V is for...Vampire

by Adele Griffin

  “They’re bored. Pixies need jobs,” Orville had explained. He’d also assured the worried Livingstones that they’d be leaving soon, soon, soon.

  “But who could want these berserk creatures?” Lexie’s mother had asked.

  “The Argos think they’ve found employment for them at an inn,” Orville had answered. “Every country inn—even in the New World—likes to have a couple of pixies, even if they occasionally sour the milk and scare the cat. But they can be an advantage, too—they plant incredible varieties of wildflower, and people love to hear them whistle at dawn. Many people think that an inn isn’t truly authentic without pixies.

  “Meantime, never let them sing a lullaby to you.” Orville shook his head in emphasis. “Once they lull you, you’re putty in their hands. And nobody ever wants to be pixie putty.”

  Definitely not me, Lexie agreed silently as she slipped out the door.

  7

  A DIRTY TRICK

  If it isn’t the skinny speechwriter. Mina loves to quote you, by the way,” Nina Pringle said as she let Lexie inside. “I’m on the campaign, too. I’m a gofer. It’s not bad. My sister’s paid more attention to me all week than this entire year.”

  “That’s nice.” Lexie looked around. “Where is she?”

  “On the patio with her boyfriend. This way.”

  Boyfriend? Lexie’s heart pounded with fresh worry. Her shiver of misgiving turned to a freeze of shock when she saw Dylan Easterby lounging on a patio chair. It was Dylan, wasn’t it? He had mud smeared all over his face and a cucumber slice covering each eye.

  “Nice to see ya, Lex,” said Mina in her special, flirting-with-Dylan voice. “Take that table in the far corner—no, the one even farther—and set up a study nook for yourself.” She clapped. “Nina!”

  “Am I finished with my facial?” asked Dylan through his mud-cracked lips as Nina appeared with folders, pens, index cards, and a plate of peach bars.

  “Not yet,” crooned Mina.

  Lexie took a peach bar. “Dylan, are you working on Mina’s campaign, too?”

  “No, darling,” Mina said before he could answer. “I’m giving Dylie Willie a spa treatment. I want spa treatments recognized as a Parrish community service. It’s part of my campaign. Isn’t that genius?”

  “Lucky you, Dylie Willie,” Lexie teased. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wearing vegetables before.”

  “First time for everything.” An embarrassed Dylan had already peeled off the cucumbers. “Arright, Mina, thanks for the . . .”

  “Deluxe rejuvenating facial, with a stimulating grape-seed-infused mud buff.” Mina smiled. “Dylie pepper, you deserve some tender loving care.”

  “Yeah, okay. But what I really wanted to talk about was the soccer team. We lost our last three games, and kids’ spirits are down. Can you give me more of the pep talk that you put in your last note? You’ve really got a way with words.”

  Lexie bristled. “Mina’s got a way with my words, you mean,” she said. “Otherwise why would she need a speechwriter?”

  “Down, girl.” Mina wrinkled her nose at Lexie as she hopped out of her seat. “And true inspiration comes from here.” She patted her heart. “One sec.” She dashed out of the room and returned with a slip of paper. “Here’s a little poem I wrote called ‘Everyday Victory,’” she said with a glance at Lexie. Then, in a hushed voice, she began: “‘If you’re feeling down and out and glory’s passed you by, listen to this winning plan and then give it a try.’”

  Lexie couldn’t believe what her supersonic vampire ears were hearing. She clenched her fingers around her pen. Those words were from her poem “Ode to My Feet.” She’d written it to make herself feel better about her long banana feet. Mina must have stolen the poem from Lexie’s PHOLD and changed the words.

  “ ‘ Cut back complaints, stay tough, don’t whine. A silver trophy’s quite divine,’ ” recited Mina.

  Lexie fumed, though she also had to hand it to Mina. While the original words had been, “Cut back hangnails, buff, and shine. Leave icky tortoise toes behind,” Mina’s remake wasn’t bad.

  Not bad, but not fair. And poor Dylan had no clue that he was listening to copied inspiration. “Awesome.” He whistled through his teeth.

  “Oh, please. It’s just a little gloppy poem I wrote.” Mina snuggled up right next to him on the lounge, tossing aside the paper. Lexie fumed. A little gloppy poem? Why, that ode had taken Lexie days to make perfect.

  “A wise man once said that ‘he that readeth good writers and pickes out their flowres for his own nose is lyke a foole,’ ” Lexie quoted. She could hear the anger squiggling in her voice.

  “Honey, you’re trying too hard.” Mina snickered. “Don’t force the muse. You need to relax.”

  And you need a good bite on the neck, thought Lexie.

  “What’s wrong, speechwriter?” asked Nina. “You look paler than usual—if that’s possible. Why aren’t you working on a speech for my sister?”

  “Bathroom first.” Lexie slipped inside and ran to Mina’s bedroom instead.

  It didn’t take long to discover what she was looking for. Just as she thought. Sneaky Mina had ripped out several pages of Lexie’s PHOLD. They made a packet under her history book, with many of Lexie’s words crossed out and Mina’s bubble writing added in. Of particular horror, Lexie’s tribute poem to her favorite doomed post-punk band, Joy Division, had become a tribute to Kaylee Milquetoast.

  “That’s a cosmic insult,” Lexie mumbled as she smoothed out her precious papers, then slipped them into her folder. So, so wrong. What kind of a crooked politician was Wilhelmina Pringle if she had no guilt stealing somebody else’s ideas for her own benefit?

  That sappy smile and semi-snuggle that Dylan was giving Mina on the patio should have been for her.

  “You were using me, same as ever,” Lexie told the seashell-framed photograph of Mina. “I’ll never be in your crowd unless you want something from me. That’s the way it’s always been, and that’s the way it will always be, time unending.”

  She returned to the patio and tried to sound unboth ered as she announced she was going home.

  “Good idea,” said Nina. “You look contagious.”

  “Bye, honey. See ya Monday.” Mina spooned in closer to Dylan. She didn’t even ask for Lexie’s pink-and-purple papers. Just as well, since Lexie had decided right that moment to quit Mina’s campaign.

  She was shocked. She was outraged. She was through.

  This time, Lexie didn’t bother waiting for the elevator. She used her vamp strength to vault the fire-escape stairs, one entire staircase at a time. She was out on the street in seconds, her legs pounding the pavement in quarter-block leaps, so fast that other people jumped out of her way, yelling: “Watch it, Speedy!” and, “Where’s the fire?”

  Lex didn’t care. The harder she ran, the madder she got. Where was the justice for someone like word-poaching, fake-friending Mina? To steal from her PHOLD was bad enough. But to steal from it so that she could entice Dylan? Outrageous.

  Back at home, the pixies were confused to see Lexie’s tears.

  “Boooo hoooo! What is wrong with half-vampire girl?” bleated Mitzi.

  “Hoooo hooo hooo! She is a chicken who is scared of chickens!” added Blix.

  “I’m not scared of chickens, and I’m way less than half vamp,” said Lexie. “I’ll give you pixies another lesson in New World slang after dinner. Calling someone a ‘chicken’ doesn’t mean you’re saying that they’re scared of chickens. I’m not scared of poultry. In fact, I have heartfelt reasons for crying.”

  “Heartfelt reasons?” Blix thought. “Or her means . . . fartsmelt raisins?”

  Mitzi convulsed with laughter. “Tlemstraf snisiar!”

  “What’s wrong with you two-faced pixies? I make you cupcakes, and you insult me. Thanks a lot.” Lexie fled upstairs.

  The pixies’ voices screeched after her.

  “Stay and play with us!” they called. “Us will be
one faces, promise.”

  “Some other time!” Lexie slammed her door, then slammed her lavender-scented pillow over her head to muffle the pixies’ voices telling Lexie that she was a fartsmelt raisin chicken.

  After a while, though, their words began to seep in and take on a new meaning.

  Because I am kind of a chicken, Lexie thought as she replaced her loose PHOLD pages and set the restored book on her shelf. I’ve got thirteen PHOLDs, and none of them has translated into a single plan of action. What good is a philosophy if it can’t turn into policy? What use is an opinion if it’s never voiced?

  Dylan liked Mina because she was a leader, not a follower. Mina always said what she thought and did what she wanted with a toss of her curly head and no care for the consequences.

  But Dylan paid attention to Lexie when she acted like herself, too.

  Like the time she scaled the wall to his apartment building. Or when she gave an impromptu guitar recital at lunch. Or when she read her “Elegy to Fun K. Blood” over the school’s loudspeaker system. Maybe those weren’t “cool” things. But they got Dylan’s attention. In a good way.

  I did it before, and I can do it again, Lexie thought. I’ve been going about this all wrong.

  Why be a mere speechwriter, letting unworthy Mina take the credit and the glory, when I could be so much more?

  When I could be, say, ninth-grade class president?

  8

  SPOILER

  Listen up, family. Maddy and I are famous,” Hudson announced at dinner that Monday. He was still dressed in Maddy’s green Spitzi the Pixie outfit. Like anything and everything that Hudson put on, he looked gorgeous in it because Hudson was extremely handsome. “Almost famous, anyway.”

  “True, true.” Maddy flashed a full-on, fangs-out grin. “We’re going to be Livingstone legends.” She was dressed as Doctor Death, in ketchup-spattered hospital scrubs and a stethoscope. Doctor Death was a variant on her Nurse Hatchet costume, which Maddy had considered a big-time success.

  All day, Maddy had been swinging around her stethoscope and calling out her new catchphrase: “Dr. Death says, ‘Have a heart-stopping Halloween.’”

  “Explain, please. Why are you two legends?” asked their mother.

  “Hallo-month,” answered Maddy and Hudson together.

  “See, we’re turning Hallo-month into a celebration extravaganza,” explained Maddy. “Everyone in Hudson’s and my grades are so into our costume countdown. They’ve correctly pegged us as Halloween experts.”

  “Yeah, and if they knew that we’re part vampire, too, they’d really call us experts,” added Hudson.

  “Ex-vampires,” reminded Lexie.

  “Whatever.” Hudson continued, “Kids at school want us to create a haunted house for Halloween. We’re going to do it—and it’ll be totally eco-friendly, too. We’ll have soy candles, no plastics, vintage costumes, local pumpk—”

  “Yeah, and we’re going to charge a dollar at the door,” interrupted Maddy, “so we’re guaranteed to make millions. Or twenty bucks apiece, at least.”

  “Also, old Madame Peabody from down the street said she’d help us with the spook factor,” said Hudson. “Since she’s got one of the creepiest houses in the neighborhood.”

  Lexie’s parents nodded. Madame Peabody lived in a frightfully tall, narrow, crickity old house at the end of the block, and Madame herself was as hunched up and frizzle-haired as a witch.

  “Sounds like you’ve got a perfect plan,” said their father.

  “So you’ll let us? Can we do a spooky, brilliant, completely green haunted house here?” asked Hudson.

  “Please please please?” Maddy spoke into her stethoscope for emphasis. “It’d be such a Hallo-hoot!”

  Their parents exchanged a parental look. “It would be nice to get to know the neighbors better,” mentioned their father. “Madame Peabody seems like a sweet old biddy.”

  “I agree. You can do it on two conditions,” decided their mother. “First. New World rules only.”

  “Right. In other words,” said their father, “you’d have to keep your vampire skills and thrills out of it.”

  “Second,” continued their mother. “No candy apples. Smothering an apple in concrete-hard candy is a crime against fruit.”

  “How about some festive Mexican food?” suggested their father. “A little spice takes the sting out of a scare.”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Maddy and Hudson, their voices sweet enough to make Lexie feel deeply doubtful.

  “Kids at my school are too busy with elections to care about Halloween,” she said, hoping to change the subject.

  “Kids at our school are busy with Hallo-month,” Hudson said. “For example, Mad’s and my class got together and chalked a wall calendar in the front hall. It’s called ‘Thirty-one Tricks of October.’ Everyone shared their favorite pranks, one for each day.” He began to count them off. “How to short-sheet a bed, how to wedge a bucket of water over a door, how to put shaving cream on a toilet seat—”

  “How to poison a vampire,” chimed in Maddy, “how to make a box of disgusting, how to roll back your eyelids so you look like a zombie, how to—”

  “Okay, okay, we get the idea,” said their mother.

  “At my school, we’re outlining policy plans,” said Lexie.

  “Ooh, I hope the pixies are still here for Halloween,” continued Maddy, as if Lexie hadn’t spoken. “They know good tricks. This morning, Blix spelled a hairy wart onto my chin. Which was fine by me since it looked awesome with my Doctor Death costume. My chin didn’t de-wart till lunchtime. That’s good magic, eh?”

  In the front hall, the pixies began to jabber proudly.

  Their father shook his head. “No magic is good magic.” Then he whispered, “And I, for one, will be happy when we’re pix free.”

  The eavesdropping pixies rattled the bars of the cage and swore.

  “Guess what? I’m running for class president,” Lexie announced loudly. She was tired of trying to nudge the talk off Hallo-month. If she didn’t force it, her siblings would chatter about their dumb haunted house forever.

  “How wonderful, dear!” exclaimed her mother.

  “What made you decide to do that?” asked her father.

  Lexie reddened. She didn’t want to say that her crush on Dylan or wanting revenge on Mina had motivated her.

  “Government is interesting,” Lexie said. Neil Needleburger had said that once.

  But her answer didn’t inspire any follow-up, election-related questions.

  Their father stood to clear plates. “Whose turn is it to feed our guests?”

  “Mine,” said Lexie. It was always her turn. The pixies refused to take food from anyone else. She went to the kitchen to frost her latest batch of cupcakes.

  Hudson and Maddy can brag all they want about their costumes and their haunted house, thought Lexie. I’ll be famous in my own right. What she had requested earlier today was unprecedented. Mr. Fellows had even told her so.

  “You’re putting me in a sticky spot, Lexington.” Mr. Fellows had clasped his hands while tapping the heels of his shoes together. “It’s unprecedented for you to join the class presidential race at this late date.”

  “I’m a dark-horse candidate,” Lexie had replied. “That means political intrigue.”

  “True.” Mr. Fellows had looked down at his glossy shoe tips. “Tell you what. Prepare me an essay on what it means to be a great president and put it on my desk tomorrow.” He raised his finger. “Something intriguing, okay?”

  “Thanks, Mr. Fellows. I will.” What she couldn’t tell Mr. Fellows was that she’d lived through four centuries of political intrigue. She’d seen bloody coups, coldhearted assassinations, and passionate mutinies. She’d write that essay so well that Mr. Fellows would let her read it out loud for the class—including Dylan. “You won’t be disappointed,” Lexie promised her teacher.

  She was glad that Mr. Fellows occasionally bent the rules. Of course, he him
self was an intriguing person. For example, he owned over one hundred pairs of shoes. Some were antiques that he’d found in attics and yard sales. Others he had cut and stitched himself.

  “Shoe cobbling is my avocation,” Mr. Fellows had explained last month during Something About Your Teacher Day, when all the teachers at Parrish sat on the stage and explained little-known tidbits about themselves. “An avocation is the thing you love to do besides your job.”

  “Maybe politics is my avocation,” Lexie thought out loud as she prepared her one-pager. Or, when she looked a little deeper, was her true avocation revenge?

  Either way, Mina was in big trouble now. Nobody was going to rip off Lexie’s PHOLD, then recite her own poetry back to her one true love and get away with it.

  “‘Ay, now by all the bitter tears that I have shed for thee, the racking doubts, the burning fears, avenged they well may be,’” she quoted to herself. Nothing sounded better in her own ears than these words of revenge-specialist poetess Letitia Elizabeth Landon, who was doomed to die from an overdose of cyanide.

  First thing the next morning, Lexie dropped off her essay with Mr. Fellows. From the gleam in his eye when she walked into class, she knew her passionate words had sealed it.

  But he didn’t let her read it out loud. Another missed chance to show off for Dylan. Oh, well. There’d be others. After all, I’m a public figure now, she reminded herself. I’m a political candidate.

  “Class, I’m pleased to tell you that Lexie is joining the race for ninth-grade class president,” said Mr. Fellows with a small click of his tassel-tie loafers. “I’m pushing back the final speeches to the end of next week. We’ll cast our votes on Halloween, and I’m hoping for one hundred percent turnout. Voting is one of our great democratic privileges. To paraphrase a past president, ‘A person without a vote is a person without protection.’ ”