by Quinn Conlan
I see Kitty milling about. I rush to her and we hug. “We’re through,” she whispers. Whilst she is still so tiny to me, Kitty seems a thousand times stronger than before. The bite marks on her neck have disappeared. I touch my own neck and realize it no longer hurts.
I see a few more familiar faces from that strange first, fearful train ride. There’s a boy who fits the classic definition of a high school jock. Tall, muscled and classically handsome. Probably as bland as corn flour. There’s a slightly more mysterious boy in a battered old leather jacket. He has scruffy blond hair and a mischievous grin. He’s busy chatting up a pretty girl I’ve not seen before. He looks up and sees me staring. I look away.
I can see three girls who were clearly high school cheerleaders in their former life. The girl in the middle, who I can tell is queen bee, catches my gaze and gives me the mother of all greasies. Yikes.
Suddenly, the door opens and a stern-looking, middle-aged woman hurriedly enters. She has grey hair pulled tight into a bun, spectacles that sit on the very edge of her long, straight nose, and a woolen shawl wrapped snug around her slender frame. She looks like a bossy schoolmistress from 1900. She walks to the front of the long room and claps her hands loudly. “Gather round students.” Her voice perfectly matches her appearance. It feels like she’s been a schoolmistress for several hundred years. Entirely plausible.
She has an old-fashioned British accent. “My name is Miss Montgomery. You may call me that and nothing else. I am the head of humanities here at The Alurian School. I have been active in this role longer than all of your ages combined, and that includes the minders. I have seen it all, heard it all and witnessed every imaginable attempt to pull the proverbial wool over my eyes. All of them were futile. And so it shall be with you too, Junior class of 2012. So don’t waste your time. Do as you are told, when you are told, and your time under my tutelage will be an engaging and robust one. End of conversation.” She doesn’t wait for any kind of response, but simply presses on with the script. “Helpers!” she booms in a voice to match Mr Foggarty’s. Again, without a missed beat, an army of Helpers stream into the room and lay out exam papers and pencils along the rows of desks. They are done in no time and make their usual speedy, silent exit. “Class, you may be seated,” says Miss Montgomery. As we slowly approach the desks, she adds, “and be quick about it! We are not here for your amusement.” We each hurriedly find a seat.
The exam paper has some serious meat on its bone. My panic about no exam experience returns with a vengeance. Clearly, vampires can still feel overwhelmed. Miss Montgomery moves things along at a breakneck pace. “Minders, you may leave.” The minders silently stream out. I look around and notice a handful of empty chairs. I suddenly wonder if everyone made it through Transition. My curiosity is interrupted by another thunderous clap from Miss Montgomery. “Right! The rules. You have three hours to finish the exam, and not a second more. You must receive at least 65% to proceed into the general student population. Fall below that mark, and you will not be enrolling at The Alurian School.” Several gasps ripple around the room. “This material is essential, and I mean essential, for your basic survival. And this exam will give you a good indication of what we will consistently expect from you throughout the school year. If you find that you are not up to the challenge, I am sure one of the local Council-run schools would be only too happy to find room for you.”
At least that answers one of my questions. The Alurian School is one of the wealthy, privately backed schools. “Class, you may begin.” Miss Montgomery punches an old fashioned timer on the front desk, takes her seat and begins casting her constant eyes over the room. There is nothing for it but to give it my all.
The only saving grace with this beast before me is that it’s multiple choice. Thank goodness for small mercies. With each new question, I scan the list of possible answers and, almost every time, the right one just seems to rise confidently from the pack. There are a few curveballs. Some obscure stuff about vampire law that I’m pretty sure wasn’t in the notes. But on the whole, I’m pleased with how it goes.
And so unbelievably hungry by the time it’s done that I’m in danger of violating the ‘don’t eat your own kind’ rule. I’m not alone. Everyone looks ravenous. When the clock finally buzzes and Miss Montgomery claps thunder, there is a sense of delirium in the air. “Well done class. I hope your efforts pay off handsomely. Now, if previous years are anything to go by, I’d wager you are all rather famished right now. Medications are not my domain, I am a lover of history. As such, I will leave you in the…interesting hands of Mr Morrison. I look forward to seeing many of you once the semester proper commences.” And then, as abruptly as she’d entered, Miss Montgomery strides out and slams the door behind her.
I glance at Kitty. I flash her a smile that says ‘what a snap’. She doesn’t return it. She looks worried. I notice a few other kids who are downcast. I give Kitty a look of concern. She looks away. And then, the first truly funny moment since arriving down here happens. The door bursts open and a large, loud puff of smoke explodes into life. The whole class screams. We then hear the sound of someone encountering something they didn’t expect, which slowly morphs into a high-pitched, frantic wail. As the smoke clears, we see a middle-aged man standing in the doorway, furiously swatting spot fires on his woolen cardigan. This is our hilarious introduction to Mr Morrison.
When all the fires are out, he looks up at us in a moment of embarrassment. This gives way to a smile that says ‘what can ya do?’ Mr Morrison walks to the front of the class and faces us. He looks like the quintessential ageing surfer. And a serious stoner to boot. He has long grey hair, tucked behind his ears but frequently falling across his face. He smells of hemp. He is broad-shouldered and weather-beaten. I instantly like him. After studying us for a few moments, he introduces himself. “So listen. The school is pretty strict on the whole surname thing. Apparently it makes us seem more threatening than we really are. My name is Sunny. And no, the irony isn’t lost on me. Since we’re all here at the pleasure of the powers that be, you better call me Mr Morrison. Oh and by the way, sorry about the little pyrotechnics mishap. It happens.” He takes a seat and leans back with his hands behind his head. “I had good intentions. I figured even vampires can use a little magic from time to time.
“But enough of all that.” He stares at us with a big, goofy smile. “So! How groovy is this, huh? You get to be vampires! I’m super stoked that you guys are starting out on your long journeys. Treasure these early years kids. Treasure them.
“Now, for those who don’t know…and now that I think of it, that’s all of you, I’m quite the double-header around these parts. You’ve got me for Vampology and I’m the guidance counselor. How awesome is that!?” We laugh. This guy’s quite a change from stern old Miss Montgomery. I wonder what on earth Vampology entails? “But listen. Someone needs to say something. Right now. I’m tired of hearing my own voice. Let’s see. You.” He points to the head cheerleader. She’s thrown. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say you’re no stranger to pompoms?” The class laughs yet again. The cheerleader looks embarrassed. “Hey now, that’s alright. Everyone needs a hobby, am I right? I bet you wield those pompoms pretty damn impressively?”
“We were state champions two years running.”
“Well!” says Mr Morrison enthusiastically. “There ya go! Good for you.” She smiles and no doubt feels like she’s back on top of the class pecking order. “And does miss pompom have a name?” asks Mr Morrison.
“Crystal,” she replies proudly. “Crystal de la Fontane.”
“Got it. Crystal clear. Welcome to The Alurian School,” says Mr Morrison warmly. This guy takes laid back to new heights. I’m glad to discover not all the teachers are eager beavers.
Suddenly, Mr Morrison claps his hands. Then recoils from his gesture in horror. “Ooh now I’ve done it! I’ve strayed into Miss Montgomery territory haven’t I? I’ll never live that one down.” Again, there is much laughter. “But
look, I could sit up here for hours shooting the breeze with you. Believe me, I’d jump at the chance. But I figure there’s time for all that. Right now, it’s better if we just get you fedded and bedded. Ya dig it?” No one responds. “Ya dig it?” he says more loudly.
“Yes,” chants the class. Mr Morrison laughs.
“Well alright then. Now. This is the part where I’m sposed to yell ‘Helpers’ at the top of my lungs. I’ve been here a lot of years, but I just can’t get the hang of it. So. I’m gonna get one of you to do it for me. Don’t worry, they won’t know the difference.” He smiles and scans the room. When he sees the jock his eyebrows go through the roof. “And we have a winner,” he says, to more laughter. He closes his eyes and puts a hand on his brow, pretending to be deep in thought. “Quarterback,” he finally says. The jock gives a slightly cocky “yeh,” and a couple of the other sportier, meatier boys make a wooping sound. “Well,” says Mr Morrison, “A warm welcome to the QB. You got a name friend?”
“Garret. Garret Johnson.”
“It’s an honor to meet you Garret Johnson. And now perhaps you can do me the honor of saying in your deepest, loudest, most authorit…authoritate…oh you know, just yell at the top of your lungs ‘Helpers’, got it?” Garret obliges and does Mr Morrison proud. The door bursts open, and two Helpers come in carrying a large cardboard box. They bring it to Mr Morrison and place it on his desk, before turning to leave. Mr Morrison thanks them but they do not respond. When the door is closed, Mr Morrison leans across the desk and whispers to us, “they give me the willies.” The whole class laughs.
So far, he’s done a pretty good job of distracting us from our hunger. But if this cardboard box doesn’t contain something edible, I’m going to scream. Mr Morrison buries his head in it and rummages around. He pops back up armed with a little tin case, faded and rusty. “Ah,” he says, tapping the lid of the case. He pushes the cardboard box to one side and places the small tin on the table. He tries to open the lid. It doesn’t budge. He pulls even harder but it doesn’t move. He tries to get purchase on it, digging his fingernails this way and that. He squints and grits and strains, but this tiny, completely nondescript box doesn’t give an inch. Mr Morrison’s face reddens. “Well that’s not cool,” he says, and starts banging the tin on edge of the table. I can hear tiny pills rattling around inside, wondering what hit them.
Things get more and more heated, as Mr Morrison refuses to give in. The laid-back surfer dude has jumped out the window and moved to a neighboring beach. He starts to make a series of strange, high-pitched sound effects, similar to the ones that accompanied the botched magic trick. It’s hard not to laugh. At first, we try to conceal it, but that quickly becomes impossible. We laugh our socks off. We turn to one another with warm faces and tear-filled eyes. It’s a moment of shared brevity that unites the weary and hungry class.
Mr Morrison resorts to hurling the tin against a wall. He’s flustered beyond measure. His cardigan gets flung onto the floor. Eventually, he’s so exhausted, he has to sit down again. He slumps in his chair a defeated man. The clammed up tin is flung back on the table in front of him.
He breathes heavily and wipes sweat from his face. He looks up and sees us all laughing. “Glad I could be of service,” he says. As the laughter slowly subsides, Mr Morrison stares intently at the tin. He leans in close to it. His eyebrows arch. Slowly, he raises his hand and extends his index finger towards the lid. He presses on what turns out to be a tiny round button. Immediately the lid pops open. The class erupts in laughter and applause. Mr Morrison stands up and takes a bow.
Suddenly the door bursts open and Miss Montgomery is standing there in all her stern glory. The class falls silent in an instant. Mr Morrison freezes. She looks at him with weary disdain. She glances across the class, letting us know with just her look alone that this sort of thing will not be tolerated. She doesn’t say a word. When she’s done sucking the life right back out of us, she leaves. Mr Morrison gives a salute towards the door and everybody smiles.
The pills are incredibly small. Like tiny ball bearings. Mr Morrison delicately picks one up and holds it aloft. It looks white but after a while the color seems to change. Mr Morrison smiles as the white gives way to red, then blue, then a gorgeous sort of silver that catches the candlelight and shimmers. “Worth all that toil,” says Mr Morrison. “These, my friends, are the bomb.” He returns the lone pill to the tin, then gets up and brings it towards us.
As he continues talking, he starts handing one to each student. “These little pocket rockets are called Junior Glints, and they are about to become your best friend in the whole world. Well, second best friend, after me of course. Don’t swallow just yet. Hold them in your hot little hands for a moment and check out the color and light spectacular.” I receive my pill and stare intently at it. I’m dying to know what it does. Mr Morrison returns to the front of the class. “Now, didn’t your mothers ever tell you not to take candy from strangers?” We laugh. “Actually this stuff is better than any candy I know. This stuff is tailor-made, by moi, for the newly transitioned. For souls so recently in flight. They will help smooth over the rough edges of all that newness inside you. They will sate any hunger. They will quell any anxiety you might have about what’s just happened and where the heck you’re going. And they will help you go down like a lead balloon as the sun goes up, and stay down til the moon dares to show its face again. They are just itching to get inside of you. So in the words of the mythical man upstairs, take, eat.”
We willingly oblige. Mr Morrison resumes his seat and leans back with his hands behind his head. He watches as the magic he created takes hold. It’s incredible. In no time at all, I feel like an entire galaxy of stars has exploded inside me. All the gnawing hunger and fears disappear in an instant. “My work here is done,” says Mr Morrison with pride.
“Now. I did say fedded and bedded, so it’s time you hit the Dorms. School starts tomorrow night, so let’s not monkey about any longer. Follow me, oh bedazzled ones.” Mr Morrison leads us out into the hallway. I can tell immediately that everyone has had the same internal reaction as me. It feels like I’m totally calm but sharp at the same time.
We return to the reception room. Mr Foggarty is waiting for us. “Well, here’s where I bow out,” says Mr Morrison. “What a trip we had, huh? See ya soon kids. Sleep well, be well.” He ambles back down the dark hallway.
Mr Foggarty beckons us to join him once more by the fire. He stares at us, eagerly taking in the post-Transition changes. “Well! I trust you had a ‘radical’ time with Mr Morrison?” It’s safe to say those two aren’t bff’s. “I wanted to see you all before you leave. I’m so very thrilled you have all transitioned so exceptionally!” My mind goes back to the handful of empty desks in the exam room.
“Ah, Mr Foggarty,” I chime in. Ordinarily I’d be nervous at this point but the Junior Glint has seen to that. He locks eyes with me.
“Blake if I’m not mistaken?” I nod. “What is it my child?”
“Well, I was just wondering if anyone didn’t make it through Transition…sir?” Again I see that same, brief look of bewilderment on Mr Foggarty’s face.
“I see. Well how thoughtful of you Blake.” As ever, he speaks in his overly jolly voice. However, his eyes convey something a little different. I’m finding this jolly old man increasingly hard to read. Then again, I have just come through the toughest, strangest week of my life, and I’m drugged to the eyeballs, so maybe this isn’t the best time to form an impression of someone. “Well now, yes, it must be said that not everyone has the stomach for Transition. As with every year, there were one or two young ones who were unable to proceed.” I figure I’ve come this far so I may as well keep going.
“What happens to them?” I ask. Immediately, Mr Foggarty laughs as if I’ve told a harmless joke. I start to worry that he doesn’t want us asking too many questions.
“Well isn’t this lovely children, we’ve got a real thinker in our midst.” Clearly I’ve s
trayed where I shouldn’t, but my concern for the kids who didn’t make it is real. I came close to going mad myself in that little room, and I want to know what happens to newly turned vampires who fall over at the first hurdle. Everyone else remains silent, but I know I’m asking a question many if not all would like an answer to. After all, how they treat those who stumble says a lot about their society.
Mr Foggarty seems reluctant to answer, but he sees the genuine curiosity in all the faces peering back at him. He does his best to maintain the jolly old grandpa routine. “Well now, it’s probably a little early in proceedings to get into all of that…however, in the interests of treating you with the respect you all deserve, I can tell you that those who did not transition quite so effectively have found meaningful positions amongst our vast army of tireless Helpers.”
He tries to smile as if he’s told a funny joke. From what little I’ve seen, there’s not much that’s meaningful about the life of a Helper. They pretty much look like they’re in constant pain to me. I’m shocked. I’m sure others are too. Mr Foggarty points towards the front door. “But trouble your minds not, my weary ones! Plenty of time for answers to questions.” He starts walking us out and briefly puts a hand on my shoulder as we turn from the fire. His hand feels a little heavy.
We all huddle by the front door and Mr Foggarty tries one last time to smooth any rough edges. “Now then! Time to let us boring old teachers retire to pour over your exams, a process I’m looking forward to immensely. I will leave you lovelies to discover the waiting joys of Dorms and see you tomorrow. Helpers!” The little half-door bursts open and about a dozen Helpers stream in and form a perimeter around us. I try to scan their faces, to see if any are familiar, however they never look up. The front door is unbolted and we make our way out into the Square. I turn to look back and see Mr Foggarty watching us intently. The jolly smile has well and truly retired for the night. The door closes.
