Eli blushed.
“Good,” she said, “but maybe a little obvious, and maybe not a subject that sings to Ms. Jones.” Ms. Smithburg turned her smile on me. Suddenly, my favorite teacher was making me feel kind of nervous. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled ever so slightly. What was that about?
“She’s a deep girl, Mr. Matthews,” said Ms. Smithburg. “Lotta thoughts going on in that head of hers. I’m thinking something post-1929, after the stock-market crash. When I look at this girl, the first thing that comes to mind is the ‘Dirty Thirties.’ When I look at her, I think ‘Dust Bowl.’ Shall I put the two of you down for that?” Without waiting for an answer from either of us, she made a quick note in her lesson plan book, then rapped her knuckles sharply on my desk for emphasis. She swept off, leaving me with my mouth agape and three words running through my head: What the fu—
“Fun!” Eli crowed. “I totally never would have thought of that, but it seems like it would be fun to do.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He thought it would be fun? If only he had one-millionth of one percent of an idea just how unfun it was. But how could he be expected to know—he hadn’t lived it.
Also, out of every possible event in the history of American history, how had Ms. Smithburg just happened to pull that one out of thin air? I know vampires are generally the ones going around scaring everybody, but for once, I was fully freaked out. I proved that to myself when the end-of-period bell rang and startled me so much, I thought my heart was going to start again!
Eli Matthews was grabbing his things, getting ready to go to his next class, but I couldn’t make myself move. “I can tell you’re still not sure, but this will be good. No, great. I’ll see you. I’ll see you at lunch! Cafeteria!”
I wasn’t sure what to think. I wasn’t sure how to feel about this guy. I wasn’t sure if this project was a good idea. Also, I wasn’t sure exactly where the cafeteria was or if I could bring myself to show up there for the midday meal known to mortals as “lunch.”
four
I clutched my books to my chest nervously as I entered the Port Lincoln High School cafeteria for the first time since I’d enrolled. The benefit to being turned into a vampire before your boobs grow is that if you want to clutch anything to your chest, you can really get a tight seal between your front and whatever it is you’re clutching.
I was worried that it would be one of those situations where I’d wander around looking for a seat while kids sneered at me and put their bags down on empty chairs, but I found a table right off the bat. Granted, I looked like a total pariah sitting alone at a table for eight people, but I had a long history of taking what I could get. Despite deciding that this Eli kid was semi-okay, I was here against my better judgment. I wasn’t even sure if he’d remember to meet me, but I certainly wasn’t going to wander around looking for him. I had my minimal dignity. I opened up one of my books and pretended I was reading.
“Such a bookworm!” Timothy Hunt slid into the seat next to me. “What are you reading?”
I was caught off guard, and Timothy’s dazzling smile didn’t do much to help me recover. “It’s … um, about …” Busted, I had to look at the book’s jacket. “It’s women’s lit.” Would I ever stop looking like an idiot around this guy?
Timothy peered at the page I was open to. He grunted thoughtfully. “Ah, Virginia Woolf. I knew her.”
“Oh, yeah?” Then I remembered who—and what—I was talking to. “Wait, do you mean you knew her knew her? Like, when she was alive?”
Timothy laughed. “No, no. I mean I knew her work at one time. You’re not the only one of us who was ever interested in anything, you know.”
I was slightly embarrassed. Obviously, my secretly superior attitude wasn’t quite as secret as I thought it was. But still, why were high-school vampires such slackers? I decided to ask him as gently as possible. “Too bad you didn’t know her know her. She might still be alive now! Ha-ha. So, why are high-school vampires such slackers?”
Timothy laughed huskily but glanced around to make sure nobody heard me before his iridescent and breathtaking eyes locked on to mine. “You’re quite young, no? How long has it been for you? Perhaps ninety or a hundred years?”
It wasn’t even that long.
“I was like you once,” he said gently. “Maybe not as bright, but I studied and read. But a lot has happened in the past few centuries. More great works of art and literature than anyone could ever absorb. Not to mention all the wonderful television shows that just keep coming. My TiVo is about to burst!”
I smiled. He was obviously trying to put me at ease.
“Between computers and scientific discoveries, it gets to be almost too much just to function every day without going looking for extra things to think about.” He shrugged and leaned back in his chair. He wasn’t particularly tall and his build was trim, but there was something about him, his mannerisms, that was so mature and confident. The more I looked at him, the more I found myself wanting to look at him. “I’m okay with being just your average high-school fellow,” he continued. “It’s not like I’m going to MIT in two years or anything.”
I felt a little ashamed. I hadn’t thought of it that way until he explained it. I couldn’t really ever see myself thinking that way, but lately I couldn’t really picture myself sticking with the vampire thing for the next two centuries either. I wasn’t sure if that article I’d been poring over all weekend was true, but I was electrified by the possibility that there might someday be a cure for vampirism. Granted, being a blood-intolerant vampire—and honestly, a geek—was a total drag and I was over it, but I had to think that even someone like Timothy, who seemed like he was so cool and together, might change his circumstances if he could.
As if he’d read my mind, Timothy said, “I’m sorry to be dour. I’m just tired, that’s all.” His handsome smile changed just then. It was still a smile, but the kind of smile an adult puts on when a friend has gotten a promotion he was hoping for. It was a smile he didn’t look old enough to be wearing. I felt a phantom ache in my useless heart. Impulsively, I reached into my notebook and retrieved the folded printout I had stashed there.
“Have you seen this?” I handed the story to Timothy and watched closely for his reaction. As his eyes moved across the headline, his brow furrowed and he had a sharp intake of breath. Before he could utter a word, we were joined by a most unwelcome guest.
“Again? You two are making quite a habit out of these little one-on-one tête-à-têtes.” Astrid pulled a chair out for herself, loudly scraping it across the cafeteria linoleum. Vampires are good at sneaking up on humans, but usually one vampire will notice another one coming. Unless that one vampire is totally distracted by a third vampire’s insanely gorgeous eyes. In any case, I was getting sick of Astrid’s habit of interrupting us.
“You two on a lunch date is sort of absurd, no? If you’re not careful, everyone will think something’s going on between the two of you, Tim.” She looked at him, then at me. “Or maybe you’d like everyone to think that … Jane.”
Timothy discreetly folded the tattered printer paper I’d given him and slipped it into the pocket of his vintage wool jacket. “Astrid, won’t you please sit down with us? Jane and I were just discussing … Virginia Woolf.” Astrid stared, so he added: “She’s a famous writer.”
“I know who Virginia Woolf is, I just don’t give a shit,” Astrid snapped. She looked back and forth between Timothy and me. “Do you? Really? Give a shit?”
I was trying to think of an awesomely witty rejoinder that would make Timothy chuckle wryly while taking Astrid down ten pegs, when out of the corner of my eye I saw the lumbering frame of Eli Matthews heading toward us. He arrived, out of breath.
“Jane. Sorry I’m late. I had to stay after class because I got a problem wrong on my calculus quiz and I had to show Mr. Kirchner that, actually, he was mistaken and I had …” He noticed, a little late, that I wasn’t the only one sitting there,
and ended his story abruptly. “He, um, changed my grade.”
It was interesting to watch Eli, self-conscious to begin with, become even more self-conscious as he realized he was relaying a tale of grade grubbing in front of complete strangers. He stuck out his broad, freckled hand to Timothy. “Uh, I’m Eli. Hi.” Timothy accepted his hand graciously. I half expected something to happen when they made contact, but Eli’s face didn’t show any change. Timothy was obviously very skilled at controlling his supernatural energy. Was there anything he couldn’t do?
“Oh,” I said, realizing it was rude of me not to make introductions. “Timothy Hunt, this is Eli Matthews from my American history class.” They shook hands and nodded, an imitation of a gesture between grown men.
“That’s Astrid,” I said.
Eli offered his hand halfway to Astrid before her pinched smile and glaring eyes made it clear that she wasn’t the type who dabbled in niceties. Still, Eli tried to save face by turning his aborted shake into a timid wave. I felt a pang of pity.
“Uh, sit,” I said. I was cordial to Eli, but I didn’t want to give anyone the impression that we were besties. That was probably mean, but I was pretty new to this talking-to-others thing, and I was trying to navigate carefully. I turned to Timothy. “Eli and I are working on an assignment together this term. We’re not really sure what we’re doing yet.”
“But I … um … was thinking about what Ms. Smithburg assigned us.” Eli unzipped his hulking backpack and pulled out a thick stack of library books, letting them thump down on the table. “So, about the Dust Bowl thing? I think she was on to something.” I sort of had the gut feeling she was on to something too, but I wasn’t sure what. I told my gut it was being ridiculous and to shut up.
Eli handed the top book to me and I gazed down at it. A sepia-toned photograph of a dirty farmer looked back at me, sending a shiver down my spine. I bit my lip.
“I thought maybe we could do some”—Eli swallowed—“do a little work over lunch?”
I’ll be the first to admit that I am socially awkward, mostly because of the fact that up until three days ago, it had been ages since I was social with anyone except my socially awkward family, but even I could tell this was weird. Astrid scoffed as Eli rummaged through his backpack and emerged with a crinkled brown bag. If he noticed her noise, he didn’t show it.
“Please, you two go ahead,” said Astrid. “Tim and I need to go do some work on a project of our own for biology. We’re studying the circulatory system!” She secretly flashed me a tiny little bit of fang to illustrate her tiny little inside joke, then grabbed Timothy’s arm to signal that he would be leaving with her. Timothy looked at me and rolled his sapphire eyes but didn’t protest. As they stood and passed Eli, Astrid patted his arm in a gesture of exaggerated kindness that crossed the border right into mocking.
“And, Eli,” she said, “please look out for our Jane. She just admitted to us that she hasn’t eaten a thing since Friday night! We worry about her!”
Eli nodded moronically and smiled as Astrid swept out of the cafeteria with Timothy by her side. I scanned his eyes to try to see if she’d put a little whammy on him, but I couldn’t tell. “She seems nice,” Eli said. He really was clueless. “So, are you gonna … Do you want me to wait … while you get lunch? Or something?”
I didn’t know what to say. I considered telling him that Astrid was a sociopath, or that I was fasting for religious reasons. But then I wondered if he’d ask what religion I was. Would I be able to keep up some charade religion for an entire term? It was obvious that I had to lie, but I decided it was better to go with something simple.
“I ran out of the house without my lunch money,” I said, “so I’m just going to wait and have something after school.”
I spastically grabbed the top Dust Bowl book and started paging through it in an effort to move on—when suddenly, half a tuna sandwich was shoved under my nose.
“You gotta eat, right?” said Eli. “You like tuna? Brain food, my, um … my mom says.” Eli seemed to realize, for once, that what he’d just said might not have been the coolest thing in the world. His freckled neck flushed, but to his credit, he smiled. “I know you’re probably dying to hear what else my mom says, but you’re gonna have to eat this sandwich first.”
He held the sandwich out to me. I didn’t have the energy to make up another lie about being vegetarian. He no doubt had an apple or carrot sticks in his bag anyway. He was being friendly and I wanted to let him.
I took the sandwich.
It had been so long since I’d actually held regular food in my hand. Even before I’d become a vampire, food was something that had become scarce and unfamiliar, and since then, I hadn’t really had much excuse to think about it.
Still, sometimes I did think about it. Mostly when I saw television commercials for tiny frozen dinners that were supposed to make people thin, or yogurt in tubes that was supposed to give kids energy. It all seemed kind of dumb to me. If you could eat, why not do it right? Why not use the professional knives on your granite countertop to chop some fresh vegetables to simmer on your six-burner stove? Why not peel and slice a single perfect aromatic and sweet orange or shell some salted peanuts, if you could?
I felt my fingertips sinking into the moist wheat bread. I couldn’t just sit there holding it. While Eli was looking down at another of his Dust Bowl books, I surreptitiously sniffed at the filling. Vampires have a good sense of smell. In fact, it’s so good that the whole world sort of smells like a mixture of all the aromas surrounding us. So we’ve become adept at zeroing in on particular scents while ignoring others. You could say we’re almost like bloodhounds. For the most part, we’re able to block out the smell of food because it’s useless to us. I say “for the most part” because we really do hate garlic, but only because the strong smell is so hard to ignore. That’s why not many pizza lovers fall prey to random crazed vamp attacks. But I had been turning my nose up at food for so long now that I was the tiniest bit curious, so I inhaled.
And oh, God.
It was not good. Not good at all.
My father never complained about his job at the plant, but I recognized that it was kind of unusual for a man who doesn’t eat to spend night after night producing snack foods for people who never seem to stop eating. I also knew that when he came home in the morning, his clothes gave off a faint odor of something I didn’t love, the way I imagine an auto mechanic might smell a little motor-oily to his family. But I had no idea just how rank and vile food could smell when you took a great big whiff of it on purpose. I made a mental note to thank my father for his sacrifice as I blinked my stinging eyes. When Eli looked up at me expectantly, I panicked.
“It’s got celery in it,” he said. “My mom—I mean, the lady who makes my lunch,” he deadpanned, “she always puts that in there. It’s good.”
At that moment, I realized that if I didn’t do something, he was just going to keep talking about the damn sandwich his mother made and asking me questions and looking at me. I’m positive my eyes were as wide as saucers as I took a deep breath and bit into the soggy bread. Satisfied, Eli went back to scanning the book in front of him. I think he started talking again about what a great idea Ms. Smithburg had, but I was no longer listening.
Once, when I was very small, we’d traded some of the wheat my father managed to grow for some fresh eggs, which my mother cooked for us. Even though I’d been famished, when I bit into a little piece of shell, I wasn’t able to eat any more. You know what I’m talking about. Or maybe at some point you’ve found a hair in your food? Well, imagine a similar feeling, but rather than a shell it’s a little beak and instead of just hair, it’s hair with dandruff stuck to it and still attached to a piece of human scalp. Either of those scenarios would be a little more pleasant than how I felt with this small piece of sandwich in my mouth. Every chew triggered the same refrain inside my head: This is wrong! This is wrong! This is wrong! This is wrong!
The lunch bell i
nterrupted the ringing in my ears.
“So, are you on board?” I heard Eli ask. My cheeks were lined with sticky tuna sandwich pulp, which was apparently poison to me. I had to answer, and in order to answer, I had to swallow. It was excruciatingly foul. If there was any way my white skin could have gone paler, I’m sure it had.
“Whatever you think,” I croaked. “I gotta go.”
I snatched my books and sprinted out of the cafeteria, flinging the remainder of the sandwich in a garbage can outside the door. I made it down the hall in time to bang through the girls’-room door and into the nearest stall. On my knees, I leaned over the toilet and heaved. Repeatedly. The sandwich I’d swallowed was long gone, but it was obvious that my body was trying to teach me a very important lesson about experimenting with people food. When it was over, I leaned my cool cheek against the metal wall, which felt warm by comparison. I grabbed a wad of toilet paper, wiped my mouth, and stood up. I was considering my chances of sneaking into my last-period geometry class late when I stepped out of the stall and saw Mrs. Rosebush, the assistant principal, leaning against the sinks. She was evidently waiting for me.
Her long, wavy brown hair was threaded with silvery gray and tied up in a loose knot. Her clothes were just as loose and long. In all my years in schools, I’d seen her type time and time again, even before there was a word for it: the aging hippie, devoting her life to Nurturing Young Minds. I didn’t know for sure, but I guessed she drove some type of Volkswagen. She clearly wanted to “rap.”
“It’s Jane, right?”
I nodded, not sure I was able to speak normally just yet.
“Are you feeling all right, Jane?” She stepped closer to me, presumably to touch my forehead for any sign of fever, but maybe to see if I reeked of booze. I ducked her hand and backed away.
“I’m okay,” I said. “I just ate something that didn’t agree with me, but I’m fine now. I’m late for geometry.”
Jane Jones Page 4
