Vampire Crush(3)
Author: A.M. Robinson

She gives us the usual first-day speech – don’t eat, don’t shout, and don’t knock over any of the expensive paints or your parents will pay – before she plops bowls of pinecones on our tables.

"Still Life with Pine Cones. Go," she barks and then slams her office door.

Not surprisingly, the glamour of drawing pinecones wears off quickly. After glancing back to check that Mrs. Levine is still hiding, I slip out the folder from Mr. Amado and find a list of the new students’ names and a copy of their schedules inside.

Marisabel JonesViolet MartinNeville SmithVlad Smithson Drunken baby naming is a very serious problem, I think as I flip to their schedules. I half expect to find them signed up for Defense Against the Dark Arts, but their classes are normal. I have English with Vlad and Violet, and French with Marisabel. It’s a start. The schedule I’m sketching is just starting to take shape when a shadow falls over my page.

"Pinecones, Miss McGee?" asks Mrs. Levine.

"Yep. Abstract ones."

"Cute. But this one’s a realistic still life, okay?" she says before wandering back into her cave.

Five minutes before class is scheduled to end, the intercom begins to crackle, and Principal Morgan’s voice reminds us that next period will be replaced by First Day Assembly. When the bell rings, I grudgingly gather my things and trudge to the auditorium.

By the time I push my way through the heavy wooden doors, most of the seats are taken. The back rows are dominated by the students in oversized band T-shirts who try without much success to hide earbuds beneath their shaggy hair; Caroline and crew hold court in the front. Usually they are the center of attention, laughing about nothing and jumping back and forth over the rows while the rest of us watch.

Today, however, their heads are turned to the side. I follow their gaze to the auditorium’s right wing, where a tall blond boy is leaning against the stage. His features are sharp – a long nose, highly arched eyebrows, and slicing sideburns. Every so often he uncrosses his arms to tug fastidiously at the cuffs of his tailored black shirt. It’s a strange gesture, as is the way he tilts his head whenever someone in the front row speaks to him. He must hear the whispers, now at a fever pitch, and yet he keeps his gaze trained on the row of students before him, seemingly oblivious to the five hundred pairs of eyes dissecting his every move. But now and then the corner of his mouth twitches as though he’s fighting off a smirk.

Ten to one he’s a new student – hopefully one of my new students. Editor in chief, here I come.

The heavy curtain begins to ripple, and Principal Morgan backs onto the stage, still barking commands at a helpless AV Club hopeful. Realizing that the show is about to begin, I slip into the nearest open seat a few rows back before anyone can point me out to Ms. Kate, the terrifying teachers’ aide, who may or may not be 137 years old. I still have nightmares about the day she stood behind me in the lunchroom until I finished all of my peas.

The seat happens to be next to Neal Garrett, who’s nice enough in an "I went to space camp this summer" way, but who brings his hamster to school at least once per year. The way he’s murmuring to the left pocket of his khakis right now makes me think that today is the day.

"Good morning, students," Principal Morgan says from on high, and then sets to smoothing her hair as she waits for the microphone to cease whining. Satisfied her bun is scraped high enough to pull the edges of her eyebrows up demonically, she continues. "I’d like to welcome you to another year at Thomas Jefferson High and to remind you that it’s time to put away your summer brains and bring out your thinking caps." She mimes putting on a hat. I hope that Neal’s hamster bites me and gives me a strain of rabies that will kill me quickly.

The rest is familiar stuff: our sports teams are great, good grades are great, cle**age is bad, short skirts should be burned immediately. By the time she gets to the evils of graphic tees, most of her audience has checked out, either staring blankly ahead or studying their crotches with great interest. I glance at the new kid to see how he’s taking it, expecting to find the same glassy-eyed condition that has infected everyone else around me, but instead he’s bravely sitting on the arm of an aisle seat and scribbling furiously in a small bound notebook. Every so often he looks up as though afraid he’s missed a stray word. One of the teachers tasked with policing the crowd approaches, face stern, and says something in his ear, but he just waves her away impatiently. The teacher tries again, and this time he turns to look at her directly. I can’t see what he says, but after a few seconds she backs off.

"So, in conclusion," Principal Morgan drones on, causing my ears to perk up in the misguided hope that she’s reaching the end of her speech, "pointy shoes will no longer be allowed due to an unfortunate incident at the end of last year. I will determine what is pointy and what is not." She clears her throat and shuffles a stack of note cards. "Now, please be aware that we have a bumper crop of new students this year, and I hope you will welcome them and help them learn our rules." She moves on to the next card and announces that she will be recapping proper lunchroom decorum, but stops when something in the front row catches her eye. The new boy is taking large, purposeful strides up the staircase onto the stage.

The auditorium groans. Last year’s assembly ran over two hours because of a skit where a student pretended to need the principal’s help reading Thomas Jeff’s code of conduct. Some people get annoying pop songs stuck in their heads; I get dialogue from "The Code and You." ("Gee, but is copying off Wikipedia really plagiarism, Principal Morgan?") She’s obviously recruiting the new students early.

But Principal Morgan doesn’t seem to be in on the skit. "What are you doing? Go back to your seat this instant!" she snaps, clutching the head of the microphone, but the boy doesn’t stop until he reaches the podium. Ignoring the principal’s stuttering, he covers her death grip on the microphone and catches her gaze with a smile.

"May I have the floor?" he asks, the microphone picking up enough that the question echoes. There’s a precise quality to his speech that sharpens each word.

Principal Morgan sputters something about this being First Day Assembly, and the boy smiles encouragingly. Disconcerted, I look to Neal to see if he is registering the weirdness, but he is occupied with taming the wiggling bump in his lower pocket.

"Everything’s fine," Principal Morgan says suddenly, and the few teachers who had pushed forward in anticipation of being backup retreat as she folds her hands in front of her and gives him the floor.

The boy’s lips quirk as he eases behind the microphone. "I’d like to introduce myself," he says smoothly before another echoing rap of footsteps comes from the side stairs. His smile falters when he sees that a willowy girl has taken the stage and is now crossing to stand by his side. She is gorgeous in a dark, moody way, with thin black brows and long chestnut hair that breaks into a natural wave at her shoulders. If ever there were a girl meant to sit in a smoky cafe and tell you about the guinea pig that died tragically when she was four, it’s her.