Jane Jones (4 page)

In any case, my mom’s reaction to finding porn on my computer would pale in comparison to what she’d do if she found out that I was researching potential cures for vampirism. It wasn’t that my family didn’t dream of being
cured. Lots of vampires do. It’s just that we’d heard the stories of other vampires who’d attempted treatments and the results had been bad. And by bad, I mean fatal. And by fatal, I mean that we’d heard about a few of our kind who went from being undead to totes dead. Whether or not these stories were true is anybody’s guess. But it isn’t like pharmaceutical companies are spending research money testing drugs to cure a condition most mortals aren’t even aware is real. Any vampire who considers a cure must also consider that he’s taking his life, such as it is, into his own cold, dead hands. My parents weren’t too big on stuff like that.

By now, my printout of the article was all smudged and tattered from my furtively reading it every chance I got over the weekend. Now that I was at school, sitting on the floor in front of my locker, I felt fairly safe just reading it out in the open. When I say “safe,” I mean nobody here was interested in me or what I was doing or what I was reading.

“Hey, Jane.”

I didn’t even have to raise my eyes to know that Timothy Hunt was standing above me. After finally hearing his husky voice, I would never again fail to recognize it. Plus, while I was lying on the ground the night we met, I memorized his shoes. If I had a pulse it would have quickened.

“You feeling a little better?”

I was feeling a lot better than the last time he saw me. I’m sure I was looking at least slightly better too, but I noticed he didn’t say, “You’re looking a lot better.” Still, he was asking how I was feeling, so that had to be a good thing, right? I just needed to not overthink it. Just say yes and thank you and remember to smile.

“Hey, Lame! How’s your diarrhea? Was it a hell of a case, like your mom predicted?” I guess Astrid and her traveling band of vampire jerks had seen Timothy talking to me and decided they weren’t into it. Even though this was a new school, I was pretty used to this sort of thing. Of the two of us, I felt worse for Timothy. He looked embarrassed. Though when I considered it, the possibility that he was embarrassed to be caught talking with me needled at my brain. Assuming I was correct, my pity for him turned to pity for myself, and my feelings toward him cooled. A little.

“Come on, Tim. We’ve got to get to health class.” Astrid grabbed Timothy by his elbow and pivoted away from me on the toe of her black stiletto knee-high boot. If he looked back, I didn’t see it, because I was intently examining my cuticles and chewing my lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, if I’d had any blood to draw. Health class—what a joke. Health class at this school was the same as at any other school I’d ever been to—a glorified
study hall “taught” by a coach or PE teacher, and the domain of underachieving students afraid to study a real science like biology or anatomy. I know that on some level, it makes sense for teenage vampires to do the bare minimum to get by. After all, a perfect GPA is something you strive to achieve because of what it could mean for your future. Since all of us are stuck repeatedly living the present over and over, why kill yourself with schoolwork? But on the other hand, class debate and discussion are some of the only outlets I have. I’m smarter than your average high-school vampire and even though it’s not cool, I’m true to who I am. The only thing I ever worry about is distinguishing myself too much. I’m pretty sure I could easily graduate among the top ten in my class, but that would bring unwanted attention to and interest in my future, so I’ve got to pull my academic punches to hang toward the middle of the pack.

The warning bell rang as I stood to open my locker and grab my books for first period. Unlike my classmates, I didn’t treat my locker as if it were a three-dimensional scrapbook of celebrities and rock stars I idolized. Actually, if I had to pick an all-time favorite, it would probably be Jimmy Stewart, and I don’t think I could have gotten away with pinning up his picture even back in 1945. When it came to my locker, I was strictly pragmatic, but I did hang
a small magnetic mirror in there to make sure I didn’t look like an absolute troll. Yes, we
can
see our reflections, and mine revealed that the skin on my nose was peeling a bit. I’d run out of the house without carefully applying sunscreen that morning and I’d obviously missed a spot. Luckily, it was a gray September day and if I could steer clear of sitting by a window, further damage might be avoidable.

My first class was AP American history, and it was one of my favorites. Our teacher, Ms. Smithburg, was fresh out of grad school and maybe a little naive, in the best possible way. She thought learning history should be more than just memorizing facts to be tested on later. She wanted us to take what was said in our textbooks with a grain of salt—she definitely was not trying to pretend that Christopher Columbus just happened to find America one day while he was out shopping for spices and that the Native Americans were like, “No, you go ahead. Take our country, please. We insist.”

I liked that Ms. Smithburg wanted to hear our thoughts on the long-term implications of the Great Depression, because
I
had plenty of those. I loved that when you stopped by after school to discuss a grade that was a little lower than you thought you deserved, she smiled and said, “Please. I’m off the clock. Call me Charlotte.” She treated you as an equal.

I normally sit in the first or second row of a classroom when seats aren’t assigned. When you’re trying to ride the line between involved and inconspicuous, it’s really the place to be. Even in an AP class, anything past the fourth row and you’re smack in the middle of what might as well be health class for all of the chatting and flirting and texting that goes on. Today, though, Ms. Smithburg had rearranged our chairs so that they were facing each other in groups of two. My strategy ruined, I at least managed to grab a seat near the front and toward the door, away from any windows or sunbeams that might break through the clouds. The chair across from me was empty as the final bell rang.

“Good morning, good morning, good morning,” said Ms. Smithburg. “I trust all of you had a wonderful weekend. So did I, thanks for asking.”

Ms. Smithburg waltzed between the odd configuration of desks while passing out packets of stapled papers. “You may be wondering why you’re sitting face to face,” she said. “Today, we’ll be starting our major project for this quarter. Of course, I’m talking about term papers!”

Groans instantly rumbled through the room.

“Now, I know: term papers are the worst. You hate writing them and, frankly, I hate reading them. Which is why I am proposing that we try it this way. You came into class, you spotted a friend and sat down across from them.
Who better than this person you like well enough to sit across from to be your partner for this project?”

I breathed a sigh of relief. I had no problem being the odd person who was unable to pair up for an assignment I could more than handle on my own. In fact, I preferred it that way.

Just as Ms. Smithburg was about to launch into the specifics, the classroom door clicked open. She took the late slip being handed to her by the boy in the doorway and read it. “Mr. Matthews, you are late because you were having your braces tightened. No problem, we were just getting started. Please have a seat across from Ms. Jones.” Just like that, the rotten bottom fell out of my day. No, the rotten bottom had fallen out of my whole first term and now the decayed walls were collapsing on me.

Eli Matthews took the seat across from me and his mouthful of tightened braces broke into a weird grin. It was all I could do to keep from putting my face straight into my palm.

“As I was saying,” Ms. Smithburg continued, oblivious to my expression of dismay, “this is a team project. Please use this class period to choose a topic. I am handing out sheets with some suggested subjects, but you are free to choose any period in American history so long as you both agree. Now, as I was also saying, I kind of hate reading term
papers so I’m inviting you to think of something creative. Perhaps a PowerPoint presentation or some American history graphic novellas or—”

A voice from the back of the room called out, “Oh, oh, can we do a rap? Wiki-wiki-
what
!” A few meatheads chuckled appreciatively.

Ms. Smithburg’s expression was wry. “I was just about to say that the only rule is that there will be no rap! That idea is so played and this is an AP class, so I’ll be looking for something a lot more substantial. I might accept a one-act hip-hop opera if you thought you could do it without it being pathetic and embarrassing.” There was a smattering of laughter as the would-be rapper was jostled by his buddies.

Ms. Smithburg handed out the last of her papers and folded her arms, but not in an authoritarian or mean way. “So, you will be graded on your command of the chosen subject matter, your creativity, and your ability to work well with your partner. This will account for fifty percent of your overall grade, so you’ve got your work cut out for you.” She held up her hands and made playful snipping motions at us with her fingers. “I think that’s everything. Any questions, come see me, but for now, get to work.”

If I could have cried, I might have. Fortunately, I physically lost the ability to cry decades ago. My brother, the
mad scientist, says it has to do with a lack of available fluid in my physiology and that I could probably reverse it by ingesting a simple saline solution of water and sodium iodide, or table salt. What a nerd. Plus, why the hell would I drink a glass of synthetic tears just so I could cry semi-synthetic tears? He claims it could also help with some other physical problems I have, like dry mouth and occasional muscle cramps, but I have a hard enough time keeping up with what my parents and teachers want me to do without taking orders from my ten-year-old brother.

It’s funny, though—no matter how long it’s been since I last cried, I still get that same stinging feeling behind my eyes.

After ten or thirty-six hard blinks, I was finally able to make myself look at this kid, Eli Matthews, who was sitting across from me with that dumb smile still on his face, waiting expectantly for me to say something. Well, he could just keep waiting. As far as I was concerned, just because someone is late due to getting his braces polished or tightened or whatever he was doing, it doesn’t make us a team. I wanted to work alone, and I felt betrayed by Ms. Smithburg and angry with this kid for just being there and yes, maybe I was being irrational, but teenage vampires have mood swings too, and I was having a bad day, okay? I played the silent card.

“Hi. Eli,” he said, jabbing his finger into his own chest. Oh, nice, I get paired up with the one kid in AP history who specializes in one-syllable sentences. I gave him my patented sarcastic smirk—it looks like a smile, but it’s totally obvious I don’t mean it.

“Matthews,” he croaked. “I, um … It’s funny. I actually … I think I just friended you … on Facebook? A few days ago?”

Yeah, right. As if he couldn’t remember whether or not he’d done such a thing, because of all the thousands of friends he was communing with every day online. Of course, as soon as I thought that, I realized how ironic it was coming from me, a girl with only a pictureless profile and not one single friend. But still.

“Oh, did you? I don’t go online a lot.” Lie. Total lie. What else was I supposed to say, though? Eager to change the subject, I started flipping through the sheaf of papers Ms. Smithburg had handed out. “So, I guess we’re stuck working together on this thing. I usually work alone, but I guess we’ll just have to deal with it. What do you want to do?”

“Um, I wouldn’t say—I wouldn’t consider—not stuck, really. Uh …”

I could barely keep myself from finishing this poor kid’s sentences for him. I started to feel bad for him. He must
have seen the pitying look on my face. “Sorry, I’m, uh, loopy. Pain medicine from the orthodontist. Woo-hoo!”

I couldn’t help laughing a little. Lucky for him he was telling
me
rather than unknowingly confessing it to one of our vampire classmates. Before he knew it, he’d be behind the gym bleachers, glamoured and tapped for a pint of blood in the name of a cheap high. Glamouring, for those of you who’ve never read a vampire book, is a thing we’re supposed to be able to do, where we kind of put a human in a trance so that they’ll do our bidding or what have you. I’m guessing it’s an evolutionary trait left over from the days when vampires needed to feed directly from humans rather than getting “takeout” from a crooked phlebotomist looking to make a quick buck. Anyway, it’s one of those vampire characteristics that you’d probably expect to be a myth but is actually true. I mean, I’d heard it was true, but I’d never really had the ovaries to try it before and I’d never really had a reason. Plus, Ma was always going on about how unethical it was.

Even loopy on dentist drugs, Eli Matthews didn’t seem as bad as I’d originally thought. I’d seen him around a few times, but I’d never noticed how tall and broad he was, maybe because he had a real baby face. Up close, I noticed for the first time that his fair skin was covered with a constellation of cinnamon-colored freckles. He was wearing
what looked like a decades-old T-shirt with a cracked and faded decal celebrating an obscure band I vaguely remembered from the eighties. I wondered whether he actually knew and liked their music or if it was just a costume for a kid who was trying to pass for cool.

Eli raised his hand like you would to get a teacher’s attention. It took me a moment to realize he was waiting for me to stop staring at him and to call on him.

“What?” I said.

“I was thinking we could do … maybe something, like, about the Vietnam War and how … and how it kinda compares to the war in Iraq? And contrasts?”

God, he seemed so nervous talking to me. Was it possible that somehow, subconsciously, he sensed that I was someone he should fear? No, because then why would he have asked to be my friend online? Maybe it was because … 
no.
It couldn’t be because he liked me, could it? I instantly chastised myself for considering the possibility. I was not the kind of girl, or vampire, that boys liked. I slid my glasses up my nose and cleared my throat. Suddenly, my mouth was as dry as sand.