by Molly Harper
I shuddered. “That tacky?”
“Yes,” they chorused.
Clearly, I had lost touch with some trends. Brianna had been right in that respect, though I hated to admit it. I had good taste, if I did say so myself, but I didn’t know what kids her age found elegant or exciting.
“Are you girls doing anything right now?” I asked them.
They shook their heads in unison, which was more than a little unnerving in a “twins in The Shining” sort of way.
I typed a quick response to Jamie, telling him I had plans with some girls from my dorm. There. Let him think that I was fabulously popular and in no way sitting around waiting for him to show up for some lame Sunday-night dorm date. Let him wonder—
Lightning-quick, he sent back several thumbs-up and an . . . excited face? Maybe. So much for him pining for me.
I refocused on Morgan and Keagan, still smiling. “Why don’t you join me in the lounge? You could go over my party plans with me and tell me whether I’m reaching Kardashian levels of tackiness in other areas.”
The girls exchanged glances, as if they were trying to determine whether my invitation was a trick, some lure to draw them into a secluded corner where I could treat them like a midnight snack. And considering my thoughts in the elevator, that was a concern that I found both reasonable and worthy of my respect.
“Uh, sure,” Keagan said, looping her arm through mine as we moved toward the central floor’s lounge, with its comfy, deeply-cushioned UK-blue sofas and roomy study tables.
Morgan slid her arm through my other elbow, so I was effectively trapped between them. I tried not to tense at the casual, affectionate contact today’s youth found so easy.
Meagan rounded the corner and let out a squeal at the sight of me sandwiched between her friends. “Hey!” Meagan cried. “This is great! You never come up to this floor.”
“Not unless I’m running out the door for class,” I conceded. “Speaking of which, why are you just now running back from class?”
“Yes, what are you doing getting back so late?” Morgan asked, a sly smirk curving her lips. “Would it have anything to do with that TA who wanted to see you about ‘extra credit’?”
“Intrigue and inappropriate behavior?” I gasped. “Do tell!”
“We’re helping Ophelia with the mixer,” Keagan interjected, shooting Morgan a warning look. “You should see the decorations she’s got planned.”
“Needs a little help with the food, though,” Morgan noted, her cheeks flushing pink. “Cocktail weenies.”
The three humans shuddered. “No girl wants to eat something called a weenie in mixed company,” Meagan told me. “There is no coming back from that.”
I snorted. “A more resourceful woman could turn it into a conversation starter.”
Meagan gaped at me, while the other two giggled. “You made a joke, Ophelia!”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever made a joke around me before!” she cried, her eyes getting a little misty.
“It’s my original British wit. Sometimes it’s so dry you can’t tell when I’m being downright hilarious.”
“Oh, you’re from England!” Keagan exclaimed. “What’s that like? Why don’t you have an accent? Have you just been here so long that you forgot it? If I was a vampire, would I stop sounding like I’m from Monkeys Eyebrow, or would it take a couple of hundred years?”
“That cannot be a real place,” I said as we dropped our bags near a circle of cozy armchairs.
“Oh, believe me.” She sighed. “It is.”
“Show her the lighting scheme thingy,” Morgan demanded, brimming with so much puppy-like excitement I couldn’t even get irritated with her tone.
“I thought Galadriel was supposed to be helping you with all this,” Meagan asked, as I opened the various vendors’ e-mails on my iPad.
I winced, wondering if my roommate had managed to get out of her improvised prison yet. “Yeah, she’s been, uh, held up,” I said, as Keagan cooed over the florist’s blue, white, and silver color scheme I’d selected as a nod to the school colors.
Morgan eyed me carefully. “Held up as in ‘in class’ or held up as in ‘indefinitely’?”
“Do you really want to know?”
Morgan shook her head. “No, I don’t.”
I beamed at her. “Smart girl.”
* * *
* * *
To my profound surprise, Meagan, Keagan, and Morgan had very helpful suggestions about the food and the décor, and they promised to send me suggested “steady dancing but no obnoxious Europop” playlists to pass along to the DJ. I wasn’t strictly following Tina’s requirement that I plan the soiree in cooperation with Brianna. But I was reaching out to the humans in my dorm, which I considered a compromise between the two evils.
They were good-natured girls, without Brianna’s malice or arrogance. Morgan was clever and quick and could turn just about anything into a highly inappropriate joke, which I enjoyed. Keagan was sweeter and tried to keep us on task by reminding us of how many people would enjoy the party once we had our work done. And when that didn’t work, she threatened in a very gentle manner to smack us with a stick, “like a couple of piñatas full of sass and impure thoughts.” Which led to a debate over what sorts of prizes would fall out of a sassy, impure piñata.
It was far past the girls’ bedtime and getting close to my own when I finished the last of my bloodychino. I found, to my surprise, that I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to leave this circle of women with their wit and giggles and life. Not because I didn’t want to give them the opportunity to plot against me when I was absent but because I didn’t want to miss out on anything.
It was one of the most enjoyable evenings I could remember in years. And that included the time I watched Andy Warhol spend a whole evening crying over his silly haircut. These girls didn’t want anything from me. They weren’t trying to curry favor with me or find blackmail material to use against me. They seemed to genuinely want to know more about me. If nothing else, the novelty was enough to make me want to repeat the experience.
“You should definitely come hang out with us on our floor sometime. We can watch a movie or try a new style with your hair or something,” Meagan said, as I disposed of my paper coffee cup.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with your hair,” Keagan added quickly. “We just think you would be adorable with bangs.”
“Bangs?”
Just a few months before, my first instinct would have been to flash my fangs and sneer. The pre-Gigi Ophelia was beyond this group of silly children. I hadn’t needed their insipid offer of friendship. I hadn’t needed them to entertain me or include me or take me on as some sort of makeover project. And then there was the annoying drive to tell them that I needed to check with Jamie’s schedule first. I wouldn’t want to miss out on a potential Friday-night date because I was hanging out with the girls. But I held that back. This was a bad habit I needed to break, on several levels.
I didn’t need their friendship. But it wouldn’t hurt me to have it. It was never wrong or weak to build a pool of allies. They could provide information gleaned from the campus gossip circuits, information on which professors I should avoid, a warm body to hold my spot when I got stuck in line at the accursed campus bookstore. I doubted they would have much to offer should the campus descend into mayhem, but . . . it would be nice to find a more current hairstyle.
“Yes, that would be . . . great,” I said, nodding slowly. “I would really appreciate that.”
“Awesome!” Keagan squealed. “We can watch The Notebook.”
“The what now?” I asked.
“It’s a movie,” Morgan told me.
“It’s the movie,” Keagan corrected her. “You’ve never watched The Notebook?”
“No.” I shook my head.
Morg
an frowned. “But you have a boyfriend.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“What do you do when you’re together?” Keagan asked.
Oh, this sweet child was not prepared for the answer to that question.
Morgan seemed to grasp that as she held Keagan’s arm and shook her head. “You’d have to run right to confession, hon. For stuff you didn’t even do. Also, you’re not Catholic, so everybody would be confused.”
“I like you,” I told Morgan, wagging my finger at her.
“It doesn’t matter,” Meagan said. “We’ll watch it. You’ll love it. And then we’ll give you highlights!”
“Yes to the movie. No to the hair dye.”
Meagan smirked at me. “We’ll see.”
* * *
* * *
Over the next week, I spent more time in the company of the Gan Girls. I conceded to some very attractive buttery highlights that framed my face, but I managed to hide all of the scissors on the fourth floor to prevent Morgan from giving me sassy bangs. I taught the girls about the different types of blood, from carefully screened rare donor packets to the cheapest available plasma substitutes—if for no other reason than to stop poor Keagan from offering to open a vein when they ordered late-night pizza. Apparently, residents of Monkeys Eyebrow took hospitality very seriously, and she could not leave a guest hungry, no matter what the cost.
We watched The Notebook. I didn’t cry, no matter what Morgan claimed to have seen on my cheeks. I was sure I was just having an allergic reaction to the hideously overscented wickless candles the girls used in their rooms.
I found it was easier to avoid Kenton’s overtures when I was distracted by the girls and their antics. Sure, I was still talking to him in class, but I was blithely ignoring his invitations for coffee and field trips to intellectual havens. I told him I wasn’t sure what was happening to his Facebook messages, as I rarely checked my in-box. He kept pushing, of course, which was helping to reduce that attraction I felt and return my equilibrium. I was able to view his classroom pretensions as amusing rather than endearing. Honestly, he was trying so hard. Vampires near the century mark shouldn’t have to try that hard. But still, it was nice to receive attentions from an attractive man, no matter how futile and misguided.
Maybe I could get him sent to the Half-Moon Hollow Council office for some sort of internship. I would have to write that down on my list of potentially evil ideas, which I kept to amuse Georgie.
I assumed that at some point, Brianna had escaped from her basement prison, but she failed to confront me or even return to our room that I could see. I enjoyed the peace and tranquillity of an unofficial single room and the wealth of blissfully quiet study time that improved my chances of a straight-A midterm sweep. I’d already planted enough evidence on her side of the room—including meticulously forged diaries in which “Brianna” listed ways to frame me for hurting her—to make a plausible case for Brianna duct-taping herself in the basement in order to cause trouble for me. Because revenge on Brianna was sweet but not worth dying for.
Jamie texted on occasion, keeping me informed of his plans with his roommates or progress in his classes. But I didn’t push him to break those plans or drop his study time to come see me. When he wanted to see me, he would make time. And when he did, maybe I would be available. Or maybe I would have plans.
While I was still unsure of my footing, both on campus and in this new, more balanced approach to dating, I noticed the slow easing of a strange acidic weight at my throat. The grip of anxiety—the constant awareness of the maneuverings of my fellow Council members or the ability to monitor Georgie’s behavior for violent anomalies—was slowly loosening. I almost missed it. After all, that constant vigilance had kept me alive for centuries. Letting go of it seemed disloyal. But with Georgie in good hands and my time on the Council over, I hardly needed to spend my days in a state of paranoia.
As the weight faded, I slept easier. Blood tasted better. I even found charm in Tina’s frizzy brown hair and hand-knitted poncho when she taught the undead orientation. The woman honestly wore a poncho in a professional environment. Clearly, she saw me as some sort of mellowed vampire kitten.
One night, I was leaving my room to check on my laundry and see if the girls had midnight-snack plans when my cell phone chimed, heralding the arrival of an e-mail to my campus address. I pulled it from my pocket, propping my laundry basket on my hip as I waited for the elevator to arrive.
Jane had responded to my none-too-enthusiastic response about her requested contacts. I frowned as her message scrolled across my screen. Ophelia, I really have no idea what you’re talking about, but if you have some question about how I’m managing your case, you’re welcome to call me. —Jane.
Shoving the phone into my back pocket, I stepped into the waiting elevator and rolled my eyes. Was Jane playing some sort of mind game with me, pretending that she hadn’t contacted Tina to request those names? Mind games weren’t really Jane’s style. She was annoyingly up front about her actions and their intended consequences.
Then again, Jane was the one who had made me sign an agreement to live as a “real student,” including using the communal laundry facilities as part of my “character development.” Maybe she was better at manipulation than I gave her credit for.
The elevator dinged, and I stepped out into the lowest level of the building, which contained the laundry, the long-term blood storage, and the storm shelter. Somehow, despite the newness of the building, the lighting and relative quiet of the hallway made the space unnerving, even to someone whose threshold for such things was pretty high. The only noise I could make out, besides the tumbling of the dryers, was the low hiss of the refrigeration system that kept the blood stores cool. I wasn’t necessarily uneasy. I mean, I’d spent a week wandering around Whitechapel in hopes of running into Jack the Ripper. (I had been single for a while.)
Anyway, even I was a little uneasy as I toted my empty basket toward the low electrical hum. This floor, so far underground, so far from the happy noises of my schoolmates, felt far too confining—like the smaller holding cells of the interrogation level at the Council office, and staying in one of those rooms once drove a vampire to impale himself on a chair leg.
The laundry room, I supposed, was tolerable, once you overlooked the synthetic chemical smell of fabric softener. I dropped my basket onto an empty folding table across from the dryers and followed the row until I found dryer number six. I opened the door, stopping the cycle, but instead of the warm, fluffy towels I expected, my hands swam through a steamy mess of jeans.
“What the hell?” I muttered. These were not my jeans. Where were my towels? I looked across to the folding tables and caught sight of my familiar blue-and-white-striped towels, tossed in a damp jumble. Someone had taken my towels out of the dryer and replaced them with their jeans, drying them on my dime.
OK, I’d done some messed-up stuff in my long, long life, but this was evil.
“Right,” I grumbled. I flung the half-dried jeans across the room and carefully placed my towels back in the dryer. After putting some time on the cycle, I sat on the folding table, picked up a pair of jeans, and began to methodically pick the stitches out of the crotch with my fingernails.
As I worked over the jeans, all of the machines except dryer number six sputtered to a halt. By the time I had finished the second pair, I heard the elevator bell ding down the hall. I listened, still stitch-picking, for footsteps or some indication of where the elevator passenger might be headed, just in case I needed to finish the jeans in double-time. But no footsteps came, and that was . . . odd.
Sure, kids liked to push unnecessary buttons in the elevator to make it harder for other residents to catch a ride. They also liked to leave salt-and-vinegar beef jerky behind because it stank up the cars so badly the vampires couldn’t use them. It was probably the same kids who had stolen my
dryer time.
I stuck my head out into the hallway but saw nothing. Frowning, I went back to my stitch-picking, finishing a third pair of jeans. I heard one short, sliding scrape of shoe sole against the floor. And suddenly, it was too quiet. Even with the rumble of the dryer, I could make out a strange muffled quality to the refrigeration system’s noise, like there was something standing between the laundry-room door and the blood-storage room.
I set the jeans aside, silently moving across the tiled floor. I rolled up the sleeves of my shirt and dropped my earrings into my pocket. Sliding against the wall near the door, I listened, trying to determine how close that noise obstruction was to me. I heard a rustle of clothing that felt closer to my vampire senses.
Could it be Brianna, seeking revenge for me locking her in the supply closet? I sniffed the air but didn’t detect a trace of her nauseating Night Roses perfume. Who the hell did this person think they were, sneaking up on me? Did they think I was weak? Defenseless? That because I was exiled to coed hell, I was no longer a threat? I found that incredibly insulting.
With my superhearing, I’d heard enough of the noxious dude bros slinking around campus, their sly whispers about what happened in the basements of frat houses, about point systems and chemical “assistance” slipped into girls’ drinks. I’d seen girls get catcalled for having the nerve to walk across campus while female. I would not let some idiot think he could corner me. I was, as Morgan called me, an “undead boss-ass bitch.” In fact, I was the undead boss-ass bitch.
My fangs slid out, nicking my bottom lip and drawing a bead of blood that only served to provoke my senses further. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark shape drift closer to the laundry-room door. Hissing, I shot my arm out, and my hand wrapped around a cool throat. Just as I caught the scent of fresh-mowed grass and leather, I dragged the figure into the laundry room and sent him flying.
Jamie skidded across the floor and smacked his head against the wall. “Ow!”
