Bloodsuckers and Blunders

by Poppy Inkwell

  Mrs. Cronenberg’s dance class forced Alana to move her body in ways that felt strange and foreign. Sofia shot her a sympathetic look as Alana tripped over her feet for the fifth time. Even Miller White, the year group’s resident geek, seemed to be picking it up! (Admittedly, he was muttering about 45 degree angles and counter-clockwise turns.) Alana couldn’t understand it. She was musical. She had rhythm. She could do the footwork in soccer. Why was it so hard?!

  “Posture! Balance! Timing!” Mrs. Cronenberg called out. “All are very important ... Like so,” she said, giving Flynn a little congratulatory clap. Alana made a face and tried again. “Take up the movements with your partners now, and listen to the music.” To her horror, Alana was paired with Will. Mrs. Cronenberg gathered up her full skirt and swept over to the stereo system to cue the music. “Remember, the waltz is the epitome of elegance, poise, and beauty,” she trilled.

  “Perhaps that’s why you’re having trouble?” Will whispered in Alana’s ear.

  “No,” she replied sweetly, taking great satisfaction in seeing her heavy boot crush his big toe. Not completely accidentally. “My feet are doing exactly what I want them to do.”

  “Remember, graceful sweeping movements, everyone,” the dance instructor called out. “Lovely lines,” she directed at Maddie and Colin, “although traditionally the male leads.”

  My two left feet. Dance class. Kill me now!

  Alana posted James a picture of her boots. Uncle James.

  Where was he when she needed him? Probably taking amazing photos in some exotic locale, she reminded herself. James was her mom’s work partner and took the shots that gave visual impact to Emma’s words. Alana suspected he’d like to become more than just a work partner but so far had not made any moves on her mom. Not that Alana’s moves were anything to rave about at the moment.

  If you took off the boots, your dance partner would have a better chance of survival!

  James posted back.

  That’s the idea,

  Alana replied.

  The Year Nine students shuffled and twirled as best they could, alternately giggling in embarrassment and jostling each other whenever couples got too near. Mrs. Cronenberg reminded them of the basic steps whenever they needed help. “No, forward with the left foot, side-step and close, then backward with the right foot, step to the side and close again. Yes, yes, that’s it,” she said encouragingly to Jefri. “Boys, please maintain a proper frame! Posture, posture, posture!”

  “Excuse me, what is your name?” Mrs. Cronenberg asked, interrupting Alana and Will mid-step with a sharp tap on Alana’s shoulder.

  “Alana,” Alana mumbled.

  “Alana, may I?” Mrs. Cronenberg asked, smoothly taking Will’s hand which Alana eagerly dropped. Will’s hand was as cold and as bony as a dead fish. The dance teacher gave a little nod and Will moved forward with ease, expertly moving in a circular fashion as if born in another century. Then the new boy executed a six-count underarm turn which the teacher hadn’t yet taught them, making Alana even more suspicious. First fangs, now he acts like he knows stuff from a bygone era? She felt a familiar tingle in the back of her mind. Something didn’t feel right.

  The music changed and the tempo quickened. Without missing a beat, Will spun Mrs. Cronenberg around so that her skirt swirled up, revealing two glittery heels. Their arms and legs became a blur as they charged about the room in a flurry of frills and feathers. Was it the cha-cha? The tango? The quickstep? Or perhaps a combination of all three? Whatever the dance was, Mrs. Cronenberg was very impressed and showered Will with praise. At the end of class, several Year Nine girls rushed to compliment him on his smooth moves. Will exited on a wave of flattery and floral deodorant.

  “Crikey!” cried Jefri. “That bloke was pretty bonza, eh? I reckon I’ve got Buckley’s Chance of getting as grouse as him but I’m gonna give it a burl, anyways.” Jefri’s head swiveled back and forth swiftly. “So, Possums, where can I get me some tucker?”

  Khalilah put an arm around her big brother. “You know Jefri, people really, really don’t speak like that here.”

  “Yeah, pull the other one, sis,” Jefri chuckled. “It’s got bells on.”

  Alana was prevented from leaving class by Mrs. Cronenberg who assigned her extra homework to improve her poise and balance. Alana sighed. From Elite Squad to Dancing for Dummies. She waved at her friends, who mimed that they would wait for her at the school cafeteria. They had a whole summer to catch up on after all. She wondered what Sofia’s new home in Surry Hills was like, what new tracks Maddie had to share from music camp, and how Khalilah’s outback adventure had gone.

  There wasn’t much for Alana to update them on regarding her own life. She had spent most of her time working at Katriona and Ling Ling’s Beauty Bar for extra cash. She could now mix up a decent batch of honey-blonde highlights, and do the prep work for a full-body wax, but to be honest she’d spent most of her time tidying up and eavesdropping on clients. Alana was amazed by what people were willing to share. At least she had squeezed in a couple of cool circus classes, at the Addison Road Community Center, which more than made up for cleaning duty. Alana was able to add knife-throwing (fake, of course) and stiltwalking to her tightrope, unicycling, juggling, and trapeze skills. Although after Coach Kusmuk’s training, the acrobatic work was almost too easy. It had been a lot of fun and she couldn’t wait to show her friends what she could do.

  She was reluctant to tell her friends about Flynn though, and his determination that she should listen to more than just rock. Alana threw a glance at her school bag where a “mixed tape” lay hidden with the book of vampires. According to Flynn, his collection of songs on the pen drive was part of Alana’s “musical education” - tracks by the Beastie Boys, David Bowie, and John Coltrane. The memory of it made Alana smile. He didn’t know it yet, but she’d made a collection of rock history music of her own - songs by PJ. Harvey, Janis Joplin, and AC/DC. She just needed to find the right moment to give it to him. While Mrs. Cronenberg demonstrated another exercise in poise and balance, Alana closed her eyes and got lost in an imagined Hendrix track.

  When Mrs. Cronenberg finished her dance demonstration she was annoyed to see Alana’s head thrashing up and down, playing air guitar, but the boom, boom, boom of a hip-hop beat interrupted any scolding she was about to give. The frills in her bodice twitched in irritation.

  “Oh hey, sorry Missus, I didn’t know you wasn’t done yet,” the owner of the boombox said.

  Alana grabbed the interruption like a lifeline and injected more warmth in her greeting than it deserved. “Thin, my man!” she exclaimed. “How’ve you been?”

  The youth she greeted was slight with an angular face browned to the color of teak. His eyes were much narrower than Alana’s — so thin they disappeared when he smiled. The hair on the sides of his head was cut short with two zigzag lightning bolts shaved on either side. His T-shirt was printed with a montage of “retro cassettes” and his baggy jeans hung low on his behind.

  “Woh, hey, it’s Hotchickalana,” Trân beamed. “How you goin’? How’s your mom? You know she was a real inspiration to me. I was real bummed she had to leave but,” he jerked his head at what looked to be a new batch of Second-Chancers - a name reserved for participants of the rehabilitation program run by the Newtown Police Boy’s Club — “I’m following in her footsteps and sharin’ the love, you know what I’m sayin’?” Alana wondered what the other two ex-Second-Chancers, Boris and Enzo, were doing now, and who they were sharing their “love” with. All three had been under her mom’s care last year as part of Emma’s community service (don’t ask, but it did involve a high-speed car chase). Emma’s parting advice - via a stone pillar, a leafy bush, and a boy in a leather jacket - was that the Second-Chancers should find their gift in life and use it for the benefit of others.

  “You’re teaching dance, too?” Alana asked Trân.

  “Yep,” he said with satisfaction. “Any time you want me to show you some moves y
ou just let Tran-the-Man know. Headspins, some old school breakdancing or moonwalking ... I can show you how to really get down!” He did a demonstration.

  A head full of feathers blocked Alana’s view, making Trim sneeze. “Thank you, Mr. Man,” Mrs. Cronenberg said, pushing Alana none-too-gently out the door, “but I believe Alana needs to get down to Gibson High!”

  CHAPTER 7

  Food for thought

  By the time Alana made it to the school cafeteria there was little to choose from. The food technology classes must have been doing their unit on Care for the Elderly because all that was left was Chinese rice porridge and a strange looking dish labeled “junket.” Alana grabbed a bowl of porridge, added some spring onions, peanuts, chili, a dash of soy sauce, and some chunks of “century egg” before scuttling over to her friends, who were finishing their meal.

  After a lot of squealing and squeezing and giggling, the four friends took turns to fill each other in on their lives. Alana was not surprised that Maddie was working harder than ever on the violin. She knew of Maddie’s hopes to study at Sydney’s Conservatorium High School and they only took the best. Music camp for Maddie had been the perfect combination of hard work and fun. Sofia was tired from the house move but excited she had a new bedroom to decorate. Renovations to her home which sat above her dad’s new restaurant were almost finished and Sofia promised they would get an invitation soon. Khalilah also had had a good time although it sounded like she was lucky to make it out of the National Park alive. While Khalilah was showing Maddie her battle scars from an overeager emu, Alana took the opportunity to glance around the cafeteria. It didn’t take long to find her new neighbors who, unlike other students, were not eating, and sat as still as statues.

  “Hey, what do you guys think of the new guy, Will?” she couldn’t help but ask.

  “I think he’s pretty gorgeous,” Sofia answered swiftly.

  “Eye candy for sure,” Maddie agreed with a smirk, “in a washed-out kind of way.”

  Khalilah mimed a thumbs up through a mouth full of food.

  “Yeah, I know, right? I’ve never seen anyone so pale before,” Alana replied, careful to avoid their comments about Will’s good looks. It wasn’t the first time Alana and her friends had differed in their definition of attractive. Hadn’t Alana been the odd one out when everyone else was slobbering over the teen heartthrob, Jet Tierbert, a couple of years ago? And then, Flynn, the year after that? “They’ve moved into the creepy house up the road, you know,” she confided.

  “Really! Wow, I thought for sure that place would get torn down.” Sofia glanced over at the two teenagers. “I like his sister’s nail color,” she said, twirling her dreadlocks.

  Alana fingered the strap of her school bag all too aware of the book on vampires sitting inside. “You don’t think he’s, you know,” Alana struggled to find the right word, “strange? He’s really good at that ballroom dancing stuff and so far I haven’t seen him eat. At all...”perhaps because he’drather be drinking blood? Alana resisted voicing her suspicion and she certainly didn’t mention fangs. She would sound ridiculous, even to her own ears.

  Maddie laughed. “Did you see what they’re serving today? I’m not surprised he lost his appetite.” She gave a teasing grin. “Not everyone likes moldy eggs like you.”

  “They are a very important delicacy in Asia, you know,” interrupted Khalilah, coming to Alana’s defense.

  “Do you like them, Khalilah?” Maddie asked, surprised.

  Khalilah made a face. “No way!” she said. “They’re disgusting.”

  The four friends laughed and quickly shifted topic when Alana took out Sofia’s borrowed book.

  “Ooh, ooh, can I have it, please?” Khalilah asked.

  “But you’ve read it already!” Alana protested.

  “Yeah, I know,” she said with a sheepish grin, “but I want to start from the beginning again. Here,” Khalilah said, handing over an even thicker book, which made Alana grunt. “The sequel. After reading this,” she declared, hugging the tome to her chest. “I just can’t call vampires monsters anymore."

  Alana eyed Will’s table fearfully as they stood for their next class. “Oh, I don’t know, Khalilah. I think the real thing would make you change your mind.”

  CHAPTER 8

  A monster in their midst

  Next class was English and drama. Their teacher, Dr. Olivier, fiddled with his bow tie as students found their seats. A fine bead of sweat made the top of his bald head look shiny. He dabbed at it with a large, spotted, orange handkerchief as he walked around the classroom.

  All the lights went out. The distinctive scent of patchouli and musk that was Dr. Olivier’s cologne blossomed in the sudden dark. A ghostly mwa-ha-ha echoed in the gloom. Somebody screamed. It sounded like Miller. There was a click. Light from a torch illuminated Dr. Olivier’s face from below. It cast eerie shadows on his face and the wall behind him.

  “This term we will be looking at the genre of horror,” Dr. Olivier said ghoulishly. “So what better place to start than to discuss our greatest fears?” He turned the flashlight on them, one by one. “What makes your hair stand on end? What gives you goosebumps?” He whirled around and looked Alana in the eye. “What makes you tremble. In. Your. Boots?”

  He flicked the torch at Alana’s footwear so they appeared in a circle of light, like the star of their very own show. Alana obligingly made them shuffle and “twirl” which made the class laugh, easing some of the tension.

  Dr. Olivier plunged them into darkness again. The flare of a match and the sharp tang of chemicals tickled Alana’s nose. A candle in a jar rose in the air and was passed to the first table. More and more candles were lit and handed out so that their shadows on the walls flickered and danced.

  “If we are to understand how horror writers use shared human emotions and experiences to inspire fear in their readers, we first have to articulate that which we fear most.” He paused dramatically, smiled, and then continued in an ordinary voice. “There’s a worksheet going around. Please take one and use it to write down some of your fears. Tomorrow, we’ll be sharing in pairs.”

  It was strange working by candlelight but Alana was no longer surprised by the madness of her teachers’ methods. Gibson High wasn’t a conventional school. The longer she studied here, the more Alana was coming to realize just how unconventional it was. She certainly hadn’t heard of any other school with their own collection of medieval torture artifacts. Or having to practice obstacle courses blindfolded. She wasn’t even sure if Nurse Cathy was a qualified nurse. Her bookshelf was filled with titles like Suturing in Seconds and Plastic Surgery: Common Myths and Mistakes. It was little wonder students rarely got ill.

  Alana glanced down at her list of fears.

  #1. Coach Kusmuk. Coach Kusmuk was like a Chihuahua with shark’s teeth and a dragon’s roar. Yells of “Faster!” and “Drop down and give me twenty!” still made Alana twitch in her sleep.

  #2. Mrs. Snell. History came alive, quite literally, whenever she was around. The school’s medieval torture artifacts were from Mrs. Snell’s personal collection. The elderly teacher’s rosy, chubby cheeks and snow-white hair, the wisps of which escaped her bun, tricked people into thinking of rainbows and pixies. Her stumbling shuffle made people want to help her across the street. But Alana, like the rest of the school, wasn’t fooled. Just wave one of Snell’s knitting needles in front of Flynn, if you don’t believe me.

  #3. Nurse Cathy. Her unbridled enthusiasm for human experimentation was the stuff of nightmares. A copy of H.G. Wells’ The Island of Doctor Moreau (disturbingly well-thumbed) had recently been added to the clinic’s library.

  #4...

  Alana was about to add her new dance class to the list but hesitated. Dr. Olivier probably wouldn’t appreciate any of her answers.

  Time passed quickly and it wasn’t long before the end-of-class bell rang. “Before you go,” Dr. Olivier said over the sudden hubbub of excited voices, “some homework.�
� He raised a hand to ward off the collective groan. “I’d like you to research a popular, fictitious monster. It could be Mary Shelley’s monster of Frankenstein or Thomas Harris’s Hannibal Lecter, anyone at all. Whoever or whatever you choose, I’d like you to describe their characteristics. How indeed, would we know they were a vampire, for example? What would give them away?” He looked around the class. The shadows contorted eerily by candlelight. “Could they, in fact, be sitting right next to you?” He loomed over one of the students who gave a nervous giggle. Dr. Olivier’s voice dropped to a breath of a whisper. “Could there be a monster in our midst?”