Vampire Crush(9)
Author: A.M. Robinson

"Your public will be disappointed," I say.

"I doubt it," he says. "A lot of things have changed." James pulls a lighter out of his pocket and starts to flick it on and off. I recognize the source of the flickering halo in the upstairs window. He looks at me with a small smile. "Turns out messages are a lot trickier with a lighter," he says as though reading my mind. "What was the signal for ‘come over’? Two long and three short?"

"Two long and one short."

"Nice memory," he says with a distinct hint of teasing, as though me remembering our long-ago code means something more than it does.

"Don’t get cocky," I warn even as he continues to grin. Flustered, I try to change the subject back to school. "What about your parents? How do they feel about you skipping?"

His smile vanishes immediately, and I realize what I’ve said. While my memory may hold on to stupid things from childhood, it doesn’t hold on to the important information. Like the fact that one day toward the end of my freshman year, I came home to find Marcie sitting at the kitchen table with a pen and a card. She wasn’t writing anything, just staring at the wall with a shattered expression. When I asked what was wrong, she told me that she had just found out that the Hallowells had been killed in a house fire a few months earlier. "I wanted to write James a letter," she said. "But then I realized that I have no idea where to send it."

Now James flicks off the lighter, his face dispassionate. "My parents are dead," he says, and then stalks back toward the house to sit on the porch’s first step and stare down through his knees like he’s going to be sick.

I don’t know what to do, so I just stand in the middle of the yard, my mind flooded with images of the Hallowells – his mother bending down to give us both red popsicles on a hot day; his father wearing a fisherman hat at the many barbecues they hosted; the glow of the candlelight on his parents’ faces when they set the birthday cake in front of James at all those parties I was forced to attend. Finally, I take a place next to him, wrapping my arms around my knees even though it’s far from chilly. "I’m sorry," I say softly.

"Not your fault," he says after a short pause. "I shouldn’t have snapped."

No, it wasn’t my fault, but I could have tried harder to contact him. After he moved, I used to check his Facebook page every so often, looking at all the unfamiliar names on his wall and wondering what his new life was like. As soon as we learned what had happened, I searched for him again, with every intention of sending him some sort of message, but his profile had disappeared.

"How?" I finally ask. "I mean, I know that there was a fire, but – " I cut myself off, realizing that the last thing he probably wants to do is answer a bunch of my nosy questions. "You know what? Never mind."

We sit in silence for a few moments, listening to the night bugs. He starts to pull absently at the tall grass creeping up alongside the stairs. "I wasn’t there," he says suddenly. "When it happened. I was playing video games at a friend’s house."

"Was it an accident?"

"That’s what the fire chief said. Faulty wiring. I was just lucky to be out of the house. Or unlucky," he notes darkly.

I don’t know how to respond to that. I want to ask him another question, but I tell myself it’s not the right time. Still, he must see something on my face.

"Just ask."

"How can you live here then? I mean, by yourself?"

"I turned eighteen in August. There was a lot of insurance money."

"Yeah, but a house? Doesn’t that take some sort of credit history?"

He waves a hand in the air. "Look around, Sophie. It was on the market for six months – I could have told them that I wanted it because my old one was full of dead bodies, and they still would have asked me when I could sign."

We fall into another uncomfortable silence. "So you’re not going to school?" I finally ask.

"Nope."

"Why?"

"Like it even matters anymore."

"What does that mean?"

He starts to say something, but then thinks better of it. "Who’s going to care?" he asks after a few seconds, less impassioned.

"The future people who have to talk to you." The jab rolls off my tongue before I can stop it, and I’m immediately wracked with guilt for my insensitivity.

"You’re just the same, you know," he says, and I am relieved to see that he’s smiling.

"Mean and a slow runner?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"Honest," he says, giving me a look I can’t decipher before pointing at my nose. "And you still have three freckles right there."

Caught off guard, I bring my hand up to my nose without thinking. Suddenly, I’m desperate to fill the silence with something that’s not my misbehaving heartbeat. "It’s late," I blurt.

James looks amused. "It’s nine o’clock."

I check my watch. "Nine-oh-seven," I say, starting to feel foolish. In my scramble to think of a topic of conversation that’s not my recent transformation into a giant spaz, my mind stumbles across a legitimate question. "Hey, if you’re not going to school, why are you registered?"

"I’m not," he says.

"Yes, you are," I insist. "My friend is supposed to interview the new students, and your name is on her list. Unless there’s another James that hasn’t been showing up."

He doesn’t answer for a few beats longer than natural. "It’s a popular name," he says.

"Yeah, with pilgrims."

He stands up abruptly. "It’s getting late. You should probably get back."

I stare up at him, baffled by this sudden about-face. He holds out a hand to help me up, and I take it without thinking. He pulls me forward quickly enough that I bump into his chest. When he apologizes, he sounds so frustrated that my only response is to mumble that it’s okay. I open my mouth to ask him if he’s sure he didn’t just register one day and then get sudden amnesia, but I catch myself when I see how serious his expression has gotten. Maybe he deserves his secrets.

"Please don’t tell your family that I’m here," he says softly. "I want to keep a low profile."

"Done," I say, knowing that the story of how I got caught peeping in his back window like a weirdo will be an easy secret to keep. After an awkward good night, I turn and head for the gap.

His voice calls out when I’m halfway there. "It’s good to see you again, Sophie."

When I turn around, he’s already back on the porch step, watching me.