Josie Griffin Is Not a Vampire

by Heather Swain

  “Well, you know how it is,” he said but then he shook his head. “No, I suppose you don’t because your parents are by birth. The rest of us, vampires anyway, form social bonds for show. Hasn’t your father taught you anything about our culture?”

  I stood silently. What could I say? That I’d been lying? Then what would happen? Would he get the munchies?

  “I’ve heard of this in families that choose to pass. Don’t worry,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “I can teach you everything. And look on the bright side”—he revealed a large gleaming smile—“maybe you will awaken your inner Dracula!” He tossed his head back and roared with laughter.

  My dad pulled up to the curb. I’d never been so happy to see his gold Chrysler LeBaron in all my life. As I jumped down the steps and ran to the sidewalk, Johann called after me. “See you next week, Yosie?”

  I didn’t answer. I just kept on running.

  Before my dad had a chance to roll out the we’re-so-disappointed-in-you-Josie diatribe, I threw myself into the car and yelled, “Drive! Drive! Drive!”

  “What? What’s wrong?” Dad yelled back, but he slammed the car in gear and laid rubber on the street. “What happened?”

  I turned around in my seat and watched out the back window, making sure there was no one following us. The street was quiet, except for a group of girls shuffling down the sidewalk into the shadows. “Oh thank god!” I sighed and flung myself forward. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve had the creepiest night. Thank you so much for coming to get me.”

  Dad did a double take, looking concerned. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You seem really shaken up.”

  “Dad,” I said, laying my head back against the seat, “I’m way out of my league. If you think playing home run derby on Kevin’s windshield was bad, you should meet the kids in this anger management group.” Suddenly I was laughing. It was all so unbelievable. I went back over the afternoon and evening in my head. Half of what I remembered couldn’t actually be true, could it? All along I thought those kids were delusional, but maybe I was the one who’d lost my marbles.

  “There’s no one dangerous is there?” Dad asked.

  This cracked me up even more. “I don’t know,” I admitted between hiccups of laughter. I’d laughed so hard that my stomach hurt and I felt nauseated and then it occurred to me that I might be laughing so that I wouldn’t cry.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” Dad said. “You know how these downtown kids are.”

  “Believe me,” I told him. “You have no idea.”

  When I got home, I immediately climbed in bed and logged on to JosieHatestheWorld on my laptop. Some of my blog friends had posted under the pix of me from earlier. SadSadie said, “Cute top!” and KKLaLa said, “Headbands are for a*holes!” Almost all of my readers were girls who’d been dumped. We were like a sad-sack sorority of heartbroken hellions. But truthfully, I was getting tired of all the whining about everybody’s love life. What had started as a way for me to cry and moan about how Kevin and Madison had mistreated me had become a blabfest for my readers. Oh, boo hoo, I got dumped, too! He has a new girlfriend and she’s fat. I saw him the other night at Steak ’n Shake and I barfed up my French fries.

  Which was why I was so excited to have something new and interesting to post tonight. My fingers flew over the keys as I recounted what happened in group therapy and at Buffy’s. As I typed, I tried to untangle all the knots in my mind and get every detail down, but I got stuck on what happened at Johann’s house. No matter what I said, it didn’t make sense. Finally, I typed:

  I’m not sure what happened tonight in Lockerby. Is J’s mother really a vampire or is there another explanation? Whatever the truth is, I’m going to have to find out!

  I posted my entry but as soon as I reread the words, they seemed ridiculous. Who would believe what I wrote? Faeries, vampires, werewolves! No one would buy it. I didn’t even really believe it and I was there.

  I tried to think like a journalist. What would Graham Goren do if he was breaking a story? First, he’d do some research. I surfed the words vampires and werewolves and faeries on different search engines but all the usual stuff came up about books and movies and TV shows. How would you look up real monsters? Especially when Tarren said they kept their records off the Internet. I entered the words Council and paranormal families, which yielded nothing. I added Saskatchewan to my search because Avis mentioned something about it. A URL for a site called ParaHunt came up, but the link was broken when I clicked it.

  Then I remembered a stupid listserv Kevin and some of his d-bag friends were part of called demon hunters. I typed it in and the site came up complete with melodramatic music and overdone fonts. Lists of weapons, supposed sightings, ghost-hunting phone apps, and pix from “hunts” populated the pages.

  When Kevin was into it, I thought the info on the site was bogus. Just a bunch of crap for jackweeds in leather jackets who liked going on fake occult chases to amuse their tiny minds. Now I wondered if the supposed demon hunters were on to something. Even if they were, which was worse? People like Kevin who wanted to hunt down supposed demons, or the kids I hung out with today? Definitely the idiots hunting demons were worse because the kids I met weren’t out to hurt anybody. In fact, they were some of the least judgmental, most accepting people I’d ever been around. Much nicer than the stupid cheerleaders I used to count as friends.

  I felt kind of bad about the post I had written. I probably sounded like I was making fun of the paras, which wasn’t my intention. Then again, it was a great story and would probably get more traffic to my site. I could always change it later if I wanted. Besides, I was exhausted from such a crazy day. I decided to sleep on it then reread what I’d written in the morning. I closed my laptop and let my eyes drift shut. Only depressed girls with boy problems would read what I wrote, so I didn’t have to worry anyway. Besides I didn’t use anyone’s name, only initials.

  As I lay there, something dawned on me. Despite how bizarre my day had been and how genuinely scared I was at Johann’s house, I felt happier than I’d been in months. Instead of Kevin and Madison staring at me from behind my eyelids, I thought of Tarren with her flaming red hair buzzing with excitement as she struggled to tell the story of the guy in the alley. The bizarre way she tripped over words. And I remembered Avis falling off the chair, which made me chuckle. Who ever heard of a clumsy werewolf? Then I saw Helios inviting me to go to Buffy’s. Beautiful, perfect Helios. Greek god was right.

  chapter 8

  later that week, Sharon Osbourne pointed to the toilets. “Scrub brushes and cleaner are in the cabinet.”

  Surely, I was in Hell. How else to explain a woman who looked exactly like Ozzy’s wife telling me and another girl to scrub toilets? Oh right, this was my community service.

  “Any rubber gloves?” I asked, swallowing hard to keep my Nachos Grande down.

  Mrs. Osbourne’s double glared at me. “No, there aren’t any rubber gloves. What do you think this is? Buckingham Palace?” she yelled over her shoulder as she stomped out of the bathroom.

  I glanced at my cleaning partner and said, “You mean this squat cement block building on the south side of Indianapolis isn’t a sprawling British castle?”

  She gave me a warning glance and jerked her head toward the door.

  “Keep your comments to yourself!” Mrs. Osbourne reappeared then added, “And don’t use too much cleaner. One squirt per commode. Put some elbow grease into it.” She disappeared into the hallway again.

  Sighing, I trudged to the cabinet for a toilet brush. “Never thought I’d be reduced to a toilet scrubber.” I handed the other girl a brush and a bottle of Mr. Clean.

  She pushed her long blonde hair away from her face and I could see that she was pretty in that fresh farm girl kind of way with freckles across her nose and thick hair so shiny she must drink gallons of milk or something. “Have you seen Ozzy?” she whispered. “Because I think his wife is looking for him.”

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nbsp; My mouth fell open then spread into a huge smile. “Duuuuuude,” I whispered. “I know! Weird, right?”

  “So weird,” she whispered. “And you want to know what’s weirder?”

  “What?”

  She stepped closer to me. “Her name is actually Maron.”

  I guffawed, loud and stupid. “Shut up.”

  “For reals. I’ve been calling her Sharon Osbourne in my head for a week now.”

  “That’s awesome,” I said, then I stuck out my hand. “I’m Josie.”

  “Kayla,” she said. “But I think I’m going to skip shaking your toilet brush hand.”

  I laughed and wiped my hand on the back of my cutoffs. “Good idea. Have you done this before?” I asked, studying my brush.

  “I’m a toilet virgin,” she declared.

  “Me, too!” I lifted my brush like a soldier. “Let’s do this thing.” I used the bristly end to push open a stall door. The hinge squeaked and I cringed, expecting Armageddon of the Butt. When I stepped inside, I was surprised. “It’s not so bad,” I told Kayla as I squeezed Mr. Clean into the bowl. Just to be spiteful, I gave it an extra squirt. “Guess girls aren’t such slobs, but if we were working at a guys’ shelter…”

  “Hey!” Maron Osbourne shouted from the hall. Kayla and I both popped out of the stalls and saw her glaring at us from the doorway again only this time she had a girl who looked about twelve with her. “Stop your gabbing and get back to work!” she yelled. “What do you think this is, Dunkin’ Donuts?”

  So help me Lord, I couldn’t stop myself. “I’ll take two glazed and a coffee,” I said.

  Kayla ducked her head but I could hear her muffled snorts beside me.

  Maron crossed her arms over her ample chest. I swore her dyed hair was going to burst into flames as she glared at me with those witchy eyes. “Kayla,” she barked, and Kayla jumped. “Come with me. I have a job for you and Sadie.”

  Kayla handed me her toilet brush along with a look of pity then she scurried across the floor. The other girl, Sadie, clung to Kayla’s arm like a frightened toddler, but who could blame her with Maron-Sharon running the show. “And you,” Mrs. Osbourne said to me, “can finish cleaning the bathrooms on your own.”

  After they were gone, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and took a picture of myself with two toilet brushes. At least that would be good for a laugh on my blog.

  When my first three-hour shift was over (and all the toilet bowls sparkled) I looked for Maron Osbourne to sign my official community-service time sheet. I found her at the receptionist desk, under the HELPING AMERICAN GIRLS sign, reading the National Enquirer.

  “My aunt JoJo loves that magazine,” I told her as I slid my time sheet across the desk. Of course, JoJo and I read the Enquirer to laugh ourselves silly, but I got the feeling Maron might have read it for real by the way she narrowed her eyes at me.

  “They break a lot of stories no one else has the guts to report,” she told me.

  “I want to be an investigative reporter,” I said, leaning on the desk.

  She raised one eyebrow.

  “Really. I’m trying to get into University of Chicago to study journalism.”

  The other eyebrow went up and Maron leaned forward to stare at me. “I think Ms. Babineaux sent me the wrong kind of girl.”

  I stood up straight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, I don’t need your attitude here, missy.”

  I stepped back. “What attitude?”

  “That one,” she said.

  “I don’t have an attitude,” I assured her. “I just want to finish my community service before the school year starts, then I can get on with my life. So if you’ll just sign my time sheet…”

  Maron picked up a pen but she didn’t sign. “Listen, I don’t need some rich, entitled spoiled brat to come in here and get nibby.”

  “Jeez,” I whined, kind of hurt by her baseless accusations. “I’m not spoiled. My parents are teachers. I made a mistake once. Now I’m paying for it.”

  She pointed the pen at me. “You come in here, do your work, and leave. Got it? You’re not here to make friends with these girls. You’re not here to save them. Keep your nose out of everybody’s business, or I’ll make sure Ms. Babineaux reassigns you. And let me tell you, picking up trash on the side of the road with a bunch of sex offenders won’t be a cake walk like scrubbing toilets.”

  “God,” I said. “Fine.”

  I could see a little smirk on Maron’s maroon lips as she scrawled her name across my time sheet. I grabbed it from her and headed for the lounge where my bag was in a locker by a bank of beat-up old computers.

  I muttered to myself about what a bee-yatch Maron was because I thought I was alone until I walked past one of the faded couches and saw Kayla laying down reading a battered copy of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

  “Hey,” I said. “That’s one of my favorite books.”

  She slammed the book closed and sat up. “Are you joking?”

  “No, why would that be a joke?” I asked her.

  She bit the side of her lip and shrugged. “Guess it wouldn’t. It’s just that, most people make fun of me for reading.”

  “Most people are idiots,” I said.

  Kayla smiled. “For a rich entitled brat, you sure are good at scrubbing toilets.”

  “Are you making fun of me now?” I asked, hand on my hip.

  She laughed. “What’d you do to set Ozzy’s wife off like that? She ripped you a new one.”

  “I know, right?” I said, rolling my eyes. “She must have it in for me.”

  “Watch out or she’ll send you a box of poo,” Kayla said, and we both snickered then looked over our shoulders to make sure Maron wasn’t behind us with a set of brass knuckles.

  “You’re not an actual HAG, are you?” Kayla asked.

  “A hag?” I asked. “I’d hope not!”

  She pointed to the sign on the wall. “Didn’t you notice? Helping. American. Girls.”

  I swallowed a giggle. “Oh my god. It is HAG.”

  “That’s what the girls who live here call ourselves,” she explained.

  “Nice,” I said. “Can I be an honorary HAG? I am court ordered to be here. Community service for the screwup.”

  “Well,” Kayla said, considering. “I’d have to teach you the secret handshake and…”

  We were interrupted by Maron who bustled into the lounge carrying an overstuffed backpack dripping clothes and shoes from its exploding sides. “Hey you!” she yelled, pointing straight at me. “Your shift is over.”

  “Sorry,” I said stepping away from Kayla who quickly ducked down on the couch and stuck her face into her book. “I was just…”

  “You were just leaving,” Maron told me, and I agreed. She pushed through the back door and I caught a glimpse of her opening the Dumpster before the door slammed closed.

  “That was Rhonda’s stuff,” Kayla said quietly. “Maron made me and Sadie get it all together.”

  “Who’s Rhonda?” I asked.

  “Another HAG,” Kayla said. Worry crossed her brow. “She’s the second girl to disappear since I’ve been here.”

  I shrugged. “It is a place for runaways, isn’t it?”

  Kayla scowled at me. “Yeah, but Rhonda was just getting herself together. She signed up for GED classes and got a part-time job at 7-Eleven then things started to get weird with her.” She looked around nervously.

  “You guys were good friends?” I asked.

  She nodded. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why would she leave without her stuff?”

  “I don’t know, maybe she just…” I trailed off because I had no explanation.

  Kayla looked up sharply. “She was scared.”

  “Of what?” I asked.

  Kayla drew in a breath as if she was going to explain something but then she thought better of it. She shook her head and looked away.

  “I’m sorry your friend took off,” I said. “Look, um…” I
dug around in my bag for a pen and paper and scribbled my cell number. “I could lend you Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters, if you want.” I handed her the paper. “It’s a good read and…”

  A loud pounding shook the back door. “Open the door!” Maron yelled. “I got locked out.”

  Kayla and I looked at each other and cracked up. “Should I leave her out there?” Kayla asked. “Let the lunatics take over the asylum?”

  “She’d just come in through the front,” I said.

  “I’m not sure she’s that smart,” Kayla said. “But I probably shouldn’t wait to find out, which means you should get out of here.” She smiled down at the contact info I gave her and placed it carefully between two pages of her book. “Thanks for this.”

  “Sure thing,” I called as I ran for the front entrance. “See you next week!”

  chapter 9

  when I stepped into the late afternoon humidity, I hesitated before heading to my car. Something didn’t add up here. Kayla was right. It would be strange for one of the girls to take off and leave her stuff. And even stranger that Maron wouldn’t keep shoes and clothes in case another runaway showed up without any luggage. Plus the whole thing seemed to freak Kayla out and that bothered me. These girls might be runaways, but that didn’t mean their lives were disposable. I probably should have left right then, but I had that feeling like someone was being wronged and I didn’t want to walk away from injustice. So against my better judgment, I slipped around to the back of HAG to see exactly what Maron had thrown away.

  I found the big green Dumpster by the back door and just as I was about to lift the lid, I heard the door open. Quickly I slid between the Dumpster and a brick wall because if Maron caught me snooping she’d have me spearing trash on the side of the road in a nano-second. Note to self: never hide behind a Dumpster on a sweltering August day again. Three words: stink, stank, stunk!

  However, crouching back there gave me a perfect view of who was walking out of HAG—none other than Atonia Babineaux, my social worker, which seemed kind of odd. She had her phone pressed to her ear. “I’ll be there in five minutes,” she said as she walked by. She hung up and practically skipped across the pavement. Her skin was rosy, her hair was soft and silky, and she looked vibrant. A far cry from the withered old woman I met in her office the other day. Either she really hated her social work job or the lighting in her building was truly evil. As she passed the Dumpster, I heard a cell phone ring. I expected to hear her pick up, but instead, she stopped and turned around and I panicked. Was it mine? I squished my bag against my body to muffle the noise, because it would be mighty hard to explain to my social worker what the heck I was doing behind a Dumpster. Then I realized it wasn’t my ringtone. It didn’t seem to be hers either because she walked toward the Dumpster with a quizzical look on her face. I pushed myself farther against the wall but luckily, instead of coming around to the side, where she could have seen me, Ms. Babineaux stepped in front. I heard squeaking metal as she lifted the lid and the ringing got louder. Obviously it was coming from inside the trash bin. Who would throw away a perfectly good cell phone? Ms. Babineaux must have been wondering the same thing because she stood there, muttering, “What the…?” until the ringing stopped and the phone beeped twice as if it had gotten a voice message. The Dumpster rattled as the lid crashed down.