Dance With a Vampire (5 page)

The only good memory of that night was Alexander and me clubbing it up in Dullsville’s gymnasium—plastic icicles and snowflakes hanging from the ceiling, fake powdery snow covering the floor, while artificial snow softly sprinkled down from the rafters.

“So what do you want to ask me?” he continued.

“I want to know…”

“Yes?”

“If you’ll go with me…”

“Spit it out.”

“…to prom.”

Alexander paused, his brow furrowed. Then he brushed his flopping hair away from his face. His silence was punctuated by chirping crickets. It seemed like they were waiting for his answer as much as I was. “But you’re only a sophomore,” he stated, confused.

I’d fantasized about him responding yes, I’d imagined him saying no. I didn’t envision this.

“Everyone in high school can attend,” I told him. “Lucky me. Instead of not being asked for two years, I can not be asked for four.”

“No one invited you?” he asked, shocked, then clearly relieved. “Good, because if some dude stole you away,” he said with a grin, “I’d have way more bite than Jagger and Valentine combined.”

I shook my head. “You don’t want to go, just say it!” I turned away from him.

Alexander gently pulled me back toward him. “I thought I’d said yes.”

“But you didn’t.” I frowned.

“Raven, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

My heart melted. “That’s what I told Becky you’d say!”

I reached my arms out and gave him a huge hug. He picked me up, swung me around, and gave me a long kiss.

“Gross!” Billy Boy exclaimed, appearing on the treehouse deck. “What are you two doing here?”

Alexander released me from our embrace. I straightened out my shirt, flipped my hair back off my shoulder, and wiped my black lips.

“Have you seen Valentine?” I asked.

“No, he should be here by now,” Billy Boy replied. “I don’t mean to be rude, but this is not a love fest. New rules…This treehouse is for guys only. No girls allowed.”

“Henry, can you unlock the locks?” I asked, ignoring my brother’s remarks.

“So you can make out?” my brother sneered.

“No, creep. I want to show Alexander the stellar view.”

“Man, everyone is interested in your treehouse,” Billy said, crossing his arms. “Maybe you should sell tickets.”

“You’re right,” Henry said. “Of course I’ll let you in, but it’ll cost you.”

“Cost me?” I scoffed.

“I get ten percent,” Billy Boy chimed in. “After all, it was my idea.”

“Five bucks,” Henry said firmly.

“Five dollars! You’ll pay
me
five dollars for not kicking your—,” I said, lunging toward the nerd-mates.

“Here,” Alexander interrupted, grabbing my arm with one hand and reaching in his back pocket with the other. He pulled out his wallet and handed Henry a ten-dollar bill.

Henry inspected the money as if he were looking for drying ink.

“It’s real,” I said. “Give us the keys.”

Henry pulled out his cell phone and intensely pressed a seven-digit number.

Alexander and I glanced at each other curiously.

We heard a ringing coming from the doorknob. The locks popped and the door creaked partially open.

Henry stood proudly gazing at his handmade gadgetry.

I started for the door, but the nerd-mates followed me.

“You guys wait here,” I ordered. “You didn’t buy tickets, we did.”

“It’s Henry’s treehouse.”

Alexander reached into his wallet and pulled out a five. “This should cover a private tour.”

Henry quickly put the money into his chinos pocket. “No kissing, disrobing, or touching anything besides the telescope,” he ordered. “I just assembled it.”

I rolled my eyes.

“We’ll be standing outside the door,” Billy Boy warned.

I tiptoed inside, Alexander following closely behind me.

The folding tables were still lined with beakers and petri dishes. Henry’s telescope was standing next to the front window. The black curtain, separating the treehouse into two rooms, was closed. The first time I’d pulled the curtain back, I’d found Jagger’s stickered coffin and Luna’s pink one. Those had been removed when Alexander and I inspected it a few days after the Graveyard Gala. This time, I wasn’t sure what I would find.

I took a deep breath and yanked back the curtain.

I found an empty room.

What was he searching for?

There must be something lurking inside the treehouse that we didn’t discover when we’d come to see that Jagger and Luna had gone.

“I guess Valentine’s not staying here,” I said.

“Maybe he plans to,” Alexander suspected.

In the corner, a small closet door was slightly ajar. I reached inside and found a cardboard box hidden in the shadows. Perhaps it was the candelabra, pewter goblet, or Luna’s gothic makeup. Or more likely jars of molds and spores to be examined under Henry’s microscope. I peered inside and noticed rolled-up parchment paper.

I unwound the rubber band and quickly unrolled them. It was a stack of graveyard etchings, like the ones Jagger collected from graveyards he’d been to and used as grim artwork to decorate the treehouse, the abandoned mill, and his apartment at the Coffin Club.

“Jagger must have left these behind,” I concluded.

“Time’s up!” I heard my brother call.

I didn’t even have time to read the etchings. I rolled them back up, rewound the rubber band, and stuck the papers underneath my shirt.

I pulled back the curtain and found Henry and Billy Boy glaring at us like Alexander and I were in trouble.

“What’s that?” Henry asked in an accusatory tone.

“What’s what?” I asked, faking shock.

“Stuck under your shirt,” Henry accused.

Reluctantly, I pulled the rolls out. “You mean this? Just a scrap of paper.”

“Those are my maps of constellations!” He extended his hand. I had no choice but to give him back his papers, even though they weren’t maps. Henry pulled back the curtain and placed the rolled-up etchings in a small closet and locked the door.

At that moment, we all heard a group of dogs barking off in the distance.

Suddenly a chill was in the air. Alexander seemed distracted.

He stepped out onto the treehouse deck.

I pointed the telescope toward the front window and peered through. The image of Henry’s street was blurry, but I could just make out a white-haired boy staring straight at me.

I gasped and quickly pulled the image into focus. The boy, a miniature version of Jagger in a white T-shirt and oversized black shorts, was speeding away down the street on a coffin-shaped skateboard.

6 Gothic’s Orders

“Stay away from Valentine,” I commanded to Billy Boy when we walked through our front door. “He’s trouble.”

Billy Boy rolled his eyes. “Just because he didn’t show? Something must have come up,”

he surmised. “Besides, I’m sure he’s just lonely. I’ve never seen him at school, so he probably needs a friend,” he said, stopping at the foot of the stairs.

“It doesn’t matter; you have a friend already.”

“You’re not my boss.”

“Running around with him can lead to all sorts of mess.”

“How do you know? You don’t even know him.”

“I can just tell.”

“Why, because he has tattoos and wears black? You’re judging Valentine, just like everyone judges you. Just because he has black fingernails doesn’t mean he’s a monster—that’s how you’ve defended yourself for years. And now look at you, behaving just like the town reacts to you.”

Billy Boy would’ve had a point if Valentine wasn’t a vampire.

Even so, maybe my brother was right. Maybe Valentine was more like Alexander than Jagger. Maybe I was making assumptions that weren’t fair.

“The day you start listening to others is the day I start listening to you,” he said, and stormed up the stairs to his room.

“What’s going on?” my mom asked as I entered the kitchen to find her wiping off the countertop. “I heard you two shouting.”

“Nothing,” I replied, opening the refrigerator.

“One minute you’re insisting we include your brother at dinner, the next you’re yelling at each other.”

“I thought that was normal,” I said, grabbing a soda.

“I guess it is…,” she admitted.

I closed the refrigerator door. “I have some news,” I said. “I’m going to prom.”

My mother’s face lit up as if I were a twenty-five-year-old woman announcing my engagement.

“Congratulations!” she exclaimed, hugging me hard. “We’ll have to buy you a dress and shoes.”

“That’s not necessary,” I said, twisting off the plastic bottlecap. “I’ll find something at the thrift store.”

My mother wrinkled her nose. “You’ll be attending prom, not a nightclub. We’ll get you something beautiful to wear that isn’t torn, adorned with staples, or riddled with safety pins.”

That’s exactly what I was afraid of.

I’d finally seen Valentine—even if it was only for a moment through a telescope. As I tried to finish my language arts essay, my mind was distracted by the eleven-year-old vampire. I imagined what he wanted at the treehouse—a hidden treasure, Jagger’s leftover blood supply, a place to lay his coffin? I also envisioned all the places he could be speeding off to on his skateboard—Dullsville’s cemetery, a hidden sewer, or an abandoned church. And most important, I wondered when I’d see him again.

The next day, after the second bell before language arts class, Becky was reviewing her completed essay, while I was trying to keep my weary eyes open long enough to finish mine.

Our teacher, Mr. Kensy, a dour man with a devilish mustache, was taking attendance when the announcements came on.

“Viva las Valentines,” a perky teen girl’s voice began over the classroom loudspeaker.

“Prom is just around the corner. Don’t forget to purchase tickets at the gymnasium door during lunch period. Also cast your ballots for Prom King and Queen. His and Her Majesty will get a spotlight dance and a picture in the
Chatterbox!”

Our class treasurer, a blond with a bob, wearing a pink-and-white-striped polo shirt and jeans, rose and shyly walked down the classroom aisles, handing a red valentine to each student.

Becky began to scribble pensively, as if she were voting in her first presidential election.

As the other students whispered and wrote down their choices, I quickly filled out my form.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” I said to Becky when I’d finished.

Becky nodded eagerly.

I held out my valentine—next to King I’d written “Matt Wells,” and next to Queen I’d written “Becky Miller.” A huge smile lit up my best friend’s face.

Becky showed me her ballot. Next to King she’d written with perfect penmanship

“Alexander Sterling.” Next to Queen it read “Raven Madison.”

“I like the sound of it,” I announced. “But Alexander doesn’t attend our school.”

We folded our ballots and as the treasurer walked back up the row we stuck them in a homemade aluminum-foil-covered box resembling something children make in elementary school.

“We each got one vote,” I said proudly. “Now we just need three hundred ninety-nine more!”

My mom was so overjoyed that I’d be attending prom, she ducked out of work early, picked me up from school in her SUV, and drove me to Jack’s department store.

Jack’s department store was originally owned by Jack Patterson’s father and was now run by Jack, a handsome crush-worthy guy five years my senior. When I was twelve, I’d snuck into the Mansion for him so he could pass an initiation for his high school buddies. He remembered me ever since and always wore a smile for me when I visited the department store.

Jack’s sold everything from socks to scooters, Fiestaware to Waterford crystal, and generic wallets to Prada purses.

My mom and I entered the store, breezing past the linen department. Designer towels in every color on an artist’s palette were neatly stacked on white shelves.

Focused on a fashion mission, my mom headed straight for the escalators.

“Juniors are on this floor,” I instructed, pointing past Bedding.

“We’re going to Juniors Boutique,” she said.

I’d hardly been in the Juniors, much less Juniors Boutique. We rode the ascending escalator, peering down on shoppers perusing fine jewelry.

We reached the second floor, walked past Designer Women’s Petites, and arrived at Juniors Boutique. Cashmere sweaters, designer blouses, and jeans were perfectly displayed.

Anorexic mannequins flaunted size zero skirts and hundred-dollar tank tops.

About a dozen or so girls and their mothers were picking through the rows of dresses—

pink, purple, violet, gray, red, green, lavender, black, some with rhinestones or lace, plunging necklines or conservative ones, sleeveless or strapless, floor-length or knee-length hems.

Each daughter was a Xerox copy of her mom. Except for our brunette hair, which my mother regularly colored, my mom and I appeared to be polar opposites.

One by one, my mother pulled dresses off the racks until she had two armfuls. One by one, I glanced over dresses and moved to another rack, empty-handed.

A seasoned sales manager, wearing a name tag that read MADGE and exuding the confidence of a sea captain effortlessly managing a vessel on the high seas, approached my mom.

“Here, let me take those,” she said. This obviously wasn’t her first prom season and it wasn’t going to be her last. “I’ll start a dressing room for you.”

We followed the woman into the dressing room already flooded with prom babes strutting their gowns like they were on a Paris catwalk.