Fangs for Nothing (Vampire Hunting and Other Foolish Endeavors) (3 page)

Chapter 3

“Herbert, wake up.” Grandma pulled open the curtains to
both my bedroom windows, and the light of early morning came flooding in.

“Gah
,” was all I could manage while quickly burrowing my face under my pillow so my retinas wouldn’t be burnt to a crisp.

“Stop being so dramatic,” Grandma said in her most we-need-to-make-something-of-this-day voice. “I need you to take me to the market.”

“Buufff,” I groaned, knotting my body into a ball of protest.

“
None of that.” Grandma grabbed the sheet that I had twined around my legs and started yanking on it. “Come on, now. You know I like to get there early.”

“Al
l right, Grandma. Fine. I’ll get up. Just give me a minute,” I groused.

“Thank you, Herbie,” Grandma cooed. “I’ll go fix you some breakfast.”

Sighing, I hauled my carcass out of bed. When Grandma said she wanted to go to the market, she didn’t mean just the local grocery store. She meant the West Side Market in Ohio City. It’s this massive building that looks more like a place where they used to house zeppelins than a place to haggle over the price of a kumquat. The main reason Grandma liked going there was to harass the vendors. She would tangle with anyone from the butcher over the accuracy of his scales to the vegetable stand clerk about the freshness of his bell peppers. Rather than ordering a dozen Catawba peaches and having the clerk throw them in a bag, she insisted on inspecting each and every piece of fruit. “If you don’t check, they’ll give you the old stock with a few good ones on the top,” she insisted. After two solid hours of kung fu fighting her way through the market, putting the screws to everyone in a white apron and paper hat, Grandma was always in a terribly good mood for the rest of the day. My job was to drive the car, carry the purchases, and make sympathetic eyes at the vendors, sometimes mouthing the word
sorry
if Grandma was excessively vigorous in her quest for the highest quality at the lowest price.

I
slouched out of my room, yawning and starting to perk up as I detected the smell of sausage in the air. Why was Grandma trying to butter me up? She usually only broke out the breakfast meats on special occasions.

As I rounded the corner to the kitchen, Xander
nodded at me from his position over a half-devoured plate of eggs and sausage. “Hey,” he grunted, shoveling a large forkful of eggs into his mouth.

“Hey
.” I was confused. “Did we… uh… Did we have plans or something?” I slouched down into a chair, and Grandma bustled over to put a full plate in front of me. If Xander wasn’t there, I probably would have been given a bowl full of cardboard-flavored oatmeal. Grandma always puts out a spread for company, especially if the company is an attractive boy with blue eyes like Elvis. If she wasn’t in such a hurry to get to the market before the crowds, I’m sure she would have made pancakes.

“Your grandma invited me to go to the market,”
Xander said between bites.

“Oh,” I said, tucking into breakfast before Xander got any ideas about co-opting my sausage links. It was just like him to show up at
our house at all hours. If he was bored or couldn’t sleep or just wanted someone to talk to, he usually headed over. He lived in a big, gorgeous mansion on the lake, but his parents were never home. Wandering around a seven-bedroom house by himself made him stir crazy. Xander preferred our dingy little one-story bungalow. He said it felt cozy, like a house is supposed to feel. Plus, Grandma fed him like he was a starving refugee who had finally made it to America. His family had a personal chef that came in and prepared meals a couple times a week, but Xander preferred Grandma’s cooking. She was no culinary whiz, but her food was very homey, and she always put in the extra effort when Xander was around.

“Let’s go, you two.” Grandma had a bee in her bonnet to get out the door. “I’m not fighting the crowds just because you two can’t get a move on.” Xander rose to rinse his empty plate
at the sink. “Just leave that, honey.” Grandma pressed on Xander’s arm. “I’ll take care of it when we get back.”

“Come on, Mrs. Lehmer, you know I can’t do that.” Xander gave the plate a quick
douse of water before cracking open the door to our ancient harvest-gold dishwasher. “What kind of guest would I be, leaving dishes around after you made me such a nice breakfast?” Lines like that were why Grandma doted on Xander. He rinsed a dish and stuck it in a rack. Big deal. But Grandma acted like he’d just re-shingled the roof. It didn’t matter that she’d pull the plate out and wash it by hand after we returned from the market. She was in a tizzy of ecstasy that he’d actually made the gesture. Xander really knew how to work adults. There wasn’t a grandmother in greater Cleveland that he couldn’t charm.

For once
, Xander had to sit in the back while I drove. Grandma sat next to me with her purse in her lap, constantly vigilant for carjackers. I’d tried to explain to her dozens of times that our barely-clinging-to-life station wagon wasn’t a likely target for would-be car thieves, but she knew better. We drove along in a pleasant silence for several minutes before Grandma cleared her throat. I knew that was the signal that we were about to be privy to a lecture. Fortunately, it couldn’t be a long one because we weren’t that far from the market. “Another one of those teenagers committed suicide yesterday,” she began. There had been a rash of teenage suicides across greater Cleveland in the last several months. We’d even had a “Suicide, Just Say No” assembly before school had let out for the summer.

“Was it the same as usual?” Xander asked. “Did she cut her wrists?”

“This time it was a he, and yes, he did,” Grandma said tartly. “Now I hope neither of you boys would ever think of doing something so stupid.”

“Don’t worry, Grandma. I would never slit my wrists,” I assured her
, an involuntary shudder making be twitch. “Yick.”

“That’s right,” Xander agreed. “If I was going to snuff it, I think I’d go carbon monoxide
. You know, die in my car. Everything else just sounds too painful.”

“What about your head in the oven?” I asked.

“I don’t think I could handle the smell.”

“And you think carbon monoxide poisoning doesn’t have a smell?
Besides, what are your parents supposed to do with your car after you croak in there?”

“What are they supposed to do with the oven?”

“Stop it, you two,” Grandma barked. “Suicide is not something you joke about.” She actually sounded pretty upset.

“Sorry
, Mrs. Lehmer.”

“Sorry
, Grandma.”

She went on, “I only brought it up because I know that teenagers sometimes get stupid ideas in their heads.
You start thinking, everyone else is doing it, I should do it, too.”

“
Um, Grandma? We don’t think like that,” I told her.

“Yes, you do
. You all do. You start thinking something is the big, hot fashion trend, and the next thing you know, you’re in the shower with a straight razor. Do you have any idea how awful this is for that boy’s poor parents? His grandparents? His brothers and sisters? His friends? Everyone he’s ever known?” Her voice started to waiver, and I knew she had been thinking about how horrible it would be if I did something that stupid.

“Grandma, I know I’m just a teenager and easily influence
d by stuff and all that, but I promise you, I would never kill myself. Okay? Never.”

“Me neither,” Xander said from the backseat, reaching forward and giving my grandmother’s shoulder a squeeze. “I mean
, there’s too much I want to do, anyway.”

“That’s good
.” Grandma sniffed. “Now let’s stop talking about it. I need to get ready for the market.”

The West Side Market has been publically owned since 1840. That’s pre-Civil War, baby
. The current building, a massive blimp hangar of yellow brick, was built in 1912. Grandma likes to launch her first wave of attack on the main building, haranguing the meat and fish vendors. Then she gains a psychological advantage over the fruit and vegetable vendors with a crushing flanking maneuver, attacking them from a small side door rather than coming at them straight on from one of the main passageways. After brawling for a lengthy period of time with Eastern European immigrants over every last brussels sprout, she’ll wheel around and charge the bakeries, forcing them to surrender their freshest breads and handmade pastas.

Grandma doesn’t just stumble into the place dressed like a bum
, either. She comes prepared for combat, always wearing her nicest coat, depending on the weather, a solid pair of walking shoes, and some type of hat, usually affixed to her head with a sizable hatpin. She’s not opposed to using the pin to remind people of their manners if the crowd gets too thick or she feels someone has cut in front of her in line. A lot of the clerks, especially the butchers, remember her by name and call out a courteous, “Good morning, Mrs. Lehmer,” when they see her bearing down on their counters.

If all goes well and a table
is available, we’ll get a snack at the cafe. There are usually some pretty good specials, and by that point, Grandma really needs to get off her feet. Once we’ve refreshed ourselves and she’s paid the bill, tipping the waitress exactly one quarter, we head for the candy counter. If I’ve comported myself according to Grandma’s expectations, she’ll buy a half pound of hand-dipped chocolates from The Candy Corner or Campbell’s Popcorn Shop for us to share. But if I’ve displeased her, for example the time when she caught me adding a couple bucks to the tip, then we bypass the dark chocolate turtles and coconut haystacks and head straight for the car, with me staggering under the weight of her hard-won victory.

I always like the
crisp smell of the market when first entering the main building. In the winter, they turn up the heat and the transition from freezing to warm will make your nose burn, but in the summer it’s just a cool and pleasant odor of fresh meat. Grandma usually doesn’t need me for the first thirty minutes of battle, so I’m free to wander around unencumbered by a chronically querulous senior citizen. Xander, naturally, wanted to head straight for the balcony. There’s really nothing up there. It’s just a place to look down and see all the shoppers, but Xander likes to hunch his back, swing his arms, and gallop about grunting “Oo-o-oo-o” like an oversized chimp ready to fling some poo. (Yeah, I know. It’s a private joke kind of thing.) Unless there are cute girls around, then he prefers to James Dean it, leaning on whatever ledge is available and taking in the view while thinking deep thoughts.

The balcony
was empty except for a mom and a couple of kids, so Xander gave them the full gorilla treatment. The mother was alarmed, but the eight-year-olds shrieked with delight. Xander hammed it up, grunting and blowing raspberries while he lurched from side to side, dragging his arms and beating his chest. For someone who is unreasonably good looking, Xander can sometimes act like a total dork. It’s one of the things I really appreciate about him. A lot of the time, good-looking people can take themselves waaay too seriously.

The mom was just inching past us, heading for the stairs, dragging her children in her wake when suddenly Xander stood straight upright, his eyes wide.
He smoothly adjusted his posture to more of a lothario slouch and half lidded his eyes. I casually turned my head to see a girl coming up the stairs. But she wasn’t just any girl; she was the girl of Xander’s dreams. Petite, long black hair with curled bangs giving her a hint of Bettie Page, pale skin, and eyes like giant emeralds. She wore a pale violet dress with matching stockings. Shiny black patent leather combat boots encased her tiny feet. She looked just like a smoldering pixie. Exactly Xander’s type. Or what I assumed was Xander’s type even though he’s never come right out and told me the kind of girl he finds most attractive. She appeared a little flushed, like she was chasing someone or being chased. She froze as soon as she saw us.

“H
ello,” Xander said, cocking his head to the side and letting his black hair fall over his eyes so he had an excuse to slowly smooth it off his face. The greeting caused the girl’s eyes to widen, quickly dart around the balcony,  and then narrow when she realized we were the only three up there. She locked eyes with me, giving me a penetrating look. It kind of felt like she wanted me to say something, but I really couldn’t think of anything more beyond Xander’s greeting.

“Hi?” I hazarded.

I guess this displeased her because she abruptly turned and disappeared down the stairs. Xander frowned. “That was weird.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. It wasn’t the reaction Xander normally elicited from the opposite sex. “She sure was pretty.”

“Not bad.”

This made me laugh. “Oh, come on, Xander. She’s exactly your type.”

“I don’t have a type.”

“Yes, you do.”

Xander shook his head. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Play it that
way if you want.” I shrugged. Looking over the balcony, I immediately met the impatient glaze of Grandma. She was staring directly at me. Raising her hand, she made a
come here, immediately
gesture. “Oh,” I said, while giving her a nod to let her know I was on my way. “Grandma needs me for something.”