by Adam Rex
It was confusing to see Abby at school, or after school rehearsing the fall musical. Her proper context was now in basements and back rows and humid media rooms. What was she doing here, so fully inflated and out in the world? Why did she sit in the theater seat next to his in this school auditorium, so far from the back row and so near these prying eyes? What was she doing talking to that other guy?
Onstage, Sejal sang with Tony Petucco. Cat stopped them and reminded Tony of a crucial bit of blocking he’d missed, and they began again from “Somewhere, We’ll find a new way of living, We’ll find a way of forgiving.” Tony Petucco had certainly not been cast because he could sing or act or dance in any fashion that did not give the impression he was plagued by invisible insects. He more than once even failed to respond when another actor called him by his character’s name. Which was also Tony. He did look good in a T-shirt. It was much discussed.
In scenes like this, when facing the audience, Sejal’s eyes sought out Cat. Cat was her anchor. When Maria closed her eyes, it was Cat’s face in bright negative on the insides of Sejal’s eyelids.
There had been no fallout from her conversation with Ophelia that night. Ophelia was being discreet or hadn’t found the details worth sharing or she was holding them in reserve, waiting until they could be used to greatest purpose.
Now Sejal and Ophelia were onstage together, rehearsing their big scene, their big song. Cat rose from her seat at the behest of the director and left the room on some errand. Most of the rest of the cast was scattered around the theater, in the aisles, lobby, or backstage. Talking quietly to each other, flirting, consoling one another at the end of a long school day with electrically charged rounds of truth or dare and surprisingly smutty neck rubs. Sejal sought out a new face, an anchor in the audience, and she stammered through a line as her eyes fell on the only person who was at that moment staring straight back at her.
She had a beautiful voice, Sejal. Doug remembered Abby having a good voice, too, but lately it was scratchy. Hoarse. She wasn’t taking good enough care of herself. If you didn’t take care of yourself, who would?
He was still mad at Sejal for leading him on, then rejecting him, but he sort of admired her for it as well. You couldn’t just give it away like Abby did. Not if you had any morals. Not if you had any self-respect.
“God, take a picture,” said Abby as she slid back into the seat next to Doug’s. “It’ll last longer.”
“Take a picture of what?”
“You know what.”
“No, I really don’t—that’s why I asked. You see how that works?”
“If you had a picture, you could spank off to her later. That’s the best you’ll ever do, you know—her picture and your right hand. She’s not interested.”
“If you’re talking about Sejal,” said Doug, “I think you’ll find you don’t know her any better than I do.”
“I know what she really thinks about you.”
Doug struggled to get a grip on himself. It wouldn’t do to let her think he cared.
“Look, I don’t know what we’re even fighting about. I was looking at the stage. There are people on it. Singing. I don’t know where I picked this up, but I was under the impression that you were supposed to look at people when they sing on a stage. It’s good manners. You don’t see me picking fights over you talking to that guy over there for ten minutes.”
“Who, Kevin? We’ve been friends since kindergarten. I can’t talk to Kevin?”
“You can. That’s my point. I didn’t throw a hissy over you talking to that guy, but I can’t watch a girl—two girls—on a stage singing? Without you going insane?”
They sat in silence for a while before Abby apologized. “But if you’re still thinking of trying to get with her,” she added, “I wouldn’t. You don’t know what I know—that’s all I’m saying.”
This had been a semi-dress rehearsal. There were new costumes to try on, and makeup tests. All the Puerto Rican girls apart from Sejal had already dyed their hair black, or tried to. Sophie’s fine blond hair was giving her trouble. It was more the color of mold.
Because it was a semi-dress rehearsal it was also the semi-official start of the Cleanest Dressing Room Contest. Each night Ms. Todd and Cat inspected the boys’ room and the girls’ room, and tallied the nightly winners. The losing gender would have to clean the better half’s dressing room on closing night, plus their own, before being released to attend the cast party. It was all a bald-faced ploy to get them to clean up after themselves, and it worked. It more than worked—you could only get a room in a fifty-year-old auditorium so clean, and this invariably sparked an escalating arms race of baked-good bribes, flowers, throw rugs…even the utter transformation of linoleum floored, white cinder-block spaces into gaudy nightclubs or the Garden of Eden.
Doug left the other boys behind to sweep and wipe mirrors. He didn’t care about the contest, and the ammonia smell was burning his nostril hairs. Outside, the sun was setting—he could feel it. He could feel his blood rising.
There were whispering voices, the furtive pssts and shushes of secrets leaking into the air. He could follow the wispy trails of their echoes, down the hall, through the woodshop, to the black-painted floors and red flowing curtains of the stage’s right wing.
Sejal and Ophelia were here. Doug lurked behind a curtain. Sejal was upset about something, and Ophelia was trying to smooth it over. He only picked up bits and pieces. To him the whispers were loud, rough, buzzing his eardrums like they were broken speakers, but they didn’t resolve themselves into useful shapes. Yet another part of being a vampire that’s not all it’s cracked up to be, thought Doug.
The thought surprised him. Wasn’t everything getting better? Wasn’t this new life so much better than the one before? There was a girlfriend and respect. Strength. But throughout, a glimmer of something inside him like a warning light on his dashboard.
Ophelia pressed herself against Sejal. Footsteps approached from behind.
“Why aren’t you helping the other boys?” asked Ms. Todd.
“Too many of us,” Doug replied as he turned and walked back through the shop toward her. “We were getting in each other’s way. I promised to bring some sponges and stuff tomorrow.” Not a bit of it was true.
Ms. Todd studied him. “You better tell Jay not to miss another rehearsal or he’s out.”
She had actually been pretty clear about this when she’d called roll at the beginning of the evening. When Jay hadn’t responded, she’d made an announcement to all cast and crew that anyone missing rehearsals without an excuse would be cut, she didn’t care who they were, no exceptions. She’d made the announcement while staring straight at Doug, like Jay was his responsibility.
“Either Jay or his sister has to go let their dog out after class,” Doug breathed. “They both have after-school things. If he didn’t come back, he must have had a good reason.” This was true—Jay would have a good reason. With a dull pain Doug realized he hadn’t wasted a moment wondering what it was.
Later he walked with Abby to her car. She was talking to him or something. Doug was too occupied in contemplating what he’d seen of Sejal and Ophelia and what it meant. Only when Abby suddenly lowered her voice did he give her his attention, and then only to hear her say, “There’s a guy by my car.”
He scanned the dark parking lot and fixed upon the small figure of Stephin David, standing just in front of the passenger door, arms heavy at his sides. Face flushed, probably from drink.
“I know him,” Doug told Abby. “You go ahead home.”
“With…without you?”
“Yes.”
“I was hoping you’d drive. I feel dizzy.”
“What? No, I’ll find my own way home. Don’t worry about me. Good night.” He walked off toward the edge of the soccer field, leaving Abby to sway unsteadily under a yellow, moth-battered lamppost. Stephin gave her a clipped nod and came to meet Doug on the grass.
“What are you doing here?” Dou
g asked, looking around him. Cast and crew spilled slowly out of the auditorium. There were other students, too, here and there, coming from the quad or the track.
“I was in the neighborhood,” said Stephin. “You’ve been so elusive, I had to find some way to grab your attention.”
“Well, okay, you’ve got it. And good move, too: single guy, single gay guy, hanging out at the high school? You look like a child molester.”
Doug knew he wasn’t supposed to throw Stephin’s sexuality in his face like that, but the man was making him supremely uneasy. He did not belong here.
Stephin said, “We play the roles in which we are cast. Every play’s a tragedy, if only you leave the curtain raised long enough—”
“God! Please, just…What do you want?”
Stephin took a moment before speaking. “I received an interesting message about your friend Victor. It seems Cassiopeia is under the impression he’s hunting his maker. It seems that you gave her that impression.”
“Shit,” said Doug. “That was…I didn’t mean to throw Victor under the bus like that, but I needed a diversion. It’s no big deal.”
“I doubt Victor will see it that way. But can we be clear? Victor does not aim to find and kill his maker, with the intention of undoing his curse or for any other reason?”
“No,” said Doug. “No, and I’m not even sure I want out anymore either. I…have to think about it.”
“You should. It’s a big decision, an enormous responsibility. Consider all the people you may meet during your long existence. Souls you can’t even imagine. People not yet born. Would you deprive all these people the pleasure of your company?”
Doug chewed his lip and watched Stephin for some hint that he was joking. But his dead face was as illegible as ever.
“Of course, you have also to consider all the lives that may curdle at your touch. You could be a curse to others, something worth breaking. Such responsibility.”
“Well, I guess I’ll just kill myself.”
“Suicide is ungrateful.”
In the parking lot engines cleared their throats, and red and white lights winked on. Doug was dimly aware that Abby had not yet pulled out of her space. She was just sitting in her car. Was she watching them?
“So, then…is it possible? Becoming normal again? You sound like you’re saying it’s possible.”
“Hm. Well, I’ve been doing some research, purely with the intention of dissuading you from this course, you understand. But, I can’t lie—I’ve uncovered evidence that such a thing may be possible, if certain conditions are met. But do leave Victor alone. It has to be the head of the family—the oldest active vampire in the lineage. I think a stake in the heart may be necessary. You won’t do it, will you? Of course you won’t—you don’t even know who made Victor. And you with your newfound zest for life.”
“Asa told me you only have to kill the next vampire in line,” said Doug, though he wasn’t really sure what Asa had meant.
Stephin was silent for a moment, during which a steady pulse of red taillights passed like heartbeats behind him.
“Did he, now.”
Doug heard a distant squeal of tires. He looked over Stephin’s shoulder just in time to watch Abby run her car into a fence.
31
PALE
HE WASN’T the nearest student to Abby’s car, not by a long shot, but he was the first on the scene. Her face was lost in the white pillow of the airbag, tassels of curly hair splayed like creeper all around. She wasn’t buckled in. He wrenched the door open and was already pulling her from her seat as Troy came running up yelling, “Don’t move her! Don’t move her!”
There was a right thing to do in a situation like this, and a wrong thing. The right thing was to call 911 and wait by Abby’s side, maybe even initiate CPR until the paramedics arrived. The wrong thing was to load Abby into another car and move her yourself to the closest hospital. A distant third might have been to lift Abby into your arms and run thirteen blocks to St. Mary’s Emergency in Pennwood, despite shouts of protest from the mob of kids that had gathered at the school gates.
I just acted without thinking, Doug explained to an imaginary jury of his peers after he’d been running for a mile and his mind had cleared. In emergencies a person can sometimes demonstrate astounding feats of strength.
He didn’t notice the wood-paneled station wagon that followed him all the way to the hospital. He was in another world.
The hospital waiting room was filmy and crowded with people. One man had a piece of rebar in his foot, but apparently not enough of a piece of rebar in his foot to leave the waiting room. CNN silently played on a television bolted to the ceiling.
After handing Abby off to the ER nurses Doug had been unable to answer, for various reasons, the following questions about her:
What kind of insurance she had
Whether she had a middle name
How her last name was spelled
If she was allergic to any medications
How, exactly, she’d come to have only three liters of blood in her body
Abby’s parents had been called. He’d have to face them soon. No one had actually asked him to stay, but leaving now would feel like fleeing a crime scene. He got up and sat down, got up again, walked to the hospital gift shop and stared at Mylar balloons and fist-sized teddy bears, then returned to the waiting room to find all the seats taken.
A lot of people had come to the ER in sweatpants. A thin, well-groomed woman in a tailored skirt and hose shivered in her seat while the sweatpants crowd seemed to look askance at her and wonder: Did she change clothes before coming? Did she freshen up? Doug wondered if his own clothes communicated the right amount of human concern and went to the restroom to check.
It wasn’t getting any easier, looking in mirrors. Most days he could focus below the neck, examine his clothes, all but ignore his hair now that it never seemed to get mussed up anymore. Tonight was no different, except that it was completely different. Putting aside for a moment that he was actually trying to muss himself up a bit, he also sensed the insistent stare of a pair of eyes in the mirror.
His eyes, nominally. They were set in his face, or in a kind of counterfeit of his face. There was something wrong with the expression. Something wrong with the eyes.
They looked old, inevitable. Like they’d always been here in this hospital, waiting for Doug to arrive. He didn’t like their air of blunt satisfaction. He wanted to give them something to look surprised about.
Exiting the bathroom he took this hospital scene in again and wondered, suddenly, if Abby was going to die. The white floors, white walls, cold white light that robbed everything of shadow and substance, the flimsy gowns and white coats and pajamas—were they trying to make it all look like some cheap heaven? Were they trying to prepare you for what came next?
“Doug?”
Jay’s sister, Pamela, was down the hall, looking a little fragile, unsteady. Doug tried to recall—Was she friends with Abby?
“Hey, Pamela.”
“How did you find out?”
Doug didn’t know how to answer this question, didn’t understand it, really, but then Pamela was just hugging him so he hugged back.
“Have you seen my mom?” asked Pamela.
“No.”
“Okay. I’ll take you up. They moved him upstairs.”
Him? Jay?
“God, what the fuck? Who would do this?” said Pamela, suddenly a fury, as she let Doug go and turned back to the elevators. “Do you have any idea who would do this to a person? A person like Jay? Anyone at school?”
“No. Look,” said Doug, “I don’t really know much. I just heard he was here because…because Abby my girlfriend is here, too. What happened to him?”
The elevator opened, and Pamela tucked herself into a cold corner of it. Another woman got in with them (a young and Indian-looking doctor, Doug noted), so Pamela whispered, “He’s lost a lot of blood. He was unconscious. Someone or…something b
it his neck. Actually bit his neck. And Chewbacca’s dead.”
Doug would have liked a chance to explain a few of those details to the doctor, but the opinions of strangers didn’t seem like the right thing to be concerned about right now, and besides—the woman just exited on the third floor like she hadn’t been listening.
All the fire had gone out of Pamela and she hugged her shoulders. “There was blood everywhere at home. You could smell…and now Dad’s being all stupid and telling the police all about how Jay dyed his hair black and started dressing better,” she said, and with a target for her anger she rallied a little. “He told them to talk to Cat. He thinks they’re doing drugs. Jay and Cat, I mean. Not the police.”
The elevator doors opened, and the hallway they stepped out into was indistinguishable from the one they’d left: white walls, white ceiling, polished white floor. The same odd sensation of floating.
Through the third door Jay lay asleep in a bed with his arm strapped to the side. A clear tube connected the inside of his elbow to a plastic bag on a metal stand, a plastic bag that looked like those Doug had once stolen from the Red Cross, though the liquid inside this one was colorless.
Jay’s dad rose from his bedside chair and crossed the room to meet Doug. “There he is. There he is. How are you, Doug?” He seemed to consider and then quickly reconsider hugging Doug, and instead gave him a firm, vigorous handshake, like he was trying to sell Doug a shiny new optimism. “It’s so good of you to come. Thank you.” He looked over at Pamela. “You didn’t find your mother?”
“I’ll try her cell again.”
Pamela left the room, and Doug and Mr. Rouse stood at the foot of the bed, watching Jay. He didn’t look like he was sleeping. Doug could see the place on Jay’s neck where the blood had been taken. Even through a patch of gauze he could see it was big, obvious, surrounded by a scribble of broken blood vessels just beneath the skin. It didn’t look anything like the evidence Doug left (or didn’t leave) on Abby. This was like graffiti. This was sending a message.
