“My parents are out looking for us?” I asked, my voice cracking with emotion I hadn’t expected to feel.
“They’re downstairs,” Eli said, “in the car.” I put my hands gently on my brother’s shoulders and steered him toward the door.
“Go get in the car with Dad and Ma and tell them we’re okay,” I instructed. “Try to explain everything that happened. I’ve got some things to take care of, but I’ll be home as soon as I can.” Zach looked at me like he was afraid to let me out of his sight, but I was firm. “Go now. I will see you later.”
“Jane, I—” Zach paused and tilted his head awkwardly like he sometimes did when he was trying to think of how to put something.
“You love me?” I said. “You better.”
Zach bobbled and wobbled like ten-year-old kids do, and I gave him a silent wave to let him know I was serious about him getting out of there. He put his head down and dashed out of the room, leaving me alone with Eli. I got a wastebasket from the front of the room and started picking up shards of glass and tossing them in, careful to avoid any blood or drops of Dr. Erdos’s potion, just in case.
“So,” Eli said after a moment, “is the paper I wrote so bad that you thought you’d better do some after-school suck-up cleaning for extra credit?” He looked around at the bits of test tube and syringe, and the heap of soot that he had no idea was the remnants of our American history teacher, and shook his head. “What the h-e-double-hockey-sticks even happened in here?”
“It’s a long story,” I said, “and the paper you wrote was really good. It doesn’t have anything to do with all this.” Then I thought about it and corrected myself. “Well, it kind of has something to do with it, but not like … It’s—it’s insanely complicated.” I frowned at him, but only because I wished I could have given him a better answer.
I crouched down and started scooping ashes into the garbage with my bare hands. Eli went to Ms. Smithburg’s coat closet at the front of the room and retrieved a dustpan and brush. I shivered as I caught a glimpse of her long, elegant coat still hanging inside the door, then looked down at my dusty hands and shivered again. I rubbed them on my jeans and watched as Eli began methodically and efficiently sweeping up the rest.
“You know,” he said, “you can tell me anything. You can. You can trust me, Jane.”
Trusting someone wasn’t something I’d tried to do much in the past, and even though my most recent experiment with trust had been a big fat failure, I couldn’t help wondering if I could trust this boy. Was he ready to hear the secrets that I had? Was I ready to tell him? Was he the kind of guy who would be cool with learning that he just helped me clean up the remains of my enemy, the vampire teacher? Would he be down with helping me sneak into a church, liberate an old priest from the bonds of her psychic trance, and then bury the sick undead body of her groom where nobody would ever find him? If my blood-intolerance was ever cured, would he still be willing to kiss me, if he knew that I probably had at least ten years on his great-grandmother? It was kind of a lot to ask of someone. Eli eyed me hopefully, waiting for me to speak.
“Thanks,” I answered. I was afraid that if I said anything more, everything would come tumbling out before I had a chance to stop it. Then Eli reminded me of one of the best things about him: when you didn’t feel like talking, he talked enough for both of you.
“Okay,” he said, “so, I told Astrid that I can’t go out with her tomorrow. She seemed mad, but not just mad at me. It was more like she was mad at everything. She’s kind of a monster. Anyway, now that I’m free tomorrow, I was wondering if you wanted to do something—as friends, no pressure—we could go to a movie or, if you’re not feeling confident about our project, we could work on that.…”
“I wouldn’t worry about the project,” I said.
“Really?” He sounded kind of flattered. “You think I nailed it?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“So, a movie then?” he resuggested.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Do you like Jimmy Stewart?”
“Are you kidding?” he said. “Jimmy Stewart is my boy! I have The Philadelphia Story on DVD. Have you seen it?” Eli trailed off into a long explanation of why James Maitland Stewart was—in his humble opinion—the finest American actor in history.
So I wasn’t a human girl again like I thought I was going to be, but who could predict the future? I sure couldn’t. Maybe I needed to just try to relax and enjoy what I had right now. Because for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had some choices I could make in my life and I was ready to make one.
I decided that when I got home and logged on to my computer, I would find Eli Matthews’s friend request and just accept it.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe about a million thank-yous to about a million people who helped me become the author of my first real-live novel. There’s Arjun Basu, who said he liked my idea, and Alan Katz, who is the person to talk to when you have an idea, because he is the most fantastic idea guy.
I want to thank Josh and Tracey Adams of Adams Literary for believing I could write a book and for helping me believe I could write a book, and my editor, Shana Corey, at Random House for her imagination and for all her excellent, expert advice and care. I could not have asked for kinder, smarter, more thoughtful people to guide me on my way.
I owe thanks to many, many friends, but especially Dave Holmes and Lisa Jane Persky, who both knew what I was up to, and checked in on me regularly to make sure I was keeping it up. Thanks to Paul F. Tompkins and Nelson Walters for making me laugh my head off all the time and for being what I will always consider “my team.” I could go on forever thanking pals who inspire and encourage me every day, but I’m afraid I’d run out of room! So for now I’ll just say thanks to all of my friends, both in real life and not-exactly-real life, for being your irreplaceable selves.
A special thank-you goes to my high school English teacher, Ms. Melanie Gallo. I hope that everyone is lucky enough to have a teacher at least once in their life who will lend them a book to read from her own private collection, not for an assignment, but just because she thought they would love it.
There are a few people whom I could never thank enough, but I will try. Karen and Roger Debenham, thank you for being the greatest in-laws in recorded history. Thank you to my mom, Donna St. Onge, for always telling me I should write a book and for being proud of me when I did. To Matt, Eli, and Lincoln, I thank you for being a family more patient, generous, funny, and wise than I ever could have dreamed of having. You are the best eggs in the basket.
Jane Jones Page 16
