a) the pilot and copilot arguing about some reality TV show and apparently not paying any attention whatsoever to the plane,
b) a couple of flight attendants debating which guy in First Class is cuter, and
c) some disgruntled passenger in the back of the plane complaining about the lack of free snacks.
It’s really kind of nerve-racking. I mean, if the plane goes down due to a couple of bonehead pilots who can’t agree on whether or not the blonde with long legs or the brunette with the big butt should win the grand prize or not on some stupid TV show, I’ll probably die a flaming death along with everyone else. I don’t think even a vampire can survive a drop of 30,000 feet. Pretty sure, anyway. It definitely wasn’t in the brochure.
The rest of the fam seems completely okay with all of this, but I guess they’ve had longer to get used to it. Dad’s reading some boring history book (surprise), Mom’s watching the in-flight movie (nothing good), and Uncle Mortie is rocking out on his old-school CD player. And thanks to the Josh-erator School of Light Packing, I don’t even have a book to take my mind off of things. All I’ve got is my vampire lessons notebook and the information packet. I’m not desperate enough to read my old notes, so I break out the packet.
Dear Mina Smith, formerly Mina Hamilton:
I snort. “Uncle Mortie, I still can’t believe they’re changing our last name to Smith. Isn’t that like the most common last name in the entire country?”
He takes off his headphones and wiggles his eyebrows at me. “And why do you think that is?”
Oh. Hmmmm. That makes me wonder about my old sixth-grade math teacher, Mrs. Smith. I always thought there was something different about her.
Attached please find a biographical profile of your new identity. We strongly advise you to study this document carefully and commit it to memory before destroying it. You are also strongly cautioned against keeping any memorabilia from your old life that might serve to identify you in any way. This includes yearbooks, driver’s licenses, birth certificates, and any other identifying documents. New documentation will be provided to you by your agent as necessary.
Great. The Josh-erator was lying about me getting most of my stuff back. I bet he didn’t even let Mom keep my baby pictures since she’s supposed to be my sister-in-law now, and Dad is supposed to be my brother. I should have packed up some of my stuff and hidden it or given it to Serena for her to keep for me. Now I bet I’ll never get any of it back. The good stuff anyway. The stuff I actually care about.
I’ll have to see if Serena can sneak into my house and steal some of it for me. They won’t be expecting that and she can always just pretend if she gets caught that she wanted to have something to remember me by.
The Vampire Relocation Agency (VRA) welcomes this opportunity to assist you in your upcoming relocation. Your personal agent is Josh Douglas. Please feel free to call upon him at any time during the process with any questions, comments, or concerns.
A follow-up survey will be forwarded to your new address. We appreciate your taking the time to let us know how we are doing.
You can bet I’ll be filling out their little survey.
Sincerely,
Lucas Porter
Regional Coordinator
Mina Smith Biographical Profile
Name: Mina Smith
Brief Family Bio: Mina Smith was born in Seattle, Washington. She is the second child of Adam and Briggita Smith née Mueller.
Her older brother is Robert “Bob” Smith, who is her elder by eleven years. Adam and Briggita died in a tragic snowmobiling accident in Boulder, Colorado, five years ago when Mina was twelve. She was subsequently taken in by her brother, Bob, and his wife, Mari, and the family moved to Santa Barbara, California.
I think we’ve driven through Santa Barbara before. Hopefully no one asks me anything about it. Though I guess people in Louisiana probably wouldn’t know if I messed up anyway.
Bob and Mari have no children of their own and have happily raised Mina. Mina and Bob’s uncle, Mortimer, is their only living relative. He lives in New Orleans, Louisiana. Mari worked as an office assistant at an elementary school until she was downsized. Soon after Bob was laid off from his nontenured teaching position at Santa Barbara Community College. So Bob and Mari decided to move the family to Louisiana to be closer to Mortimer.
Mina was a solid A/B student at a midsize school in Santa Barbara. She participated in her school’s French club, school newspaper, Drama Club, and track and field. She was voted Most Likely to Win an Oscar in her junior yearbook.
Birthday: June 1st
Chronological/Apparent Age: 17/17
It goes on for a while with a bunch of other inane factlets about my life. Or rather, my fake life. At least they didn’t change my birthday. Or my grades. Most everything else is a bit of a mystery. I didn’t really participate all that much in clubs and I am definitely no drama queen. Well, okay, Uncle Mortie might say I am, but never like in an actual drama class. I transferred out of that in ninth grade. Whoever made this stuff up really should have paid a little more attention, but maybe they were going for opposites. I dunno.
New Location: Cartville, Louisiana
New School/Career: Cartville High School, senior
“Hey, Uncle Mortie, where exactly is Cartville, anyway? Is it a suburb of New Orleans or something?”
“Probably. Isn’t the Big Easy the only city in Louisiana? Hey, I’ll be right back. Going to see if I can snitch some nuts from the stewardesses. I think the redhead was giving me the eye.”
I seriously doubt that, but Uncle Mortie’s nothing if not optimistic. About redheads, anyway.
So I try pumping Mom for some more details. I poke her on the shoulder. “Mo—sorry, Mari.” She turns away from the in-flight movie and lifts up her headphones.
“What do you know about Cartville?” I ask. “Anything you can tell me now that Josh isn’t around?”
“I’m sure it will be really nice,” says Mom. Which I guess answers my question—she has no idea either. She’s already got her headphones back on and is staring at the movie.
I poke her again. “Do you think it will be close to New Orleans? Maybe we can tour around once we get there?” I imagine eating some of those yummy Frenchish doughnut things called beignets I saw on some Food Network show about New Orleans, preferably with George once he comes to visit. Or walking through the French Quarter with him and checking out the street musicians. I’ve heard New Orleans is a good music town.
“Come on,” I say. “At least give me something to look forward to.”
She shrugs. “I can’t wait to meet our new neighbors.”
“Our neighbors?” I laugh. “Did you not pay any attention to the neighbors we just left behind?” Mrs. Finch was like the devil in old-lady skin. And that weird guy a couple of doors down with the yard full of ugly yard art and slowly rotting newspapers? He was just scary. Why would I want to hang out with neighbors? I want to hang out with my friends. Who live in California. Well, except for George. But you know what I mean.
Mom whips off her headphones again. “Mina, why can’t you look at this as an opportunity? Don’t you think it will be nice to start fresh? It may not seem like it right now, but the VRA has our best interest at heart. They’re trying to help us.”
“Yeah, whatever.” She gives me the shush face, so I go back to reading. I could live without the VRA’s help, that’s for sure.
6
“Mari! Mina! Look alive!”
I unplug my headphones and try to come back into focus. In my pre-vampire days, I’d totally have been asleep. Now, I just feel completely zoned. We’ve been on the road for at least three hours since landing at the New Orleans airport (where Uncle Mortie ditched us to go pursue whatever his new venture is in the city), driving through increasingly blah-looking country. No coastline, no ocean, and lots of farms. And cows. Lots of cows.
So much for Cartville being a suburb of New Orleans. I gave up that hope after t
he first half hour.
I look out the window and see … well, not much. Dad is driving slowly down the road. I can see a gas station, a couple of shops (half of which look abandoned and the other half look like they’ve been there since Uncle Mortie was a kid), a hardware store, and not much else. Dad stops at a blinking red stop light. It’s just sitting there flashing on and off.
“Welcome to Main Street, Cartville, USA! Small-town living at its best!” says Dad.
“Um …” I am at a total loss for words. This isn’t a small town. It’s … tiny. Tinier than … like so tiny there’s not even a word for it tiny. Even Mom is kind of quiet, which I bet means Cartville is also way smaller than she thought it was going to be too.
“Are you sure this is it?” I say. “Maybe this is just like the slum part or something?” Not that it looks particularly slummy. It just looks … small. Definitely no beignets or espresso. Is there even a library?
“Of course this is it!” Dad says. “We just passed the city-limits sign! Now, let’s see. I just need to turn right on Cypress Street … and hey, Mina, look! There’s the high school! Looks like you’ll be able to walk to school from our new house! Isn’t this great?”
“Dad, I think I could walk to school from pretty much any place in this entire town.” Going to a new school is not something I am remotely excited about. Being able to walk to it? Not a bonus. But I guess walking is better than taking the bus since I don’t have a car. Though I’d kinda been planning on begging for one. You know, riding the guilt train for all it’s worth. Looks like I have no excuse now. Do they even need buses here?
“Okay!” says Dad in his grin-and-bear-it-everything-is-under-control voice. “Here we are! 512 St. Ann Avenue! Our new home sweet home!” He parks the car and bounds out the door with Mom close behind. I get out of the car, but with a lot less bounce. Home sweet home? They have got to be out of their minds.
Our old house wasn’t exactly stellar. It probably could have fit inside the first floor of one of the McMansions that the A-list kids like Nathan and Bethany lived in (and totally took for granted). And it needed painting and probably could have used some better landscaping (which Mrs. Finch was always hinting about).
The new house? It would fit in the first floor of our old house. And as far as atmosphere, let’s just say it pretty much looks like a box. With a roof. And it’s purple. Not like a normal Victorian-style pale lavender either, but purple purple. Like Barney purple. Like Barney ate a bunch of blueberries and then barfed them up.
Not to mention the leftover plastic goose dressed in a purple (of course) raincoat sitting in the front yard. With three little baby plastic geese wearing matching purple bonnets.
“Please tell me we’re just renting.” I kick at one of the baby geese and knock it over.
“Mina, don’t be so negative.” Mom picks it up and looks at it a minute, then sets it next to the mommy goose again.
Ha. The only thing I can be positive about is that the situation keeps getting suckier and suckier every time I turn around. Maybe they want to go all Dullville and be neighborly or whatever, but they didn’t have to drag me down with them. Then she dishes the real scoop on our not-so-luxurious digs. “We can’t afford to buy a new house until the VRA is able to release our funds to us. But I’m sure if we just do a little clean up, this place will be just fine.”
I shrug and grab my one dinky little bag from the back of the car. I think it would take a lot more than some bleach and elbow grease to make this place presentable. At least I won’t be spending our first night in the new house unpacking … since I have basically nothing to unpack. But I’m not at all surprised that the VRA has us by the throats, so to speak.
Dad is already inside and exploring, which takes him a grand total of about five minutes. There are two bedrooms, a kitchen (with lavender tile and pee yellow cabinets with happy little daisy-shaped knobs), a single bathroom (yet more lavender plus a truly hideous floral shower curtain), and a kind of combined living room/dining room with olive green shag carpet (at least it wasn’t purple). Not exactly palatial. The bedrooms are about the same size and both of them have queen-size beds (which I suppose is more for show than anything else, since we don’t sleep). I lay claim to the one with two windows by putting my bag in it. They can at least give me that.
“Dibs,” I yell out. “I call the one with the desk.” It’s got a missing drawer, but I guess that’s better than nothing. I set my suitcase down on the red bedspread (another thankfully not-purple thing) and look around. “But you can have the lamp.” I think I’m a little too old for a lamp with a headless pony on it. Besides, that’s the stuff nightmares are made of. Other than that, there’s not much in the room, just a dresser (painted white, with chipped gilt edges), and a closet (no door, just a beaded curtain).
We meet back in the kitchen and stand there looking at each other. D’oh. “What’re we supposed to do now?” I look back and forth between Mom and Dad. Seriously. What do you do when you don’t have any of your stuff?
“Well,” says Mom. “I guess maybe we could go shopping? How about some Pop-Tarts? We can get your favorite.”
It’s right on the tip of my tongue to say, “Yeah, where? Is there another town nearby?” when we all hear footsteps coming up the walk. Maybe I’m just nervous from all the little pep talks we’ve been getting from the VRA, but I can’t help but wonder who it could be. No one should even know that we’re here. Or is it maybe a VRA goon coming to check up on us already? What, were they following us?
I think Mom and Dad must be a little paranoid too, because Dad says quietly, “I’ll get it. You two just stay here.” I guess you can never be too careful when you’re a child of the night or whatever.
He waits until the person, whoever it is, knocks. Then he plasters a friendly smile on his face and opens the flimsy white paneled door. “Hello,” he says. “Can I—”
“Well, hello there! So nice to meet you! I’m Eugenie Broussard, your new neighbor. And you’re …?”
“Um, Bob. Bob Smith. We just—” Dad sounds a little nonplussed, but I can’t blame him. The lady sounds like a force of nature. I could’ve heard her across the house even if I didn’t have superhearing.
“Oh, it’s a ‘we’ then. I see. So you’re not a single gentleman? Well, where’s the rest? I’d love to meet all of y’all. Is it just a missus or do you have a whole passel of kids back in there? The old Blanchard place ain’t that big, so I don’t suppose you do, but you never can tell, can you?”
Mom hides a snicker behind her hand and whispers to me, “We’d better go save your dad.” I’m all for offering him up for humiliation, but my curiosity gets the best of me.
We come up behind Dad, and Mom puts her hand on his shoulder. He looks like a fish out of water, with his mouth just kind of slowly opening and closing. “Hi there,” says Mom. “I’m Mari Smith, Bob’s wife. And this is Mina, Bob’s little sister.”
Oh yeah. Can’t forget that. Not sure I like the “little” part there though. After all, I’m almost as tall as Dad is.
Mom pokes me in the side with her elbow. Right, manners. “Hi. Nice to meet you,” I say.
Eugenie is a big-boned lady with lots of curly blonde hair piled up on top of her head and a smile about as wide as her entire face. She’s wearing kind of a fancy and very colorful floral dress for just kicking around town, but maybe they dress up here. Or maybe she was hoping for a single gentleman.
“Nice to meet you, Mari and Mina! What interesting names! Where are y’all from? Don’t sound much like y’all are from ’round here.”
“We’re from California. We—” starts Mom.
“Oh, California! Can’t say as I’ve ever been out that way, but always wanted to go. All them beaches and movie stars! You ever meet yourself any of those movie stars or those super-skinny models, Mina? Young girl like you, I imagine you’ve had your eye on a few, ain’t that right?”
“Oh yeah, I was hanging out with some models just the o
ther day. We pretended to eat some ice cream together.” Snort. Mom gives me a look. Oh, come on! Like California is just full of famous people.
“Really!” says Eugenie like she believes me. “You don’t say! And Mari! You’ve got yourself some beautiful red hair there. Always did love red hair.” Eugenie somehow reaches around Dad and gets an arm around Mom’s shoulder and starts walking inside like they’ve been best buddies for years. “Now, I tell you what: When you need a touch-up, you just let me know. I own the beauty shop. It’s called Eugenie’s, after my name, you know, and I give the best haircuts in town, if I do say so myself. Course, there ain’t another salon until Hainesville, but y’all don’t want to go there anyway.” She sniffs and looks from me to Mom and back again. “Owner’s just a little young thing and what she don’t know about hair! I like to had a heart attack when I saw what she done to Mabel Mouton last June before her daughter Jessie’s wedding. Mabel comes to me now, I tell you what.”
Mom looks at me kind of helplessly but all I can do is raise my eyebrows at her. I don’t know what she expects me to do about this lady. I’ve never met anyone like this in my entire life. And hair is so not my thing.
“Um, Eugenie, I’ll definitely keep that in mind,” Mom finally chokes out.
“You do that, dearie. And you too, Mina. I ’spect I could tame those curls for you, though girls these days, I tell you, it’s a wonder they’ve got any hair left at all the way they treat it. Why, just the other day—”
Mom jumps in before Eugenie can work up a full head of steam. “Eugenie, I’d love to offer you something to drink, but I’m afraid we haven’t had time to go grocery shopping yet. We were actually just headed out the door. Perhaps you could recommend a place for us?”
“Well, of course I can! There’s J & E Grocery just over on Main Street, you more’n likely passed it on y’all’s way in. And there’s a Dollar General over on Duson Avenue. But if you’re lookin’ for something a mite bigger, there’s a Piggly Wiggly over in Jennings. It’ll take you a good twenty or thirty minutes to get over that way, though.”
Still Sucks to Be Me: More All-True Confessions of Mina Hamilton, Teen Vampire Page 3
