Still Sucks to Be Me: More All-True Confessions of Mina Hamilton, Teen Vampire

by Kimberly Pauley

  “Oh, nothing. We, uh, had pizza today.” I lie down on the lumpy couch and prop my feet up. There’s no comfortable place to talk in this stupid house. “I miss you, but at least the kids here seem pretty nice.”

  “Don’t tell your parents. You should still try to guilt them into buying you a car so you can come visit me! How far a drive is it from Louisiana anyway?”

  “Uncle Mortie said days, but he’s not exactly good with facts and figures. Do you think the Death Beetle could make it halfway? Maybe we could still meet up somehow.” I wonder if there’s anywhere cool halfway between here and California?

  “Of course the Death Beetle could make it! Speaking of which, guess what? Somebody is taking the whole Death Beetle thing too seriously or something. They’ve started leaving offerings! You think it could be Bethany? I think she’s still mad at me about getting Nathan.”

  “Offerings?”

  “Yeah, this really gross dead bird’s foot all spray painted black a couple of days ago. And then some bloody feathers this morning. But I guess I could have hit a bird and just not noticed. Oh, ugh. Do you think I hit a bird?”

  A dead bird’s foot? Spray painted black? Um. I sit up again. This could be bad. “I know you keep telling me no, but are you sure you haven’t seen that weird Goth girl around?” Raven technically shouldn’t know a vampire from a hole in the ground anymore, but maybe the goons missed something when they wiped her brain. Maybe they missed a few things.

  “I’m positive! And why would she be leaving me dead bird stuff? You think she’s some kind of devil worshiper or something too? Geez, Mina. Just because she’s Goth doesn’t mean she wants to sacrifice goats.”

  Not a devil worshiper. Well, probably not. But that sounds an awful lot like a Black Talon kind of thing. I mean, who would spray paint a dead bird’s foot? “Just keep an eye out, okay? If she does show up, you call me. I mean it.” I can’t imagine the goons really did miss anything, but maybe Raven has, like, ghost memories or something. I’ve heard that was possible, especially if you felt particularly strongly about something. And she hated me pretty bad.

  “Okay, okay. I’ve got bigger things to worry about, you know.”

  She doesn’t have to remind me. Her whole life sounds like crap right now and all I can do is offer up pathetic “I’m sorries.”

  “Well, how about Nathan? How’re you guys doing?” That’s gotta be a good topic. Nathan rocks. I settle back down on the couch so the Nathan Appreciation Hour can begin.

  “Oh, he’s okay.” Uh-oh. That’s it? From her tone, it sounds like all may not be well in Nathan-Serena Love Land.

  “Just okay?”

  “He’s perfect, actually.”

  “And this is bad because …?”

  She sighs. “Really, Mina, he’s just too perfect. I mean, I talk to him about the stuff with my parents and he tries to be comforting and everything, but he’s never had anything bad happen in his life. His parents are just as perfect as he is. He gets everything he wants. Everybody loves him. He just doesn’t get it.”

  Oh. Yeah, I could see that about Nathan. It’s good to be king. Not like it’s his fault. He just got lucky in the whole birth lottery. “I’m sure he’s trying.”

  “I don’t mean to sound down on him. He’s the perfect boyfriend. Really. I couldn’t ask for anything better. He’s been taking me out every chance he gets and getting me out of the house so I can get away from all the fighting. And he keeps sending flowers and these really sweet cards. I just … I don’t know. I miss you, I guess.”

  “I miss you too.” Why oh why did Dr. Musty have to pick now to need an assistant? I should be there with Serena. Maybe I can find a way back somehow. Even if I could just visit for just a little while, it would be better than nothing. I wonder if I could talk my parents into a plane ticket? Who could I say I was visiting? Lorelai? Linda? No, that wouldn’t work. I don’t think they’d buy it. Not to mention the Josh-erator would have a cow. But there’s got to be something I can do.

  We talk for another hour and I’m even more depressed after we’re done talking. Not that it wasn’t great to hear Serena’s voice, but

  a) hearing her reminded me how much I miss her, and

  b) how much it stinks to be basically friendless in a new place where I don’t have anyone to talk to at all, and

  c) I didn’t even get to vent about the whole Kacie thing (which, okay, by comparison is trivial, but still, you know, normally Serena would’ve come up with something off the wall to say about it that would make me feel much better), but mostly

  d) it really sucks that I can’t be there for her when she really needs me.

  16

  The teachers at Cartville are all okay, but none of them are anywhere near as interesting as Ms. Tweeter was with her crazy costumes and props. The most interesting thing any of them wear is plaid.

  After six weeks, school is getting so monotonous that I’m actually totally excited when they call my name over the loudspeaker for senior photo makeups. I go to the library and find Cameron there, as well as a few other seniors who must have missed getting their picture taken at the end of summer. They immediately shut up and start staring at me when I walk in. Gah! So annoying. Even worse, the guys all stand up straighter and give me the eye and the girls copy the way I lean against the wall. Which totally makes me want to do something crazy, like stand on my head but then who knows what’d happen. Maybe they’d all do it. So instead I pretend to look at the Open Your Mind to Banned Books poster on the wall.

  Cameron walks over to me and I ignore the little flurry of excitement that causes from the peanut gallery. Though he is looking exceptionally fine in a blue button-down long-sleeve shirt that brings out the color in his eyes.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “They treated me the same way when I first got into town. They do get over it after a few months. Mostly.”

  Not so comforting, since I can tell the girls are eyeing him the way the guys are eyeing me: like a lapsed vegetarian sizing up a double cheeseburger. I guess I should say something instead of just standing here and staring at him like the rest of the girls.

  “So …” Ack, I can’t think of anything to say! “Uh, how are you?” Nice conversation starter, Mina. D’oh!

  But Cameron doesn’t seem to notice my lame question. He smiles. “I’m doing pretty good. Really busy. We’ve all been getting ready for John and Wayne to get home. They should be here any time now.”

  “I guess it’s been awhile since they’ve been around?” I don’t really care, though I guess Dad and Dr. Musty would probably like to know. Not that I think I’m going to tell them. Let them dig it up on their own.

  “I think they were last here in the sixties. Not that much has changed around here since then.”

  Hey. Does that mean that Cameron is older than my mom? Like her real age? Didn’t he say that Wayne or John turned him here in Cartville? Or did he say? Now I can’t remember. Is he even older than that? Did they turn him in the sixties or before then? This is making my head hurt, especially when looking right at him and he so doesn’t look a day over eighteen. And he’s looking at me with those pale icy blue eyes and slightly raised eyebrows.

  I decide to change the subject. “Um, I guess you missed getting your senior picture taken over summer, huh?” Yeah, I’m brilliant. Just brilliant.

  He looks at me like I’m an idiot. Which I am. “Yes,” he says, kind of gently, “I don’t—we don’t—want our picture taken.”

  “Oh, right!” Duh, I’m a HUGE idiot. G.W. drilled that into our heads about a billion times. Never leave photographic evidence because it will always come back to haunt you. It’s kinda hard to explain away a picture of yourself a hundred or two hundred years later. Not that I imagine someone’s first thought would be “hey, I bet you’re a vampire,” but it’s better to be safe than sorry. Part of the VRA’s annoyingly thorough service is to scrub as many photos of you as possible from everywhere they can. I laugh like I meant it as a joke,
but I doubt if he buys it. Sigh. “So what should we do? Leave?”

  He scoots closer to me and lowers his voice so it comes out as this husky kind of whisper that, I admit, gives me goose bumps. The other girls give me the serious eye too. “That would be too suspicious. Just follow my lead.”

  Huh. I wonder what he’s planning? I hope it doesn’t mess up anyone else’s photo. If I were them, I’d hate to have my senior photo messed up. Though after looking through Mom and Dad’s yearbooks before the VRA destroyed them, maybe it would ultimately be a good thing. But before I can ask what he’s planning, the photography teacher (Mr. Benoit, who also happens to be the yearbook supervisor) gets there and tsk tsks at the half of us who must not have gotten the memo (I didn’t) and didn’t wear fancier than normal clothes. Cameron, of course, did. I’m starting to get the feeling that he’s one of those vampires who actually is in control.

  Cameron keeps fading back in line and I follow him until we’re last, trading places back and forth with this one skinny girl who keeps picking at a gigantic pimple on her chin. Finally I lean over and tell her it popped already and would she just get on with it? She looks kind of offended, but goes ahead and poses with her hand glued to her chin.

  It’s finally our turn. It’s just me, Cameron, and the kooky photography teacher.

  “Good lord, what is this mess you’re wearing?” Mr. Benoit tugs at the hem of my crazy cat T-shirt with his nose turned up like it smells.

  “Sorry. I didn’t know we were supposed to dress up.” I glance back at Cameron. I hope I’m doing the right thing. Cameron said to follow his lead, but he hasn’t done anything other than stand in line so far.

  “Oh no, this won’t do, not at all,” Mr. Benoit says. He rummages around in his camera bag and comes back with this bizarrely floral piece of fabric that he drapes around my neck and upper torso. Then he tells me to stand in front of the backdrop.

  He fusses with the fabric until I’m sure that I look like some kind of flowery burrito. “Artful, we want artful!”

  It’s a good thing this picture isn’t going to turn out. I’m sure it would be the kind of picture that would haunt me the rest of my life, just not how G.W. would have envisioned.

  Behind Mr. Benoit, I can see Cameron getting closer and closer. I watch as he silently comes up right behind the guy. Oh no. He’s not going to bite him, is he? That’s so, I don’t know, twelfth century. And totally NOT Council sanctioned, I’m sure. Do I try and stop him? Pull Mr. Benoit to safety? Get in the way? Warn the dude he’s about to be chomped? Distract him? Close my eyes? Why didn’t Cameron tell me what he was going to do?

  Before I can even decide (I have so got to get over my indecisiveness), Mr. Benoit executes a spiffy little pirouette to come nose-to-nose with Cameron. He starts to stumble back and I grab his arms to steady him.

  “Wha—” Mr. Benoit starts to say when Cameron leans forward. Oh, crap. He’s actually going to bite him! I hold onto Mr. Benoit, not even sure what my plan is, when Cameron stops mere centimeters from Mr. Benoit’s face and says in this really deep tone, “You took Mina Smith’s picture.”

  “I took Mina Smith’s picture,” repeats Mr. Benoit.

  What the—?

  “You took Cameron Carter’s picture,” continues Cameron, his eyes like laser beams boring into the dude’s eyes. I lean over Mr. Benoit’s shoulder to get a look. His eyes are totally dilated. Wow, Cameron must have the whatever it is that Grandma Wolfington has! Some kind of crazy mind-control trick.

  “I took Cameron Carter’s picture.” Mr. Benoit sounds kind of drunk, but hey, at least he’s not getting his blood drained from his body.

  “Mina,” Cameron says quietly, his eyes still on the Mr. Benoit, “go snap two pictures of a plant or something, okay?”

  “What? Oh, right.” I take the camera (thankfully, it isn’t too complicated) and take two pictures of the Banned Books poster on the wall. Cameron continues to give instructions about what he’ll see when he processes the pictures (us, not the poster) and what to do (exactly what he normally would), and when to turn them over to the yearbook company (as late as possible). Then he sits Mr. Benoit down and takes the camera from me and hands it to him. Mr. Benoit takes it, but then just sits there.

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  “The stupor will wear off in about ten minutes. We can go ahead and leave. If someone else comes in, he should be able to carry on a normal conversation. He probably won’t remember it, however.”

  “Great,” I say and start for the door. Honestly, it’s creeping me out a little bit how the guy is sitting there like some kind of droopy marionette.

  Cameron reaches out and stops me. “You might want to get rid of that ‘artful’ wrap.” He winks and I’m suddenly glad that I can’t blush anymore since I’m sure my face would be bright red if I could.

  “Um, yeah,” I say. I try to pull the floral nightmare off of me as Cameron watches, a grin slowly inching its way across his face.

  No go. Oh God.

  “Perhaps I can be of assistance?”

  I just nod, totally mortified. He somehow finds the end of the dratted thing and pulls it, unwinding me in one quick motion. Which of course almost makes me fall over, vampire reflexes or no. Cameron catches me in his arms and I hang there for a minute, kind of like a puppet myself.

  “Thanks,” I say and right myself as gracefully as I can. The boy smells way too good for his own good. Or for my equilibrium. Note to self: stay upwind of Cameron whenever possible. Maybe that whole mind/hypnosis stuff even comes out in how he smells. Pheromones, right? Isn’t that what they call it? Whatever it is, it’s practically intoxicating.

  “I guess I’m getting in the habit of saving you, aren’t I?”

  “I guess so,” I say. Yeah, real good thing I can’t blush anymore. Really, really good thing.

  I send George an e-mail as soon as I get home. The twentieth one by my count. Not that I was keeping track or anything.

  Georgie-Porgie,

  Where R U??? I know, I know, I asked tht in the last umpteen msgs. MISSING YOU. Not much going on here. *didn’t* take my senior pic today. long story. remind me not to tell u all about it. :)

  Sriously, why hven’t u written me bck? R u mad? u hven’t met up w/ tarzan or somehin hve u? haha

  write soon. how’s the jungle and all tht.

  Min

  Serena’s also been MIA for two days, which worries me, especially after that whole dead-bird-parts stuff on the Death Beetle. Not to mention that I’d been getting the play-by-play every night either on my cell during my nightly run or via e-mail. Her parent’s divorce drama has been the main topic. (Last big update: her dad is officially out of the house and living out of some gross motel … maybe even the same one the VRA holed us up in.)

  Hey Serena—

  Any news? Wanted to check in since I hadn’t heard anything. I’ll try and call tomorrow, if I can get away from the fam long enough.

  LYLAS,

  Min

  17

  We have to drive almost an hour away to get to our first shape-shifting class. Which I guess makes sense, since there’s nothing in Cartville. Though Boondale, the same town where the other blood bar is, isn’t much bigger, really. At least not by my standards. Mom spends the whole drive telling me how awesome the class will be and how excited she is to be sharing it with me. Blah de blah de blah.

  I seriously doubt I’m going to actually come out of it with a bunch of new best friends and mad vampire skills, but whatever. Dad already claimed the TV tonight for some History Channel marathon on the Dead Sea Scrolls so I have nothing better to do.

  Mom only gets lost once (a minor miracle) and we get there right on time. By there, I mean Ivetta’s house. (Can you say rinky-dink operation?) We carry in a bunch of yarn, since our cover story is we’re attending a knitting group. Hopefully our cover story does not also involve actually knitting something. With my coordination I’d probably poke out my eye. Or someone else’s.r />
  Ivetta greets us at the door. “Hey, y’all! Good to see you again! Did y’all get a chance to fill in your Class Objectives form?”

  Mom and I look at each other. I know I didn’t and I guess she didn’t either. Though I’m not at all surprised there’s a form to be filled out. There’s always a form to be filled out. Ivetta takes our confused silence as a no.

  “No problem at all! I’ve got copies right here. It’s real easy, just a few lines about what you’d like to get out of the class and what your expectations are, that kind of thing. After the last session, we’ll have a Class Evaluation for you to fill out to make sure we’re doing everything okay!” She whips out a couple of pages and hands them to Mom, along with some pens. “I’d just love to know how we compare to the vampire continuing education classes out in California, so don’t y’all hold anything back!”

  Mom smiles. “Actually, this is the first continuing ed class for both of us.”

  “Really!” I’m not sure if Ivetta looks more scandalized or intrigued. Maybe a combination of both. “Well, I’m sure y’all will enjoy it. You can drop off the yarn here in the living room and come on back to the family room whenever you’re done with your forms. It’s just down the hall. We’re waiting on one more, so no rush!”

  Mom and I sit down gingerly on a faded plaid sofa covered in, strangely enough, plastic. Like form-fitting plastic made for the sofa, not like Saran Wrap or anything like that.

  We both look at each other and giggle just a little, but don’t say anything since Ivetta (and whoever else was back in the family room) would be sure to hear us.

  What does she think we’re gonna do on their sofa? I’ve been potty trained for a long time.

  I can’t resist poking Mom and miming sliding off the sofa, and she gives me a huge sappy smile.

  “Glad you’re having fun. It’s good to have the real you back,” she whispers.

  I bounce on the sofa again so she wobbles back and forth and we both giggle again.