Vampire Crush(6)
Author: A.M. Robinson

"You can have my address," he says, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that is more Charlie Chaplin than leering creep, especially when you take into account that the back of his sandy hair is threatening to cowlick.

"Pardon me?" Violet says.

"My address."

"I am not entirely sure that would be proper."

"Neal, stop it," I hiss, scared that I’m going to lose all of my previous progress if we continue down this road.

He ignores me. "Has anyone ever told you that you look like an anime character?" he asks Violet. "I kind of dig it."

"Neal!"

"Cowboy Bebop. Come over sometime and check it out."

Violet looks to me, helpless, as if genuinely confused as to what the proper response is.

"Neal, if you don’t stop I will kick your pocket," I threaten.

"But – "

"I will."

Looking more befuddled than scared, Neal turns around. Partly relieved – and yet partly offended that Neal so readily accepted me as a hamster kicker – I scribble my address on a slip of paper. Really, what’s the downside? If I can lure her to my house, I may be able to get her to concentrate enough to answer one or two questions.

My last class of the day is journalism, and while it’s usually my favorite, the nonexistent progress on the interview front has me worried. Sure enough, Lindsay’s already at Mr. Amado’s desk when I get there.

"I’ve talked to three of them already," she boasts as Mr. Amado listens with bemused patience. She’s about to say something else when she spots me lingering at the door. "Isn’t this project great?"

Sure, if you’re a sucker for torture. Why didn’t I get the chatty ones? I slump into the front row just as Mr. Amado shoos Lindsay away from his desk to address the class.

"Most of you stopped by to see me this morning, and I think we all have a good idea of our individual responsibilities for the first issue. We go to press in two weeks, so I’m not going to bore you with my classroom rules or make you share what you did last summer. Let’s get started." He points to Neal, who is busy drawing something on the back of his binder. Neal does the monthly comic strip for the paper and thinks that his class participation should end there. Mr. Amado, on the other hand, insists that he should try his hand at articles as well. Sometimes I think that their power struggles are the highlight of my life.

Mr. Amado walks over and takes a place in front of Neal’s desk, tapping the corner when His Boy Friday fails to look up. "Neal, what have you found out about the missing donated blood from the Back-to-School festival?" He shoots a glance toward Lindsay. "Students worked hard to make sure there was a volunteer component this year."

"Well, there was blood . . . ," Neal starts.

Mr. Amado’s eyes light up with hope. "Yes?"

". . . and now there is less blood."

Mr. Amado gives a tight smile. "You’re going to need more than that for your article," he says, straining to keep his voice encouraging rather than frustrated.

Neal goes back to shading the complex design he’s sketched on the back of his folder. "Isn’t this something for the police?" he asks, distracted.

"I wanted you to look at it from the student’s perspective, talk to the girls who manned the booth. They were there until eight that night."

"I did."

"Great!"

"They don’t know what happened."

Mr. Amado sighs. "Just do me a favor, Neal, and dig a little deeper. Please."

Neal salutes. "Righto, Mr. Amado."

Unappeased, Mr. Amado bends down to Neal’s level and starts to whisper encouraging threats, or possibly threatening encouragement. Lindsay takes the opportunity to lean over and study my closed notebook. Hers is already covered in scribbles. Editor-in-chiefly scribbles.

"So, what’s your angle going to be?" she whispers. I can spot the competitive edge through the friendliness.

"Why the new students hate me."

"What?"

"Never mind." The least I can do is act like I might have something to write down. I flip open my notebook and try to make conversation. "Have you met all of yours yet?"

"Almost," she says and turns the page. "Everyone except for James. Hey, do you want to maybe see a movie on Friday? There’s that indie cinema on Main Street that always plays cool stuff."

"I can’t," I say, still annoyed that she is beating me.

"Oh, okay. Well, maybe – "

"Mr. Amado’s on his way over."

Lindsay straightens in her seat while Mr. Amado strides toward us as purposefully as one can in loafers. Crouching down, he peeks at what we’ve written. I put up my hand as a shield.

"So," he starts, and then holds up a finger before Lindsay can speak. "I think I have a good idea about Lindsay’s progress; I’m interested in what the other half thinks."

The other half has no idea what to say. Put on the spot, I ask some of my actual questions. "Don’t you think it’s strange that they all seem to know one another? And think Michigan is charming?"

Mr. Amado doesn’t respond at first, just gives me a look akin to the one you’d give the homeless person who stands outside the grocery store shouting that there are aliens in the bread. If his mustache had fingers, it would be wagging one at me right now. "Sophie," he says. "I thought we talked about this."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lindsay shooting me covert sideways glances like she was once warned not to stare directly at a loser eclipse.

"I know," I say, "but – "

"We’re not investigating," he says. "We’re celebrating. Try it again tomorrow."

He raps the desk and walks away, leaving me to wonder why Neal’s curiosity is encouraged while mine is smashed into tiny little bits. I sink into my chair and draw circles in my notebook for the rest of the period while Lindsay rattles off all the juicy tidbits she’s collected about the two boys who were hanging around Vlad in the cafeteria. Their names are Devon and Ashley – a slap in the face to their obvious aspirations to be brick walls.

"They don’t speak all that much, but we managed," she says. "Do you know that they were in the circus when they were little?"

"Wait. You’re telling me that they’re mute circus people?" I ask, wondering if this is some great cosmic experiment: See how long it takes Sophie’s head to explode if we drop her in a vat of weirdness and continue to tell her that no, the soup she’s in is perfectly normal.

"Well, okay," Lindsay admits, "it’s sort of different. But it’s going to make a great article. Unlike Andrew Archer, who doesn’t want to talk about anything but dirt bikes." She closes her notebook. "What about Vlad? He’s yours, right? He seems interesting at least. A little show-offy. I can’t believe Morgan let him get away with that this morning."