Vampire Crush(5)
Author: A.M. Robinson

"You must go to everything," Vlad snaps. "Everyone goes to everything."

For a moment Neville looks as though he might protest, but then thinks better of it. "Very well," he says, looking around the cafeteria. "Where is – "

"I do not know. I will deal with him later. Go to class."

Neville’s mouth tightens, but he complies, and I’m a little disappointed that I won’t get the chance to knock two interviews off at once. After he’s disappeared through the cafeteria doors, Vlad turns to the two quarterbackesque boys with a look that suggests he finds Neville’s attitude unbelievable. They say nothing, just respond with matching smiles. Except for a chin dimple and their hair color – one black, one a dirty blond – they’re almost identical.

This is officially the creepiest clique ever. Not only do the new kids all seem to know one another, they –

No, I tell myself. No. According to Mr. Amado, my job is not to suspect, just to interview. Before Vlad has a chance to turn and talk to the other two guys, I walk up and tap his shoulder. He whips around, the suave grace from before replaced by a wary alertness. When his eyes flick down to meet mine, I notice that they are a dark gray.

"Hey! I’m Sophie," I say, holding out my hand, but he stares at it like I’ve just hauled my pet fish out of my pocket and suggested he touch it. When it becomes clear that he’s not going to shake it, I let it go limp at my side. "Okay. Anyway, I work on our school paper, and we like to do features on all of the new students. You know, the traditional stuff: where you’re from, favorite bands, what dead person you’d like to have dinner with . . ."

He snorts at this last one. God, this is embarrassing.

". . . that sort of stuff. I know it sounds boring, but if you want to pick a time, we can get it over with."

I wait. For the first time since I started this appalling introduction, he looks at me, really looks at me, from the crown of my head to the tips of my sneakers before meeting my eyes.

"No."

"What?"

"No, I think not," he says politely, and gives me a cool smile before turning his back and walking toward the exit. The two giants lumber after him wordlessly.

"I’m Caroline’s sister!" I call out, and then make a mental note to punch myself in the face for making the humiliation worse. But it doesn’t matter; the swinging door marks this conversation as over.

My next class is around the corner, so I allow myself a few moments of post-snubbing indignation before heading for the classroom. As I’m walking to the door I give my ego a reassuring pat by telling it that I don’t have to see him again. And I don’t, at least not until two seconds later, when he’s sitting in the front row of my English class with his long legs extended. I steel myself for a smirk, an arrogant chuckle, or some sort of recognition, but he’s leaning back in his chair, alternating between absently studying his fingernails and writing in the small black journal I first saw in the auditorium. (My guess? "Today I was a total douche for no reason. The End.")

Even though I’m one of the last ones in, there’s still an empty spot in the back row. It doesn’t take long to figure out why. A wave of floral perfume hits me like a truck before I’m even halfway there. It’s coming from the diminutive blond girl I saw leaving the cafeteria earlier, who is now sitting primly in the corner seat like the poster child for perfect posture. Of all the newbies, she wins the award for strangest outfit, having chosen a lavender floor-length skirt with a flouncing layer of gossamer ruffles and a fitted velvet jacket.

I check my chart. Good morning, Violet Martin. After Ms. Walpole passes out our semester syllabus, I make a bid for her attention. "Psst, Violet."

She continues to stare ahead, idly twisting one of her blond curls. I wait until Ms. Walpole turns to write the five steps to a good thesis statement on the board and then tap Violet’s shoulder.

"Yes?" Violet says, her voice strange and airy. First-day lectures are never anything to make you stand on your desk and thump your chest, but she’s achieved a new level of spaced out.

"My name is Sophie," I whisper to her cheek, "and I’m doing profiles of all the new students for the school paper. If you have a second after class maybe I could ask you a few questions?" I notice that her boots have hundreds of little black buttons and an intricate tangle of laces. "I know I’m eager to hear your fashion philosophy."

I get no response, unless you count how she fiddles with her hair and the locket around her neck. I try another tactic. "So . . . is that locket from your boyfriend?"

"No, it’s not," she hisses, and then collapses into a few dainty sniffles before pulling a lace handkerchief from her bodice to dab at nonexistent tears. A few people in front of me turn around to glare, worried that the noise will get them in trouble. I am about to tell them to mind their own business when Violet’s fingers clamp around my wrist.

"Can I ask you a question?" Violet asks, finally looking at me as she jerks me toward her and starts rambling in a breathy rush. "Let us say that you liked this boy. You liked him so much that you didn’t care that your family and friends said that it would end badly. You think he admires you as well, so you give him everything that he could ever want. But what does he do? Does he stay with you forever? No! He ignores you and goes off to live who knows where." Her voice cracks, and she lets go of my arm to flounce back into her seat. "I am at a loss," she hiccups, holding the handkerchief to her mouth. "Do you think I should give him a lock of my hair? Maybe he is unaware that I still care."

I look up from studying the little pink crescents that her nails have left tattooed on my arm. "No, that would probably freak him out."

"Then what should I do? What should I do?"

"Um, here." I hastily pick up the wilting copy of Seventeen that someone left under my chair. Pointing to a headline on the cover, I say, "Look! ‘How to Tell if Your Crush Likes You.’"

She grabs it out of my hands and flips through it wildly, mouthing the words as she reads.

"Yes, this may work," she mutters after a few seconds. "’Drool-worthy’? How repulsive. I may need some assistance with the language. Will you give me your address?" She lowers the magazine and looks at me expectantly.

"What about my cell number?"

"No. Address, please."

I’m torn – giving it to her might mean I end up with half of a "BFF" necklace and my fingers superglued into a pinkie swear. Neal, who has the desk in front of her, takes advantage of my hesitation and turns around.