Dark Companion

by Marta Acosta

  “I heard someone say it and wondered.”

  “I’m glad you’re finally getting interested in literature. We should totally take Shakespeare’s Critical Works together next year and for our performances, I’ll be a comic heroine and you’ll be a girl masquerading as a boy.”

  “You make education terrifying, MV. See you Monday.”

  “Au revoir, JW.”

  I walked to the Greenwood Library, dropped my books in the return bin, and went to a computer stall. But when I tried to log in, Invalid User flashed on the screen. I tried another computer and had the same problem.

  A man at the information desk came over. “May I help you?”

  “Would you? I’m trying to get into my library account and the system won’t let me log in. I double-checked the log-in and the password.” I handed him my library card.

  He scrutinized it and said, “So you’re at Birch Grove. It will be a few minutes.”

  “Okay. I’ll look around.”

  While he was tapping away at his computer, I went to the psychology section of the nonfiction stacks. I was scanning the index of a book about fetishes and perversions when the librarian suddenly appeared at the end of the aisle.

  “Excuse me!” he said in a loud whisper. “These books are for eighteen and over.”

  “I’m an emancipated minor.”

  “Be that as it may, you are not over eighteen.” He snatched the book from my hand and snapped it shut.

  “Libraries are supposed to promote freedom of knowledge, not censor it.”

  “It’s not censorship. It’s an age-appropriate restriction. Your library privileges have been revoked because you have been accessing pornographic Web sites.”

  “I haven’t been…” I began, and then I remembered Wilde’s Web page. “That was accidental. I closed it immediately.”

  “I think you better leave now, Miss Williams, or I’ll have to call Mrs. Radcliffe and tell her about your disruptive behavior and your misuse of library property.”

  I glared at him and said, “This town is too nice,” and stormed out.

  * * *

  I stayed inside the cottage the rest of Saturday, working on my assignments and hoping that Lucky would call or come by. At midnight, I gave up and went to bed. I dreamed of the birch trees walking toward me, marvelously graceful for their enormous size.

  Mrs. Radcliffe was sitting high in their branches, as if she were riding them. “All my Birch Grove girls are exceptional. Jane, you’re the most special of all because you’re already dead!”

  “I’m not dead! I’m alive,” I shouted. “I’m alive! I want to live!”

  I awoke then to a dark room. I thought I heard voices in the distance, and then the sound vanished beneath the howl of the wind.

  * * *

  On Sunday, I tried to be patient, but I couldn’t wait to see Lucky again, so I went early for my tutoring session.

  Mrs. Radcliffe answered the door. “Come on in, Jane. Lucky’s not back from the movies yet. He went to a matinee with his friends.”

  “Oh,” I said, thinking, The friends he says he doesn’t have. “I can come back later.”

  “Please stay. Would you like to wait in the family room?”

  I followed Mrs. Radcliffe and she gave me a glass of juice and asked, “Did you enjoy the party?”

  I couldn’t tell from her tone what she’d heard about it. “It was nice. I’ve never been to a country club before.”

  “It’s the center of a lot of our social activities. Jack’s bored with it, but he can’t play at most clubs—or venues, as he calls them—until he’s twenty-one.”

  “I liked his band. What does the name mean?”

  “Whenever I made waffles, the neighbor’s old dog would come begging for his waffle. Jacob says it’s also a play upon dogging, following faithfully, and waffle, to go back and forth between things. He may be joking.”

  “I can’t tell when he’s kidding and when he’s serious.”

  “His humor and his seriousness are intertwined. He loves to laugh, but often when he’s joking, he’s trying to make a more serious point.”

  “Like the king’s fool?”

  She seemed a little surprised by the comment. “My Jacob is nobody’s fool, not even a king’s.”

  When I heard the front door open, my heart leaped.

  Lucky came into the family room. He was wearing a narrow-brimmed hat, aviator sunglasses, a long-sleeved navy t-shirt, and jeans. I pressed at the bandage under my sleeve so I could feel the tenderness.

  “Hi, Mom. Hey, Jane.”

  “Jane’s been waiting for you, Lucian.”

  “I’m on time.” His expression was so bored that I had to set my teeth to keep from cussing at him.

  “Dinner will be in an hour and a half,” his mother said. “No hats in the house, young man.”

  Lucky plucked off his hat, twirled it around on his fingers. “Come on, Jane.” I followed him upstairs and into the study. He dropped onto the sofa with his long legs sprawled out. His eyes were hidden behind the sunglasses. “Could you be any more obvious?”

  “I haven’t said anything!” What had happened to the sweet woozy boy who’d slept beside me?

  “You don’t need to say anything. Anyone can read it on your face.”

  He sat there judging me, and I said coldly, “Be specific: you mean your mother could read it on my face. You want me when it’s convenient for you, but you’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”

  My tone got his attention. He slipped off the shades and sat up. “You’re right. But you have no idea how upset she’d be if she found out that I was … that we had this special relationship. She’d be disappointed in you, too, Jane. She wouldn’t let us see each other anymore.”

  “You should be getting treatment for it, this blood-drinking disorder.”

  “Is that what you really think, Jane?” He slumped once again. “My bad. I thought you of all people knew what it means to be different. That you don’t have to play by the rules all the time. I thought you actually cared for me.”

  He looked up at me with a forlorn expression and my heart ached for him. I sat next to him and put my hand on his leg. “I do care for you, Lucky, that’s why I think you should get professional help.”

  Lucky reached for my hand and lifted it to his mouth, dragging his lower lip across the inside of my wrist. “I know all the psychological terms for what I did, and there’s a difference between a preference and mental illness. Lots of gourmet restaurants serve raw meat and some people eat blood sausages. How is that any different from my craving?” His voice dropped lower. “I like your blood, Jane.”

  I considered his point. Logically, blood was blood.

  Lucky pulled me onto his lap. “I don’t want to lose what we have, okay?”

  I smelled his herby sunscreen and put my hand on his firm chest. “Okay, but you have to be nicer to me, Lucky.”

  He smiled, happy again. “How’s your arm? Let me see.” I pushed my sleeve up above my elbow. He slowly peeled off the bandage. The area was purple and yellow around the red-brown scab. He bent his head to lick the cut, making me quiver with anticipation, and I pressed against him.

  Then he lifted me off himself as easily as lifting a pillow and set me beside him. He fell back against the sofa, breathing heavily. “Not here. Someone could come in.” He stared out the window for a minute before saying, “You are so good to me, Jane, and I’m such a tool.”

  “Are you putting yourself down to make me feel sorry for you?”

  “No, I’m putting myself down because I know I should be a better person.”

  “Then try to be a better person,” I said. “Lucky, why does Hattie have a knife like yours?”

  “Lots of people have them. Didn’t your friends have knives?” He took the penknife out of his pocket and ran the blunt edge of it over the rough surface of my new scab.

  “Yes, but for protection, not to play with.”

  “Maybe it’s a G
reenwood thing. I can get one for you. Do you like silver or gold?”

  “I don’t need one.”

  He grazed the blade of the knife ever so lightly down the inside of my arm to my wrist and my breathing came fast and shallow. “The blood is such a rush. It’s better than a drug because it makes me healthier and stronger.”

  “That’s your delusion, Lucky. The amount you take is insignificant in terms of protein and nutrients. What if I had an infection?”

  “You don’t have an infection.”

  “I don’t know why I’m agreeing to do this.” I stood and crossed the room.

  “It’s an act of kindness. You trust me because you know I need you as much as … It’s not one-sided. I’ll take care of you, too, Janey. I promise.”

  We heard footsteps coming down the hall. Lucky folded the knife and put it back in his pocket. His father walked by without even glancing in, and I said, “Your parents are paying me by the hour. Did you get back any of your assignments?” Lucky showed me his work and I tried to focus on the numbers and symbols.

  Dinner was quiet because Jack wasn’t around. We had homemade lasagna with thick tomato sauce. I looked at Lucky just as his tongue tipped out to lick a spot of sauce, and I thought of what he’d done to me. I had liked some of it. I’d liked his body’s weight against my body. I’d liked the feel of his lips and his hands. I liked knowing that I had the stunning boy that all the other girls wanted.

  I liked that we shared a secret, something special.

  I looked at the scrumptious plates of food on the dinner table, Lucky’s elegant parents, and their wonderful home. I liked all these things, too.

  * * *

  Lucky walked me home after dinner. He talked about his school and his classmates. I tried to remember the names of his friends. Most of them had been at the country club: tall, loud guys with longish hair and lots of attitude.

  “So like Julian, he borrowed his dad’s new Beamer and when he came out of this club, it’s gone, stolen. Hilarious.” Lucky laughed loudly. “So I do him a bro-favor and drive him home. He sneaks into the house and goes to bed. When the car is missing the next day, his old man thinks someone stole it from the garage, and Julian acts all shocked.”

  “He sounds like an ass.”

  “Oh, like you’ve never done anything wrong, Jane.” Lucky’s sneer made him instantly seem bigger and dangerous. “Whoever stole the Beamer is the thief, not Julian, and besides, the insurance will pay. No need for the J-man to get hassled.” Once we got to my door, he said, “Maybe I’ll come by sometime this week. See you.”

  As easily as that, Lucky Radcliffe taught me that he’d punish me if I criticized him or his friends. I could imagine it now, how our relationship was like an equation. On one side was the sum of his astonishing beauty, wonderful family, and social status. On the other side was my desire. The only way to balance the equation was to offer my total compliance.

  He wanted me for my blood and loyalty, but everyone had blood and most girls would want to be loyal to Lucky. I was replaceable, for now. My fury flared as I thought of how people always underestimated my tenacity. I’d prove them all wrong. And I would prove to Lucky that I was irreplaceable.

  * * *

  On Monday, I raced home from class so I would be there if Lucky called or came by. I finished the rest of my homework before I read my Night Terrors assignment, a story called “The Vampyre” by John William Polidori.

  I pored over the pages, searching for clues about Lucky’s behavior.

  The story was about a young man named Aubrey, his best friend, mysterious Lord Ruthven, and a lovely young woman. Aubrey goes into a dangerous forest even though it was “the resort of the vampyres in their nocturnal orgies.”

  When vampires kill the lovely girl, Aubrey becomes sick from grief, and Lord Ruthven cares for him. Lord Ruthven dies and comes back to life, causing Aubrey to go insane because he’s promised never to tell. Then Aubrey’s sister is slaughtered: “Aubrey’s sister had glutted the thirst of a VAMPYRE!” The end.

  I hated the story and thought that it was typical that spoiled people, like the story’s author, had nothing better to do than imagine stupid scary fantasies. I was angry that I had to waste my time looking up the words I didn’t understand, reading the story again, and composing a 350-word synopsis. But learning all this junk was part of succeeding, so I powered through and did the work as meticulously as I could.

  Lucky didn’t call that night, and I fell asleep thinking, Tomorrow he’ll come, tomorrow he’ll call, tomorrow he’ll hold me, tomorrow he’ll tell me how much he needs me …

  “What ails my love? the moon shines bright:

  Bravely the dead men ride through the night.

  Is my love afraid of the quiet dead?”

  “Ah! no—let them sleep in their dusty bed!”

  Gottfried August Bürger, “Lenore” (1790), translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

  Chapter 21

  “Jane? Jane?” Mrs. Radcliffe was at the front of the classroom waiting for a response. Her navy suit had white piping along the edges. She always dressed so stylishly.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, could you repeat that?”

  “I asked what you thought of Aubrey and his predicament with Lord Ruthven.”

  “The story makes no sense. Why does Aubrey keep a promise to Lord Ruthven when he believes Ruthven’s a vampire? Ruthven is a caricature of a monster with no motivation besides sadism.”

  Mrs. Radcliffe tilted her head. “What other motivations could he have had?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he needs to drink blood to survive. Maybe he has no soul. Maybe he wants revenge for an ancient wrong.”

  “Do you think Aubrey should have broken the promise?”

  “Absolutely, especially since his secrecy endangers others and he gets absolutely nothing from the relationship.” I paused to reflect on the characters’ dynamic. “If Lord Ruthven needed Aubrey in some way, if there was reciprocation and affection, it would be different. But there’s no unique bond between them, so why is Aubrey so delicate that he goes crazy?”

  “It’s a metaphor,” a senior said.

  “A metaphor represents something, and I don’t think this does,” I answered. “The author believes Aubrey’s stupid, too, because he describes him as trusting poetry over reality.”

  Constance raised her hand. “I agree with Jane. I don’t think the author put a lot of thought into the story. The structure was clumsy, the writing awkward, and the characters were cliché. The young girl is described as…” Constance skimmed her notes and read, “having an ‘almost fairy form,’ and being so innocent that she is ‘unconscious of his love.’ How could she be so oblivious of Aubrey’s passion for her? Is she a complete idiot?”

  Mrs. Radcliffe said, “She’s young and naïve. There are always things that we don’t recognize due to inexperience, as well as those things which we consciously or unconsciously choose not to see because they don’t fit our expectations and desires.”

  Her comment echoed what Mrs. Holiday had mentioned about vision and perception.

  The other students began speaking up about “The Vampyre.” “The vampire is only used as a mechanism. The author could have used a werewolf, or a ghost, or any Big Bad. It doesn’t matter, because he has no larger meaning to the story.”

  Mrs. Radcliffe looked at all the raised hands. “Do you see any similar themes running through these works?”

  We all began discussing how the main characters’ pursuit of pleasure caused them to dismiss forewarnings of danger. Mrs. Radcliffe steered the discussion to the symbols for life and death. She was tying together themes and I remembered Jack saying that the whole was greater than the sum of its parts.

  I was thinking of this, feeling that I only had a few pieces of a large puzzle and wondering how they fit together as I walked to Latin class and bumped right into Catalina in the doorway.

  “Sorry.” I stepped back to let her go through first.


  She pursed her full lips. “Clumsy girl!”

  “I said I was sorry.” I followed her into the room and we both sat at our desks.

  “You require too much attention for such a tiny thing.” She arranged her books and took out her silver pen. “Sage is envious of anyone close to the Radcliffes and she’s always trying to climb the social ladder. You, at least, have no pretensions. I can’t believe all this pettiness over Lucian, who’s so handsome, but this is such a small town. Mundus vult decipi, ergo decipiatu.”

  I had studied the quote before: The world wants to be deceived, so let it be deceived. “What do you mean by that?”

  She tossed her hair back. “I’m bored with you now.”

  Mundus vult decipi, ergo decipiatu. It seemed to fit into the Night Terrors discussion, and I could use the quote in my essay on “The Vampyre.”

  * * *

  The days that followed were agonizing. I kept my arms covered during school and tried to pay attention to my lessons, but all I could think about was Lucky. I thought about the shades of honey-gold in his hair, his voice, the stretch of his long body, and the way he moved.

  I wanted to hear him tell me that what we had was special … that I was special and not merely some mousy girl. If only I could be patient, then he would let people know that Lucky Radcliffe and Jane Williams had a thing. I wasn’t quite sure yet what that thing was.

  When Mr. Mason asked me to help set up another lab on acids and bases, I was glad because it prevented me from obsessing … at least for a few hours while I set out the glass beakers, color pH charts, and protection goggles.

  Mr. Mason checked on a completed station. “Nice work, Jane. I appreciate your help.”

  “It’s calming thinking about how acids and bases neutralize each other.” I aligned a box of borax with a bottle of alcohol. “When you know the rules, you can predict what will happen.”