Jane Jones (20 page)

For someone who only had a few minutes to play with, Astrid sure was taking her ridiculous time before drinking the damn thing. Obviously, she was ramping up the drama. I hated to admit it, but she probably
would
make a great actress. I tore my attention away from Astrid’s spontaneous monologue to check on my poor little brother. Intent on coming up with a last-ditch plan to get him away from Ms. Smithburg, it took me a moment to realize what I was seeing. And what I was seeing was something incredible.

The arm that Ms. Smithburg had wound around Zachary’s throat was no longer alabaster and smooth. It was dark. Black, in fact. And was that faint smoke rising from the surface of her skin? I blinked my eyes to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating, but it was true. As everyone was watching Astrid ham it up, I was watching a horrific color creep up Ms. Smithburg’s arm, while the ends of her fingers took on the look of a burnt log in a fireplace, right before the embers collapse into ash.

“So, bottoms up!” Astrid concluded, and made a big show of raising the test tube higher, then bringing it to her lips. Impulsively, I sprang up and slapped the vial out of Astrid’s hand, spilling its entire contents as it crashed to the floor. Astrid roared and lunged at me, but I dodged her blow.

“Zachary!” I yelled. “Run!” For a brief moment, my brother looked at me, confused; then he put his head down and threw his weight against Ms. Smithburg’s cruel embrace. A cracking noise rang out and we all stood in stunned awe as her blackened arms snapped off like brittle branches and clattered to the floor, then crumbled. Astrid forgot all about trying to murder me as Ms. Smithburg’s body, inch by inch, rapidly became petrified, then desiccated. The affliction traveled up her neck and she was able to see with her own still-working eyes as the lower part of her face became coal-like, then broke away. When the transformation was complete, Ms. Smithburg’s figure stood there for a moment, resembling a wooden mannequin or totem that had been burned; then she fell into a mound of dust.

Astrid looked from the pile to me to Timothy and back to the pile, breathing through her mouth without speaking. I’m sure she was just trying to think of the nicest possible way to say, “Thanks for saving my miserable life, Jane. You really shouldn’t have.”

I hugged Zach to my chest with one arm, and reached my other arm out to take Timothy’s hand and squeeze it. It was impossible to look away from the heap of cinders that was once Ms. Smithburg. We stared in disbelief, when suddenly, the top layer of my powdered history teacher
began to swirl and dance as if it were still somehow alive. But it was only being blown by a breeze from an open window. A window that Dr. Almos Erdos had opened sometime during the chaos. A window that Dr. Almos Erdos had used to escape.

Timothy and I ran to the open window
in what was the former Ms. Smithburg’s former classroom just in time to see the nondescript rental car that had driven us to the school scream out of the parking lot with Almos Erdos (probably not his real name) at the wheel.

I barely had the courage to look Timothy in the eye. If it weren’t for me showing him that ridiculous Internet article in the first place, we never would have gotten mixed up with a phony doctor who claimed to have discovered the cure for vampirism, when what he’d actually invented was “liquid stake.” When I put two and two together, based on his delight at Ms. Smithburg’s ingestion of his potion and his quick escape once it had vaporized her, it was now obvious to me that he was a freelance vampire hunter who was out to find a couple of bloodsucking suckers and kill them, while making a quick bundle of cash to boot.

On the other hand, if it weren’t for that article and a big
chunk of Timothy’s fortune, my family would be fleeing for Zach’s life now. My emotions were mixed, but my guilt was full strength.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered hoarsely, staring at the empty lot below. Timothy put his hand under my chin and raised my face. He grabbed the sides of my head and leaned in, pressing his full frigid lips to my forehead. The wave of energy that passed from him to me was complex, and I could pick out notes of sorrow and disappointment and maybe even a bit of relief. We gazed at each other, ignoring Astrid’s haughty and snotty muttering across the room.

“I’m going to follow him, Jane,” Timothy said, “so he doesn’t try to do this to anyone else. I don’t know when I’ll be back, but I hope you’ll be here.” I nodded and watched as he slid out the window and scrabbled down the fire escape in pursuit of the Hungarian murderer and swindler. Then he was gone.

I turned away from the window, and my little brother, Zach, gave one of those half smiles that isn’t really happy at all but is used to convey pity. I was feeling slightly pitiful, so I was more than grateful to accept. Astrid, on the other hand, wasn’t feeling quite so generous.

“FYI, you still make me sick,” Astrid informed me. “And all of this doesn’t mean we’re friends, got it?”

I got it loud and clear. I’d saved her life, but she would
continue to make mine as miserable as she could. I didn’t even bother saying a word to her as she left the room, though perhaps with a bit less swagger than she once had. Perhaps.

I knelt behind Zach and worked on freeing his hands, which were bound behind his back with strong athletic tape. Once he was loose, I stood up and rubbed his wrists, then hugged him, then leaned back to look at his cute little face, then hugged him again. It was when we were hugging for the second time that we heard the unmistakable
squeak, squeak, squeak
of sneakers running down the hallway and past our door. A second later, the squeaking stopped, then reversed back toward us just as quickly, until the footwear in question was planted in the doorway, and standing there inside it was Eli Matthews. He let out a small whoop of relief.

“Eli, what are you doing here?” I asked, shocked to see him. He held up a freckled finger to ask for my patience while he gulped at the air. Then, slightly winded, he began.

“After … after what happened yesterday (pant, pant) in your kitchen, and when … and when you didn’t make it to school today, I was (deep breath) I was worried,” he said, gradually regaining his composure. “So, I swung by your house … after school. And your parents … your parents were freaking out … because they said you and
Zach were both missing.” He put a hand up to his chest, as if he could slow his rapidly beating heart by stroking it like a cat. “So, I offered to help them look for you.”

“My parents are out looking for us?” I asked, my voice cracking with emotion I hadn’t expected to feel.

“They’re downstairs,” Eli said, “in the car.” I put my hands gently on my brother’s shoulders and steered him toward the door.

“Go get in the car with Dad and Ma and tell them we’re okay,” I instructed. “Try to explain everything that happened. I’ve got some things to take care of, but I’ll be home as soon as I can.” Zach looked at me like he was afraid to let me out of his sight, but I was firm. “Go now. I will see you later.”

“Jane, I—” Zach paused and tilted his head awkwardly like he sometimes did when he was trying to think of how to put something.

“You love me?” I said. “You better.”

Zach bobbled and wobbled like ten-year-old kids do, and I gave him a silent wave to let him know I was serious about him getting out of there. He put his head down and dashed out of the room, leaving me alone with Eli. I got a wastebasket from the front of the room and started picking up shards of glass and tossing them in, careful to avoid any blood or drops of Dr. Erdos’s potion, just in case.

“So,” Eli said after a moment, “is the paper I wrote so bad that you thought you’d better do some after-school suck-up cleaning for extra credit?” He looked around at the bits of test tube and syringe, and the heap of soot that he had no idea was the remnants of our American history teacher, and shook his head. “What the h-e-double-hockey-sticks even happened in here?”

“It’s a long story,” I said, “and the paper you wrote was really good. It doesn’t have anything to do with all this.” Then I thought about it and corrected myself. “Well, it kind of has something to do with it, but not like … It’s—it’s insanely complicated.” I frowned at him, but only because I wished I could have given him a better answer.

I crouched down and started scooping ashes into the garbage with my bare hands. Eli went to Ms. Smithburg’s coat closet at the front of the room and retrieved a dustpan and brush. I shivered as I caught a glimpse of her long, elegant coat still hanging inside the door, then looked down at my dusty hands and shivered again. I rubbed them on my jeans and watched as Eli began methodically and efficiently sweeping up the rest.

“You know,” he said, “you can tell me anything. You can. You can trust me, Jane.”

Trusting someone wasn’t something I’d tried to do much in the past, and even though my most recent experiment
with trust had been a big fat failure, I couldn’t help wondering if I could trust this boy. Was he ready to hear the secrets that I had? Was I ready to tell him? Was he the kind of guy who would be cool with learning that he just helped me clean up the remains of my enemy, the vampire teacher? Would he be down with helping me sneak into a church, liberate an old priest from the bonds of her psychic trance, and then bury the sick undead body of her groom where nobody would ever find him? If my blood-intolerance was ever cured, would he still be willing to kiss me, if he knew that I probably had at least ten years on his great-grandmother? It was kind of a lot to ask of someone. Eli eyed me hopefully, waiting for me to speak.

“Thanks,” I answered. I was afraid that if I said anything more, everything would come tumbling out before I had a chance to stop it. Then Eli reminded me of one of the best things about him: when you didn’t feel like talking, he talked enough for both of you.

“Okay,” he said, “so, I told Astrid that I can’t go out with her tomorrow. She seemed mad, but not just mad at me. It was more like she was mad at everything. She’s kind of a monster. Anyway, now that I’m free tomorrow, I was wondering if you wanted to do something—as friends, no pressure—we could go to a movie or, if you’re not feeling confident about our project, we could work on that.…”

“I wouldn’t worry about the project,” I said.

“Really?” He sounded kind of flattered. “You think I nailed it?”

“Something like that,” I said.

“So, a movie then?” he resuggested.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Do you like Jimmy Stewart?”

“Are you kidding?” he said. “Jimmy Stewart is my boy! I have
The Philadelphia Story
on DVD. Have you seen it?” Eli trailed off into a long explanation of why James Maitland Stewart was—in his humble opinion—the finest American actor in history.

So I wasn’t a human girl again like I thought I was going to be, but who could predict the future? I sure couldn’t. Maybe I needed to just try to relax and enjoy what I had right now. Because for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had some choices I could make in my life and I was ready to make one.

I decided that when I got home and logged on to my computer, I would find Eli Matthews’s friend request and just accept it.

I
owe about a million thank-yous to about a million people who helped me become the author of my first real-live novel. There’s Arjun Basu, who said he liked my idea, and Alan Katz, who is
the
person to talk to when you have an idea, because he is
the
most fantastic idea guy.

I want to thank Josh and Tracey Adams of Adams Literary for believing I could write a book and for helping
me
believe I could write a book, and my editor, Shana Corey, at Random House for her imagination and for all her excellent, expert advice and care. I could not have asked for kinder, smarter, more thoughtful people to guide me on my way.

I owe thanks to many, many friends, but especially Dave Holmes and Lisa Jane Persky, who both knew what I was up to, and checked in on me regularly to make sure I was keeping it up. Thanks to Paul F. Tompkins and Nelson Walters for making me laugh my head off all the time and for being what I will always consider “my team.” I could go on forever thanking pals who inspire and encourage me every day, but I’m afraid I’d run out of room! So for now I’ll just say thanks to all of my friends, both in real life and not-exactly-real life, for being your irreplaceable selves.

A special thank-you goes to my high school English teacher, Ms. Melanie Gallo. I hope that everyone is lucky enough to have a teacher at least once in their life who will lend them a book to read from her own private collection, not for an assignment, but just because she thought they would love it.

There are a few people whom I could never thank enough, but I will try. Karen and Roger Debenham, thank you for being the greatest in-laws in recorded history. Thank you to my mom, Donna St. Onge, for always telling me I should write a book and for being proud of me when I did. To Matt, Eli, and Lincoln, I thank you for being a family more patient, generous, funny, and wise than I ever could have dreamed of having. You are the best eggs in the basket.