until this is settled."

Oh, really. I raise my hand, and keep it raised until I catch Mr. Baer’s attention in one of his checks to see if we’re listening. He looks surprised.

"Miss . . . McGee?" he tries.

"Can I please go to the nurse?" I ask sweetly. "I’m not feeling well. I thought I could make it, but I think I might vomit if I have to sit here for one more second."

Mr. Baer is overcome by a wave of teacherly indecision; since we’ve only had a week of class, I’m an unknown quantity. After a long pause, he finds the pad of pink passes among the stacks on his desk, scribbles something down, and puts it on my desk. "Do page eighty-three for Wednesday and feel better," he says and then turns back to the board.

I scoop up my books just as James raises his hand and speaks without waiting to be called on. "Mr. Baer, I’m not feeling well either," he says.

"Then put your head between your knees and wait for the feeling to go away," Mr. Baer says without turning around, obviously hip to the error of giving out two hall passes.

"But Mr. Baer," James tries again in a more coaxing voice. "If you just look at me – "

"No. You can go when Miss McGee gets back."

With an exultant look at James, I walk out, head held high and heart full of the delight that comes from seeing mister almighty vampire humbled by hallway rules. That delight stays with me until I realize that the last thing I want to do is go to see the nurse. The library is off-limits without a special pass, and sitting in the hallway will leave me exposed to any wandering teacher. I set off for the band hallway, deciding to check on the Lindsay situation. If she’s playing clarinet at eight in the morning, I’ll know that she’s at least in the recovery stage. Just as I’m turning the last corner, however, Ms. Kate’s squat form waddles into view. I duck into the nearest bathroom; it smells of pink soap and cheap paper towels, but thankfully seems to be empty.

I hop up onto the side radiator; might as well get some work done. I’ve just started paging through my yearbook when a choked sob swells up from the last stall, followed by the sound of furious scratching. If it didn’t mean falling into the clutches of Ms. Kate, my first instinct would be to flee. Caught, I try to ignore the escalating sounds of a meltdown, but when I hear the violent thunks of something striking porcelain, I can’t help it any longer. Padding down the aisle, I knock gently on the stall’s mottled green door.

"Are you okay? Do you need anything?" I ask. "A tissue, a wet paper towel . . ." I trail off, looking around the restroom for anything else that might be useful. A used piece of gum? The butt of a cigarette? Half of a sticker that says "Kitten Diva," whatever that means?

"Just leave me alone," a muffled voice orders between sobs. After a few moments the scraping sound resumes.

"Are you sure?" I ask. "It sounds like you’re trying to flush yourself down the toilet."

The door flies open, barely giving me enough time to avoid a sharp whack to the nose. Marisabel is crouching on the checkered tile, clutching a pair of scissors like they are the Holy Grail.

I can imagine the expressions that flicker across my face; there’s the "Crap, she is a vampire," followed by "Crap, I am not supposed to know she is a vampire," followed by "Crap, I think she just realized that I still know she is a vampire." Even if she couldn’t mind read, I’d be totally screwed. Marisabel raises a hand, and I flinch instinctively, expecting it to go for the tasty parts of my heart. Instead, she waves it dismissively.

"Oh, stop," she says, and then for the benefit of my baffled look, adds, "I don’t care if you know, and I’m not going to tell Vlad. I hope his idiotic plan fails." She turns back to the stall wall and resumes her work, a sprinkling of green paint chips falling around her feet. She’s done a decent job of scoring the graffiti away, but I can still see a few "Vlad + Whatever Girl with Bad Taste Was Here Last" rambling across the wall. Attacking one beneath the toilet paper roll, she rakes the scissors across the door so furiously that she bangs her elbow against the toilet seat.