Almost Final Curtain (13 page)

“Witch blood,” she said meaningfully.

I sat back down, feeling deflated. She hesitated, but joined me after a moment. The cheese on my pizza had congealed. I poked at it with one finger. It no longer looked appetizing. “If you’re trying to make a point, girlfriend, I’m not getting it.”

“Do you remember that zombie spell your mom put on you last semester?”

How could I forget? Mom had decided she couldn’t trust me to stay away from the vampire initiation rite, so she’d bespelled me into a sleepy haze. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Remember how strong you got after you bit me?” Though it had been Bea’s idea, I still felt a little guilty about munching on my sometimes best friend. She happened to catch my gaze, and I flinched under her scrutiny. I pretended interest in the mess on my plate. “The blood kick-started my vampire powers. You thought it might help break the spell and it did. So?”

“So did the same thing happen with Thompson?”

“Well, no, but I only got a taste,” I said, feeling more and more uncomfortable about this conversation. Just because I knew vampires drank blood didn’t mean I liked the idea.

“Have you drunk anyone else’s blood?”

“Um.” I looked away. I had, but it had been Elias’s. It was why we were engaged. It had also made me feel extra strong and had given my magic a serious boost.

“Okay, gross,” Bea said when I didn’t elaborate. But after a moment of consideration, she flipped her hair back. “Was it ... human?”

“Was what human?”

“The blood you drank.”

“No,” I said.

“Proves my point,” she said with a flourish.

The first bell rang, but I stayed in my seat. Everyone who hadn’t already done so took their trays to the conveyor belt. “What point was that again, Bea?”

She stood up, her paper lunch bag still crumpled in her fist. “You should ask one of ‘your people’ about this sacred hunt of theirs sometime. You’ll see that I’m right.” With that, she walked away, leaving me sitting alone at our table.

Great, now my head was really spinning. So not only did I have the talisman resurfacing, the breaking and entering I ordered Elias to do, and Nikolai’s game-changing something mysteriously illegal, but now I also had my BFF’s conspiracy theory to contend with.

And I’d forgotten to read today’s history chapters.

 

 

Because that’s just how it always goes, we had a pop quiz in history. I’m a pretty good guesser, so there was some hope for a C, but this day was shaping into a real humdinger, as my mom would say.

Where the hell was Mom, anyway?

Add that to my growing list of migraine-producing problems: an AWOL mom.

Worse, my honor guard was becoming much more obtrusive. One of them followed me into the bathroom between periods. Taylor even noticed them when we gathered at Bea’s locker before drama. “Have you noticed those creepy kids dogging you, Ana? There’s one now.”

We turned to look where she pointed just in time to see a stringy-haired mop disappear behind a row of lockers.

Bea and I shared a look. I didn’t like to lie, especially to Taylor, but I didn’t know how to explain them. “Uh, I guess I have a fan club.”

Okay, it wasn’t the exact truth, but they were into me—maybe not for my audition, but in my role as vampire princess.

Taylor crinkled her nose. Today her
hijab
was a print of one of Escher’s black-and-white puzzles where birds faded into fish. It was really cool. I was about to ask her where she found the fabric when she said, “You don’t actually talk to those people, do you? They’re so weird. And smelly.”

I felt a growl of protest building in my throat. Before my lips curled into a snarl, Bea took my hand and squeezed. I smelled the calming scent of woodsmoke. I got the hint. So I bit back the urge to explain to Taylor that as stinky as those kids might be, they were only looking after my interests. “Yeah, I guess,” I said, letting go of Bea’s hand.

As we headed into class, I caught Bea’s eye and gave her a quick frown to let her know I didn’t appreciate being the focus of her spell. She just shrugged and made a gesture with two fingers by her mouth.

Did she really think I’d drop my fangs that quickly?

The changes certainly had come up fast at lunch. Was Bea right? Had I become more vampire than witch? That was no good because what little magic I had came from harnessing the tension between the two parts of myself.

Mr. Martinez announced that the callback list would be posted tomorrow morning in the usual place, with the cast list on Monday. My stomach shivered slightly as it always did at the prospect of getting or not getting a part. Mr. Martinez also recognized that anyone who wasn’t exhausted from the late night last night was too distracted to learn anything, so he wheeled in the TV and put on some black-and-white movie starring Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant.

The movie was actually kind of interesting, so I let myself be distracted by it. For one hour, I didn’t think about auditions, vampires, talismans, AWOL moms, or crazy ex-boyfriends.

Too bad I knew it wouldn’t last.

 

 

The last thing I expected was for Thompson to be waiting for me after class. He was so tall that his head cleared the top of the row of lockers. As usual, he wore his letter jacket, a white T-shirt, and jeans. Once again, I was struck by the juxtaposition. How could a guy whose entire wardrobe consisted of one costume possibly be interested in theater?

“Why, if it isn’t Eliza Doolittle,” he said with the worst attempt at a British accent I’d ever heard.

“Oh, God, Thompson, stop!” Bea said with a laugh that we all joined.

His eyebrows drew together, making him look even more like a caveman than usual. “Lane said it was pretty good.”

“Lane lied to you,” I said. “He’s trying to make sure you don’t get the part.”

“Whoa. Tricky,” he said with an appreciative chuckle. It was strange how easily he slid in between Bea and Taylor to walk next to me as we threaded our way down the busy hallway. It should have felt odd, the three of us outcasts accepting this behemoth lumbering alongside me, close enough to brush fingertips, as one of our own.

People nodded a greeting to Thompson, and then gaped openly at the company he was keeping. I wasn’t sure if he was helping our popularity or hurting his own. But he seemed content to just walk along with us, not saying anything.

I was fairly certain this was one of the seven signs of the apocalypse.

“Hey, Bea,” Thompson said, turning to look at where she trailed a bit behind. “I just wanted to tell you I saw your audition. I think you have a good chance,” he said, his dimpled smile taking in all of us. “Honestly, I don’t know how Mr. Martinez is going to choose between the three of you.”

It was such obvious flattery I was almost more embarrassed to find myself blushing. So I covered by doing the usual theater talk. “Taylor has the best range, but Bea’s the most professional. You’ve had voice lessons, haven’t you, Bea?”

“Um, yeah,” she said with uncustomary modesty, “through extension classes at the U.”

“My dad won’t pay for that,” Taylor noted.

“My mom either,” I offered. “She doesn’t think theater is a viable profession, but it’s good on the college application, I guess, so she tolerates my interest.”

Everyone commiserated about that attitude.

“My mom thinks only fags do plays,” Thompson said. “Actually, most of my friends think that too.”

Okay, he just won the “Who had it worst?” contest, hands down. None of us had anything helpful to say. I was mostly still reeling from the fact that Thompson actually used the word “fags” unironically, instead of “gay guys.”

Taylor was the first to regain her composure. “I thought I saw half the soccer team at tryouts.”

“Yeah, but most of them were too chicken to actually sing. And you didn’t just sing—you danced too. You’re like
super
fag,” she teased, then snorted. “Except no one could deny the chemistry between those two.”

I caught Thompson looking at me the same time I glanced up to check his reaction.

“Yeah, that’s the spark,” Taylor said.

Looking away quickly, I blushed furiously. I was so busy not looking at Thompson that I almost ran into someone.

Bea and Taylor laughed. “Wow, you’re totally smitten,” Bea said.

“As if,” Thompson snorted. “It’s just theater magic.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, but I was glad we were at my locker and I could busy myself with getting the books I needed for tonight. It didn’t help that I could feel the heat of Thompson’s body standing behind me. Normally, we went on to Taylor’s locker, but I had to bail. The last thing I needed was to add “weird crush on Thompson” to my list of crap I had to deal with. So when I had everything together, I checked my cell. “Oh, man, I’m going to miss my bus. I’ve got to go. See you guys later.”

I took off before anyone could argue.

“She runs away a lot,” I heard Thompson say as I slid ahead of a group of freshmen carrying band instruments.

He was right. Yet, staying was just confusing and embarrassing given that Thompson didn’t seem to feel the same way about me. Anyway, I wanted to get home to check the news—as weird as that sounded.

 

 

When I turned the corner, I unconsciously scanned the street for a sign of Mom’s blue MINI. I only realized I was doing it because my heart skipped a beat when I mistook the neighbor’s similarly colored little car for hers. But it was too big. The wrong shape. There were no goddess bumper stickers covering the back. The moment my brain registered my error in perception, I felt this horrible tingling sensation in my gut.

Mom still wasn’t home.

My pace quickened. I dialed her cell and got the same message I’d been getting. It picked up so fast that I knew she didn’t have it turned on. “Call me,” I told it. “You’re probably running late, but I’m getting worried.”

I tried her office and got voice mail.

“Damn it,” I said, and hung up.

The mulberry tree near the porch hadn’t leafed out yet. Twisted and gnarled, its trunk reminded me far too much of a creepy skeleton. I hurried past. My shoes clunked hollowly on the wood planks. Should I really be this worried? Who would even know where she might be?

As I got the mail from the box and fished out my house key, I tried to remember the names of people she worked with. The problem was that Mom wasn’t tenured. She taught at a dozen different colleges as an adjunct. Plus, she ran about a million women’s spirituality groups, not only through the colleges, but also with local New Age centers and bookstores.

The fact that she was constantly busy had always been a plus before. It worked well with my theater schedule. But Mom liked to be home before me—something about “latchkey kids” and her generation. Anyway, she never took a class that would interfere with that.

Setting the mail in its usual place on the radiator, I flicked on the front-hall light. “Hello, empty house,” I said.

I didn’t even get much of an echo for a reply.

Kicking my shoes off onto the rag rug in front of the coat-tree, I headed up to my room. I was probably being stupid. After all, it had only been one day—maybe less. She’d driven me to tryouts last night. It was possible I was wrong about her not being here when I came home. Perhaps she’d just taken off ridiculously early this morning. If I tried hard enough, I could convince myself that it could have been the sound of the door slamming or her car driving off that woke me in the first place.

A predawn ritual with one of her crazy women’s groups was definitely a possibility.

As for tonight, Mom was running late, that was all. We’d have dinner as usual. The hitch in my breath was only from climbing all the stairs so fast. It was stupid to be worried about her. She was a grown woman and the Queen of Witches, for crying out loud. She was fine.

In my room, I fired up my laptop. There wasn’t much to do but wait, anyway. I might as well check the news. I googled “Minnesota Historical Society” and got a lot of noise. There were a few articles about the Smithsonian exhibit, but no headlines screaming about theft.

I surfed the local stations. The TV people all featured the same story about a bunch of drunk idiots who drove off the River Road, crashed down a sixty-foot wooded cliff to take a dive in the Mississippi, and lived to tell about it. Radio and newspaper covered all the international and national stuff, and whatever the governor was doing this week.

Giving up, I streamed the local radio station and was surprised to hear Nikolai’s voice. On Fridays they did a feature about the local club scene, and Ingress was in the studio. I turned up the volume.

The host asked Nik about the school play and their other upcoming shows. I listened intently for a while, impressed by how sophisticated and urbane he sounded. They played a live version of one of the songs I’d heard a dozen times, which was neat to hear, if only because it sounded somehow fresh, but then it was time for a commercial break. Digging through my backpack, I pulled out some homework I thought I could do halfheartedly while listening in.

I was skimming the history chapters I’d forgotten yesterday when the DJ asked, “So, now to the really important question: do you have a girlfriend, Nik? Are you spoken for?”

I froze.

There was an almost imperceptible pause. He cleared his throat. “I’m actually quite heartbroken at the moment.”

Stevie made some joke then about how Nik’s lovelorn state was great for the creative juices, and the conversation meandered back to safer topics like songwriting and the music business.

Closing my book, I stared at the computer screen as if trying to see Nikolai’s face through the airwaves. It wasn’t that I doubted his sincerity—not entirely, anyway. He’d been clearly trying to get back with me. And as Bea pointed out at lunch, I did have a tendency lately to let my vampire side out every time he made an overture, which served only to push him away further.