Vampire Crush(42)
Author: A.M. Robinson

She either misses my tone or chooses to ignore it. "Of course. This is much more fun than that dusty old farmhouse! Why? You don’t want James to stay?"

If that isn’t the million-dollar question. It’s not something I want to contemplate, so I try to change the subject. "Violet, about Neal – "

"I am aware that he is a little strange," she interrupts, "but I firmly believe I can get him to stop carrying that rodent around in his pocket."

"It’s not that," I say, choosing my words carefully. "In the past, you may have been a little hasty with your . . . gentlemen friends."

"What do you mean?" she asks, starting to frown as her swinging feet go still. Ominously still.

"I mean, well . . . you like Neal a lot, right?" I ask, plunging ahead despite my better judgment.

"Oodles."

"Then perhaps you should try something different this time," I say.

"And what do you mean by that?"

I check to make sure that the coast is clear before I delve into the Monster Mash portion of this conversation. When I’ve confirmed that it’s just us here in this kitchen – a kitchen that is feeling more and more claustrophobic by the second, I might add – I say, "I know that in the past you have turned your boyfriends into vampires, and I am wondering if maybe you should try not to do that with Neal."

She gives a dainty sniff. "You don’t have to say it like it’s a dirty word."

"What? Neal?"

"No," she corrects. "Vampire! There are quite a few people who might like to be one of us. I think they are called Erica," she adds, naming our school’s resident Goth. "And besides, I cannot make him unless he agrees."

"Really?"

"Well, that is the common practice. But sometimes I do cheat a little and ask vague questions. Like ‘If you were accidentally stabbed in the stomach several times, would you want to live?’ And if they say yes, then I can reasonably assume that they would like to be a vampire, because we are the only beings who would survive that. See?"

Her logic leaves me speechless. She takes the silence as my assent.

"Lovely, it is settled. I am going to find Neal now." She hops off the counter, but her tone still makes it sound like a threat. Before I can tell her to wait, she knocks into my shoulder as she brushes by me, hard enough to knock me into the refrigerator door. This is swiftly spiraling out of control.

"What would Seventeen say?" I call out, desperate to regain some leverage.

She stops. "What do you mean?"

"I read an article once about how you shouldn’t try to, er, change your boyfriends?" I try. At this point I am just treading water, but Violet seems to be considering it.

"I may have read this article," she says finally. "There was a story about a girl named Amy whose boyfriend was some sort of athletics person but she wanted him to like jazz."

"And?"

"And ultimately it tore them apart. It was very tragic."

"See?"

"Perhaps," Violet says, trying to be arch and coy, but I can tell that for now, at least, I’ve managed to save Holland with my thumb.

"Promise me that you won’t turn Neal," I say.

"But what if – "

"If you don’t," I say, "I’m going to have to warn him. And I really don’t want to have that conversation. I’m getting enough of a name for myself as it is."

Her face falls as she bites her lip. "I like him, Sophie."

"Then promise," I insist.

There is a brief pause, and I fear that I have pressed my luck too far. But then Violet flounces over to stand by my side, pulling up her toga when it threatens to slide off her shoulders.

"Very well!" she says, perky once again. "What do I have to sign?"

"No contract necessary. Just your word," I say. I would do a blood pact if I didn’t think it would be an invitation to snack.

"You have my word," she parrots gravely, and then leaps toward me for a hug. "Oh, I am so glad we are friends now!" she exclaims and then pushes me back to stare into my eyes. "Please endeavor not to steal Neal."

"No worries there, I promise you."

"This is going to be so fun! Do you want to come over for tea tomorrow? I mean, I cannot have any, but I’ll make some for you!"

"Let’s take it one day at a ti – ," I begin, but stop when Violet’s fingers dig into my shoulders.

"Go to the pantry," she says, urgent all of a sudden.

"Huh? Why?"

"Vlad is on his way over here," she hisses, "and he suspects that you know more than you should." Her eyes widen as she takes in my outfit. "You are also improperly attired for his party."

She pushes me toward the slatted doors and opens them with a free hand. The odor emanating from the pantry is foul.

"But – "

"In," she insists. "I will come retrieve you when it is safe. You may thank me later," she whispers, and then, with one swift shove, closes me in the pantry. The inside is just as rank as you’d imagine a small, unused, and unwashed room to be. The empty shelves stack all the way up to the ceiling, and in the weak light that squeezes through the slats, they look vaguely skeletal. A mildewed mop stands forlornly in the corner behind me like a vengeful ghost from a Japanese thriller. This better save me from certain death; otherwise I’m stuffing Violet in the oven as payback.

I peer through the gaps just in time to see James enter the kitchen from the other door and tap Violet on the shoulder. She yelps. It takes two seconds for her flustered expression to turn flirtatious as she looks down at the floral tent she’s wearing and asks him if he likes it.

"It’s lovely," he says. "Have you seen Sophie?"

"Yes!"

"Good. Where?"

"Have you met my boyfriend?" Violet asks, apropos of nothing. "I am speaking of my new boyfriend, of course. He should be by the refreshment table. Eating cheese doilies."

"I’d love to meet him – later. Right now I’m looking for Sophie," he says, stretching out my name until it sounds like two distinct words. "Where is she?"

Holding a finger to her lips, she points to the pantry.

"Why is she in the pantry?" James asks before his expression melts into horror. "Violet, what did you do?"

"Nothing! I am trying to help her. Quick! Vlad is coming."

James’s eyes widen, and he jogs toward the door. Before I can fashion a NO BOYS ALLOWED sign, he’s opened it, closed it, and is standing in front of me. His body blocks most of the light, so I can’t see the expression on his face, but I can feel him looking at me, even though he doesn’t say anything. I try to think of a joke to cut the tension, but the only things that come are of the knock-knock variety. ("Knock knock." "Who’s there?" "A steadily shrinking pantry!" "A steadily shrinking pantry who?" "Get out, please.")