by Temple West
I sighed, knowing that I’d have to tell another lie that made it sound like Adrian and I were more than we were.
“Look, we just want some time alone, and we can’t do that at his place or my place or school. We’re both stressed out and we just want to be by ourselves for one night.”
Trish looked at me skeptically. “This from Miss Sex-Doesn’t-Solve-Everything.”
I couldn’t leave her thinking anything would happen, because then she’d ask for details I’d be unable to give. “Believe what you will, but we honestly just want to spend some quality time together. Alone. Can you do that for me?”
“Oh, fine,” she said, giving up. “But if anything does happen, I want details.”
I smiled.
The bell rang and we headed off to math with Mr. Cliff, which I was not looking forward to. I’d gotten my homework done, but I knew at least half of it was just flat-out wrong. As we settled in, Mr. Cliff smiled at us, which was a bad sign.
“Congratulations, juniors; today you have the privilege of taking a pop quiz.”
I didn’t like Mr. Cliff very much.
Since science came right after math, and Mr. Cliff taught both classes, we stayed in the same seats for two periods, which was strangely exhausting. All we had to do was a stupid lab about wheat germ DNA, but I was so tired that Trish did most of it.
Fourth period with Mrs. Leckenby was a welcome break. We were starting on a new clay project, so I could just sort of mindlessly work with my hands for forty-five minutes without having to do much thinking. Lunch came and went with the usual chitchat. Norah came by and started a conversation with us about Christmas plans. She managed to worm out of Adrian that I’d be spending Christmas Eve at his place, and I knew that she’d be informing her parents as soon as we were home.
In history, Mr. Warren was midway through a unit on westward expansion. He handed us back tests from the week before, and I was surprised to see that I’d gotten an A. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Trish do a little victory jig in her seat—apparently she’d gotten a good grade, too, which made me happy.
Music was as painful as ever. I felt bad for Mrs. Leckenby—the choir only had a few talented singers. I was mediocre at best, Trish was downright awful, and most of the others just mouthed the words without actually producing any sound.
When the bell rang after Study Hall Adrian gave me a hug and said, “See you later,” before walking to his truck and driving away with a little dorky wave. It was adorable, and made me smile.
Trish found me outside the library. “So we’re going to my house and hanging out until you have a mysterious stomachache and have to leave before dinner?”
“Yep.”
She nodded. “Sounds good.”
We drove to her house and holed ourselves up in her room. I realized I hadn’t been here since the night of the Halloween party.
“You want anything to drink?” she asked, slinging her backpack down. I hesitated, and she saw it. “I’m gonna get a soda anyway, so it’s not an inconvenience or anything.”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“One mystery pop coming right up.”
She disappeared and reappeared a moment later, holding two store-brand colas.
“Heads up,” she said, and tossed one in my direction. I caught the ice-cold can just before it crashed into her desk. “Mystic,” she said, flopping onto her bed, “I got a question for you.” I grimaced. Her questions generally revolved around me, Adrian, and Victoria’s Secret. But she surprised me with “What was home like?”
I blinked, trying to see if there was any way that question could be interpreted sexually. Maybe by a great stretch of the imagination, but probably not.
“Why do you ask?”
She shrugged and popped the top of the can. “I just don’t know much about you is all. I mean, I do, but I don’t. I didn’t want to push you when you first got here, but I feel like we’re friends now.”
She smiled at me and I smiled back, then shrugged. “Not much to know. Grew up in Connecticut in what I thought was a small town, until I moved here. Mystic’s a metropolis compared to Stony Creek. I loved the ocean and our house. Sewed a ton of shit with my mom, watched the Bachelorette with my grandma every week. Pretty simple life, really.” I popped the top of my soda can. “Speaking of not knowing a whole lot about people, what about you? You have what, two brothers?”
“Three,” she said with a look that clearly said three was too many. “I already told you Jimmy’s getting married this summer. Crazy bastard,” she muttered and took a swig of cola. “He’s just a freshman. But when he’s home, he looks happy like I’ve never seen him before.” She smiled. It kind of made me wish I had siblings.
“Where do they go to school?”
“Jimmy’s at Boston U studying engineering. Mark’s a junior at Penn State majoring in art or something. And Paul’s going for a law degree at NYU.”
“Dang.”
She smiled. “Underneath the hick, we’re a family of semigeniuses. Paul’s, like, crazy-ass smart, but we couldn’t afford to send him anywhere too fancy.”
She smiled again, happy for her brothers. A thought struck me.
“Trish, what’s your GPA?”
“Since when did you turn into Ms. Blunt? That’s my job.”
I blushed. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to ask it like that.”
“Don’t be; it’s not a secret. I’ve got a 3.95.” I stared at her. “Oh, come on, we’re in the middle of Stony Creek; the curriculum isn’t exactly rigorous.”
Since when did she use words like rigorous—or curriculum? And since when was a 3.95 something to shrug off? I barely had a 3.0 (thanks to my lack of enthusiasm for living and subsequent inattention to homework), and it wasn’t a walk in the park trying to bring it back up.
“Where do you want to go to school, after this?” I asked, unashamedly curious.
Of all the reactions I would have expected, embarrassment was not one of them. “I don’t know,” she said, not meeting my eyes.
“Oh, come on, Trish,” I said, reveling in being the one with the questions now. “You obviously have something in mind.”
She glowered at me. “So what if I do? There’s no way.”
“If there’s no way, then there’s no harm in telling me.”
She rolled her eyes and said, “Fine. I want to go to Oxford.”
I blinked. “Oxford?”
“Yeah. Like, in England.”
“I know where Oxford is. But—why?”
“Because it’s one of the founding schools of English literature. Mr. Warren’s trying to help me get a scholarship.”
She wanted to go there to write? “You want to go there to write?”
She shook her head in a so-so motion. “Maybe. It’s more about the history of the place. And I want to travel. I was thinking of getting a master’s in literature, then going on to publishing or something.”
It was like I was talking to a different person. I briefly wondered if Trish was schizophrenic, but she interrupted my thoughts.
“But that’s a long way off. I got plenty of time to screw around and be a reckless teenager. Which is why we should get some homework done.”
“Doing homework is reckless?”
“Nah,” she grinned, “but making sure you have absolutely nothing to distract you from your night with Adrian is.”
* * *
“I’m gonna take Caitlin home,” I heard Trish tell her parents. They replied low enough that I couldn’t hear. “Yeah, she’s not feeling good. I’ll be back for dinner.”
I heard her climb the stairs so I grabbed my bag.
“You ready?” she asked, stepping into the room. I nodded and tried to look ill.
“Hope you feel better soon, Caitlin,” Mrs. Fields called from the kitchen. She was cooking something on the stove that smelled deliciously like chili, and my stomach rumbled. I covered it with a grimace and said, “Thanks; I hope so, too.”
We made it to the truck and Trish drove me five minutes down the road until we saw a black truck parked on the side. I thanked Trish again for covering for me and hopped out, sprinting to the truck to keep out of the snow.
“Hey,” Adrian said as I closed the door.
“Hey,” I said back.
We sat in semiawkward silence for another two seconds before Adrian pulled onto the road.
“How was your afternoon?” he tried again.
“Good. Got my homework done. Learned that Trish is a closet genius and dreams of going to Oxford. Had a cola. The usual.”
He looked at me sideways. “Trish wants to go to Oxford?”
“Yep. Apparently all her brothers are really smart, too.”
Adrian looked mildly surprised. “They always seemed kind of big and dumb to me. Of course, that was during my I-hate-humans phase, so I didn’t think very highly of anyone.”
I stared at him. “You had an I-hate-humans phase?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Just because I am what I am doesn’t mean I didn’t go through puberty like everyone else. I was a very angry adolescent.”
“Why was that?”
He cleared his throat. “That’s when I was told we’re not allowed to get attached to humans.”
“Aah,” I said, blushing for some reason. “That must’ve sucked.”
He smiled, and it was a little bitter. “It wasn’t a great time for me. I wanted friends, but it wasn’t allowed. Hating people made it easier to keep my distance. It finally made sense why I moved around so much when I was younger.” He shrugged, but I could tell he was agitated. “I have to interact with regular, everyday people, but Mariana and Dominic don’t. They’ve already forgotten how hard it is to be around humans, but constantly maintain distance from them.”
My face crumpled up sadly as I looked at him. “So you never, like, spent the night at someone’s house?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
That was awful. I mean, I’d had a sad childhood, in a way, but my parents had been awesome. They were smart and funny and wonderful and they’d always made sure I knew they loved me. Adrian’s childhood sounded more like prison.
“How do I factor in, then, if you’re not allowed to have human friends? We’re alone together all the time.”
“You are a loophole,” he said, pulling through the gates that led to his house. “We endangered you, so we protect you in whatever fashion is necessary. Being around you, being alone with you, is vital to your safety. We had to let you in on it, because sooner or later you would’ve realized I was not who I said I was, or around you for the reasons you thought. We could have used our Jedi mind tricks to make you less suspicious, but that’s another rule—only use Jedi powers in an emergency.” He shook his head, lips set in a tight line. “I get ‘permission’ to be around you, to appear to be in love with you, but I’m forbidden from growing attached. And the penalties for disobedience are high.”
“How high?” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
He gave me a look that clearly said I didn’t really want to know.
We wound around the final curve in the road and parked. For a moment, he didn’t move, just stared out the windshield at his house.
“Adrian,” I said, staring down at a hole in the knee of my jeans. “When this is all over—are you going to make me forget?”
“No, I won’t.” But he wouldn’t look me in the eye.
I peered at him closely. “Is someone else going to make me forget?”
He looked down for a moment, then back up at me. “Probably.”
My heart surged in my chest. “And what if I refuse?”
He couldn’t meet my eyes. “We don’t operate under a democracy. If the Council orders your memories wiped, someone will do it. It’s just a matter of who.”
Part of me wanted to ask What if we said no? But I didn’t. The more time I spent around Adrian’s family, the more I realized I was a sort of glorified pet, not a guest. I could live my life fairly normally, but when push came to shove, I didn’t have any rights, as far as they were concerned.
Adrian breathed in, let it go, and got out of the truck before I could ask more. I followed him clumsily; trying to process and walk at the same time. As soon as we were through the front door, I heard a soft whooshing sound and looked up at the curving marble staircase to see Lucian sliding down the banister, face-first. Just when I thought he’d crash, he pushed himself up, hopped off the pedestal at the end, and jumped onto Adrian, who caught him effortlessly, and without any show of surprise. Lucian scrambled, squirrel-like, until he was sitting on Adrian’s shoulders, his chin resting on Adrian’s head as his arms dangled in their usual lifeless fashion.
“Hey, nutcase,” Adrian said, looking up.
“Hello,” Lucian replied.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Chicken.” He overexaggerated the syllables so that it sounded like “ch-ihh-cken.”
“Did you take your medicine?” Adrian asked seriously.
Lucian nodded.
“You shouldn’t let him do that,” a voice called from somewhere above us. I looked up and saw Julian—in a pair of silk pants and no shirt—on the third-story landing, leaning against the railing with a look of bored disapproval on his face.
“Why?” Adrian called up, eyes narrowed. “He’s my brother.”
“You’re so”—Julian’s eyes flickered over to me—“naive.”
Adrian smiled darkly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
It looked like Julian was about to respond, but Adrian looked at me, then back at his older brother. “Later.” Julian glanced at me again before disappearing into the third story hallway.
“Did I do something wrong?” Lucian asked, looking dejected.
“No, Frankie; you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Frankie?” I asked.
Adrian turned as if he’d forgotten I was there. “Oh, yeah. Just a little nickname I gave him when he came home. Short for Frankenstein. Come on, let’s go eat.”
I followed him into the adjoining dining room (where a small feast was laid out), contemplating the logistics of brotherhood among a thirty-five-, eighteen-, and eleven-year-old. Throw in the fact that they weren’t human, they drank blood, and they lived indefinite life-spans, and I guessed some awkward tension might arise.
“Caitlin; it’s so good to see you again,” Mariana said, bringing a huge silver platter of some sort of meat in from the kitchen.
“That smells delicious,” I said, quite sincerely.
Mariana just smiled. A part of me couldn’t help but wonder if it was because she thought it was cute that I had complimented her cooking. Of course, considering that she’d had over a hundred years to perfect her recipes, perhaps she had a right to be confident.
“Let’s eat.”
Julian and Dominic materialized out of nowhere, it seemed, and everyone sat. I was between Lucian and Adrian while Julian, Mariana, and Dominic sat across from us. Dishes were passed silently, except when Lucian dropped a green olive. He scooped it up quickly and shoved it in his mouth, but aside from that, everything moved with machinelike efficiency. Everyone, even Lucian and Mariana, had taken three times as much as I had, each staring at his or her own plate of food. It was weird.
A few minutes later, as if on cue, everyone stood up and walked their dishes into the kitchen, plates empty of even the smallest scrap of food. I brought my half-full plate with me and set it on the counter. Thankfully, Adrian took me by the elbow and led me back to the front hall.
“That was tense,” I said, finally feeling like I could breathe.
“You see why I like your house?” Before I could respond, he shook his head and said, “Never mind. Let’s go.”
We climbed the winding stairs and got off at the second floor. At the end of the hundred-foot hall, lined with majestic paintings and expensive wall sconces, we stopped and Adrian opened at a door to our right.
“This is your room.”
13
INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE
The only light came from two bedside lamps and the flickering glow of the fireplace. There was a queen-size, four-poster bed complete with awnings and a mountain of red silk pillows, and it didn’t even take up half the room. I’d probably need a stepstool just to get in it. An old-fashioned gold-brocade lounge chair faced the fire, covered with a deep red throw. French doors led to what I assumed was a deck, although in the gloom outside, I couldn’t really see much. I walked up to the bed and ran my fingers over the fabric reverently. I would kill to work with material like this.
“There’s a bathroom through there,” he said, pointing to a door to the left of the fireplace. “If you need anything, you can either call my phone or push the third button on the intercom, which will connect you to my room.”
“You’re leaving me?” I asked, a little alarmed.
“I’ll be one room away.” He smiled and patted his pockets as if making sure he had nothing left to give me. Finding nothing, he said, “All right, well, good night.”
“Night,” I called as he stepped out and closed the door with a soft click. I stood alone for a moment in the large, extravagant room, somewhat lost. Finally, I grabbed my bag and went into the bathroom, then stopped dead. I guess I shouldn’t really be surprised by the de la Mara grandeur anymore, but the bathroom was huge. Tall ceilings, archways, the whole thing made out of warm, honey-colored marble illuminated by soft lights. Rather than take a shower, I filled the claw-foot tub with hot water and poured in expensive, spiced Parisian bubble bath, and stepped over the edge. The tub was so deep that I could float in it. I bunched my hair into a messy bun and leaned my head against the backrest, letting my arms hang over the edge of the porcelain.
This was certainly heaven.
I soaked until I felt thawed out and boneless. If I was going to stay in a room like this, I was going to make the most of it.
When the bubbles were mostly gone, I got out and took a quick shower, threw on some pajamas, and went back into the bedroom. Looking around to make sure no one was there, I used the brocade couch as a runway to somersault onto the bed. It was stupid and childish, but I figured if I was about to suffer from a horrifying nightmare, I’d squeeze in all the stupid, childish fun I could get.
