Bloodsuckers and Blunders

by Poppy Inkwell

  “If you’re finished with my lame music then you won’t mind giving my pen drive back,” said a voice.

  Alana felt her guts spill on the floor in spectacular slow motion as she turned.

  Flynn stood with his arms crossed. He was his usual careless self: shirt untucked, tie askew, hair an untidy mess Alana wanted to reach out and sweep back from his face. He towered over Alana, especially since, unlike him, she hadn’t grown much over the holidays. His eyes were stormy for a moment before turning cold and hard. Like a kaleidoscope of gray that goes blank. The realization of what she’d done hit her like a slab of concrete. The memory of their summer laughter turned taunting. All hope of giving Flynn her own collection of music... gone.

  “Mmmm, yummy yummy,” breathed Alice from behind, in a voice only Alana could hear. “One person’s trash is another person’s treasure.”

  And screaming that Flynn wasn’t trash, and would never be trash, in Alana’s head, made no difference at all.

  CHAPTER 22

  And the truth shall set you free

  While Sofia became fixated with food and Maddie with furniture, Khalilah developed her own obsession at the Bondi skate bowl. Khalilah loved rap music and the iconic beach appealed to Khalilah for its sun, surf, and hip-hop culture. The combination of graffiti art and skaters held irresistible allure. Last year, at the skate bowl, Khalilah had met a friend of Alana’s, a Cambodian boy called Tŕân who showed her how to use a skateboard. Tŕân-the-Man with his beatbox groove, impromptu raps, and a total of six fingers.

  “What happened to your hand?” Khalilah boldly asked him one day. Tŕân took one look at Khalilah, the girl he’d taught how to “takeoff” and “glide” on his beat-up skateboard, and realized with a jolt that he didn’t want to feed her one of his usual stories. The ones where Tŕân wasa raging kung fu master, fighting off five gangsters with machetes, or a fearless surfer evading a shark. For once, he wanted to tell the truth.

  “You know they call it the Vietnam War, but it didn’t only happen in Vietnam,” he began. Tnin looked up to find Khalilah watching him with her warm, brown eyes. Watchful. Listening. Genuinely interested. He went on. “There was fighting in Cambodia and Laos, too. Not that I was alive when it all happened. This was like, in the seventies or something.” The way he said “seventies,” it was as if he was describing one of Mrs. Snell’s history lessons. As old as medieval times.

  “After the fighting stopped, and even after all the soldiers left, people kept getting killed.” Khalilah’s eyes widened. “Or they ended up like me.” Tŕân held up his hand. The right one, where only a thumb and forefinger remained. “I was only a little kid when it happened,” Tŕân’s lips twisted as the memories surfaced. “Mom and Dad warned me not to play in certain parts of the land. Said it was dangerous. They farmed only where it was safe. But I never liked to listen. Still don’t, to tell the truth,” Tŕân glanced up briefly and continued when he saw the encouragement in Khalilah’s eyes.

  “So, I found this bit of metal which was half-buried in the mud and I tried to dig it out. Lucky for me it was only a tiny piece of a partially exploded landmine.” When Khalilah looked confused, he explained. “Like a bit of a bomb, not a whole one.” He laughed hollowly. “I wouldn’t be alive if it had been whole. Some days I wish it had.”

  Khalilah leaned forward, alarmed. “Don’t say that!”

  “It’s true,” Tŕân said, giving her another of his twisted smiles. “My sister came running when she heard the explosion. She was always soft on me. Hated to see me cry and I was screaming my head off —” Tŕân took a deep breath. “She ran over another landmine trying to get to me.” He stopped, unable to go on. “Didn’t make it,” he said in a choked voice.

  Tŕân looked out at the ocean but Khalilah knew he was seeing something completely different — Cambodia - his home country where, even today, possibly six million landmines lay buried across 46% of the country’s villages, and 40,000 people walked around without a limb.

  “You want to know what the funniest thing is? My first name is Heng. It means ‘lucky.’ Lucky me,” Tŕân said, not sounding at all lucky. “I got put up for adoption. I got a second chance in a new country with my auntie’s family. Only they didn’t know they were adopting a loser.” At this, Tŕân raised his damaged hand to his forehead in a vicious salute. He looked sideways. Khalilah was still there. She hadn’t run or moved away in revulsion. A part of him was surprised. Tŕân’s voice dropped to a bitter whisper. “You know sometimes when I pick a fight I want them to beat me up. Beat me up so bad until there’s nothing left. I deserve it.”

  Khalilah had no answer for this. No words of comfort came to mind. No witty remark to disguise the pain. But she did have a cream bun. It was squashed and a bit out of shape from being in her pocket, but it was a cream bun all the same. Khalilah offered it to Tŕân and he tore off a bit from the end with a grateful smile. His right hand was like a pincer, holding it firm, while the cream fountained up through the pastry.

  Khalilah stretched out her arm to make an “L” with her left hand. It looked just like Tŕân’s, and she held it in front of her face. She gazed at it thoughtfully and traced the shape with her right forefinger. “L could be for ‘lick,’” she said, licking off a white blob of cream that was on her thumb. “L could be for ‘lucky,’” she said, tracing the shape again, “because you met me.” Tŕân smiled. “L could be for anything, but it definitely isn’t for ‘loser.’” Khalilah forced Tran to hold up his hand too. It was larger and darker than hers with three scarred stubs. “You know what I think?” Khalilah asked. “I think L is for ‘life,’ because that’s what you’ve got, and your sister wouldn’t have wanted you to waste it. Come on,” she said, urging Tŕân to his feet. “You’re going to teach me how to ride this skateboard again. We may as well give the tourists something to laugh at.”

  Former Second-Chancer Tŕân never talked about how he lost his fingers with Khalilah ever again. But he was sure that meeting Emma, Alana, and therefore Khalilah, had given him his real second chance. A chance to look at his right hand - an “L” which he’d thought could only stand for “loser” - in a new way.

  CHAPTER 23

  Double mystery

  Khalilah and Alana spent most weekends at Bondi Beach watching skaters ride the wind as a reward for soccer training. The Bondi skate bowl was the perfect place for this. While old men in faded fisherman’s caps and three day’s stubble played board games by the sea, and seagulls snapped up wayward scraps, the two friends watched the youths and their boards tumble through the air.

  At any time of the day or night, the Bondi skate bowl was a frenzy of activity. Skaters liked to practice their aerial stunts at the bowl and make them more and more daring. At the end of autumn, a mysterious new skater arrived and took skating to another level, with stunts and tricks that others began to emulate. Their arrival thrilled Khalilah.

  The skater was a mystery because they never showed their face. True, the crisp winds blowing off the sea held a new chill that made you shiver, and fewer people flopped on the sand to work on their tan, but even so, three beanies and two scarves was overkill. It was from this bizarre headdress that two dark, deep-set eyes peered out, scanning the cement for an opening before storming down the slope in a clatter of wheels, faster and faster until the momentum sent them flying and twisting in midair. At least, this is how Tŕân described it to Khalilah.

  “I can’t believe I missed it!” Khalilah groaned, as she came rushing back with a bag of fish and chips, so hot it scalded her thigh through the thin plastic. She flopped onto the grass and unwrapped the pale paper. She inhaled the salty steam before offering the packet to Tŕân and Alana. For herself, Khalilah chose a golden fat chip, fried to a wrinkled brown at the edges. She dipped it into a tub of tangy tartar sauce. This was not the first time Khalilah had missed the new skateboard star’s performance and she hated being told of the daring feats secondhand. She was also rather miffed Alana wasn’t more in
terested. Probably working on another mystery, Khalilah grumbled to herself. I wish she’d work on finding out who the skater is.

  “What’s that?” Khalilah asked, looking over Alana’s shoulder at the rounded, looped letters in Alana’s notebook.

  “Hmmm?” Alana mumbled. Alana wrote notes on whatever mystery she was working on, and this time it was Will and his family’s startling resemblance to vampires. Thanks to Dr. Olivier’s first homework assignment, Alana had drawn up a list of vampire characteristics and matched them to her observations. So far, she had eight.

  1. Skin (too pale to be normal).

  2. Unnatural grace.

  3. Too skillful (i.e. ballroom dancing, violin).

  4. Has raw beef for dinner (i.e. steak tartare).

  5. No apparent appetite for “normal” food (i.e. canteen food).

  6. Has an ability to connect with the spirit world.

  7. Great Aunt Esme called the family “cursed.”

  8. Fangs!

  Even with all the “evidence,” Alana didn’t feel confident about sharing her thoughts. She needed proof, and to get it required covert surveillance or, as Jefri would put it, a bit of good, old-fashioned backyard snooping. It couldn’t be too hard. Her next door neighbor, Mrs. Whetu, did it all the time.

  “Hooroo,” Mrs. Whetu would say in her singsong voice, eyes darting about the edge of the door as soon as it opened, for a juicy titbit to describe to the gels. “The postman delivered your letters to my mailbox again. Just dropping them off.”

  Yeah, right, Alana thought. She was sure the nosy bat stole their mail on purpose and used a kettle and gloves before handing it back, resealed.

  “I haven’t seen your friend about for a while,” Mrs. Whetu enquired archly, her nostrils working busily as if she could sniff Katriona out. “The one with the —”

  “— wrinkles?” Alana offered helpfully.

  “No, no...”

  “— flat chest?”

  “No, no...”

  “- vestigial tail?”

  “No, no...” Mrs. Whetu paused as she gave this image some thought. “Oh. Really?” she said. This was an unexpected, juicy titbit indeed!

  Alana looked from side to side before leaning forward. Mrs. Whetu dropped her head in response. They were so close Alana could smell the cloying fog of Mrs. Whetu’s stale potpourri perfume. Their two heads, one brown and one gray, formed a V. “She uses padding,” Alana confided in a low voice, “to hide the tail.”

  Mrs. Whetu’s eyebrows shot up but she realized she shouldn’t be surprised. She’d heard about such things back in New Zealand. After all, a posterior that huge was hardly normal.

  Alana continued. “But it’s something she doesn’t really like to talk about. You understand...”

  Mrs. Whetu bobbed her head quickly. Even with her eyes widened in shock, Alana was reminded of a rat. A rat who now thought Auntie Katriona had a tail! Oh it was wicked, there was no denying it. Alana could almost see Mrs. Whetu surrounded by the gels as she dropped her bombshell.

  There was no reason Alana couldn’t use the same strategy to do some spying on the new neighbors. And if she should get caught on the property she could always wave the mail, facepalm her forehead and say, “I’ve been looking for you. The postman delivered your letters to our mailbox by mistake...” And if they should look at her disbelievingly, she could say: “The postman does it all the time. Just ask my neighbor, Mrs. Whetu.” And if they should drag her into the house, sink their fangs into her neck and suck her dry...?

  It was a good thing Alana could run.

  CHAPTER 24

  Alive and kicking

  “Running? You call that running?!”

  At least Alana thought she could run. James disagreed. He didn't think much of anybody's fitness levels when he came to train Alana's soccer team, the Gibson Gibbons. When he’d last seen them - admittedly more than six months ago - the girls had been in top condition. They'd even beaten the Soccer Academy's Under-13s B-side, the BlueJay Bruisers. Now, for some reason, the girls were sloppy and distracted. James blamed himself. Work had kept him busy on overseas assignments for long periods of time. Although he still worked closely with Alana's mom, Emma, he shied away from the feelings of jealousy he’d experienced when her New Boyfriend had arrived on the scene. Without stopping to analyze why, this year James sought jobs that kept him abroad. But look at what had happened in his absence! The Blue-Jay Barbarians were sure to eat Alana and her friends alive!

  Alana’s soccer team, the Gibson Gibbons, was made up of Alana and Maddie, the twins, Prita and Preyasi, Khalilah in goal, and Sofia in reserve. Ordinarily, most of the girls were able to complete James’s drills with ease, but today, only the twins could keep up. Alana hated to admit it, but without Coach Kusmuk and her punishing obstacle courses, most of them were not as fit as they used to be. And in the absence of a school field, weekly training in the shared gym with Coach McNeeson was simply not enough.

  “Maybe if I didn’t have to learn stupid twirls and balance books on my head, I’d be in better shape,” Alana complained.

  James blocked his ears at the flood of objections that followed. Gripes like, “restaurant overtime,” “Grade 7 violin practice,” and the “mystery skater” were swept away with an impatient wave.

  “Excuses achieve nothing. Broun said that sweat is the cologne of accomplishment, and by golly, I can’t smell it yet,” James grumbled at them. “We’re doing it again.”

  Maddie aired the front of her shirt which had darkened from light blue to navy from perspiration. She waved her underarms. “You sure you can’t smell it yet?” Maddie asked with a cheeky grin.

  “Again!” James thundered.

  In their down time, when they weren’t training together but studying, rehearsing, and/or waiting tables, they texted each other about game plans and strategies and toyed with the idea of a new name for their team.

  But James was quick to reject the idea of a new team name. Fancy names weren’t going to secure a win. You won the game because you trained hard and worked as a team. Today, James had a surprise for them. Desperate times called for desperate measures, he said. Soccer experts had agreed to help. The Gibson Gibbons stood in a loose arc, puffing from the 2-kilometer warm-up. They looked around for the soccer experts James was talking about. Apart from two kite-flyers, a tai-chi instructor, and a group of senior citizens, they saw no one.

  “Gibson Gibbons, I’d like you to meet the Fairfield Falcons. Between them,” James paused to wink, “they have hundreds of years of experience, and I hope for your sake, you’ll be able to keep up.”

  Alana and the rest of the team exchanged disbelieving glances. Keep up? The five Falcons were geriatrics who made Mrs. Snell look like a teenager. There had to be some mistake.

  “Um, no offense, James, but we can’t play against them,” Sofia said.

  “Why not?” said one woman whose T-shirt claimed she was “Old but still kicking.” “Scared?”

  “Yeah, actually. Scared you’ll need another hip replacement,” Sofia said.

  The older woman barked a laugh and made a big show of cracking her oversized knuckles. Arthritic bone mashed against arthritic bone. “We can look after ourselves. You just worry about messing up your pretty hair,” and with that the five of them turned on their heel and jogged to the middle of the field.

  As the knuckle-cracker - who they dubbed the General because she wore aviator sunglasses and talked with a large, unlit cigar in her mouth -took her team through their paces, the Gibson Gibbons looked at each of the women to assess their chances. Chuckles laughed at whatever anyone said. Hearing-Aid asked for everything to be repeated twice. Toothy kept adjusting her dentures, gave up, and shoved them in her pocket, and Goldilocks paid no attention at all as she reapplied her lipstick in “Popping Pink.” Alana and her teammates exchanged rueful glances as they drew the same conclusion: Pushovers. To play soccer against these elderly nanas would be as cruel as clubbing baby seals. They’d best
go easy on them.

  “I’ll keep it simple, Gibbons,” said James. “Just get the ball,” and with that he threw the soccer ball onto the ground. Chuckles took off with it with a deft flick of her foot. The Falcons became a blur of pastel cotton candy hair and wrinkles.

  “Come on, Maddie,” cried Sofia, who was marking Goldilocks.

  “I’m trying,” Maddie cried in frustration. The ball was not going very fast or very far, but Chuckles managed to block Maddie at every turn. She changed direction suddenly again and passed the ball to Toothy who shot it through Khalilah’s legs and followed it down the field.

  Khalilah looked through her legs, upside down. “Wow, she’s good.”

  Alana had opted to sit it out to even up the numbers and couldn’t believe Toothy had pulled a nutmeg on Khalilah. She jumped up and down from the sidelines and yelled encouragement. “Go, go, come on!”

  Prita and Preyasi were onto it, but so was the General and Hearing-Aid, who between them kept the ball well away from the twins. It was like watching a game of cat-and-mouse. The Falcons toyed with them as the ball wove in and around the players, never quite within their grasp. By silent consensus, the Gibson Gibbons abandoned their Go Easy strategy and decided to Go All Out. But they didn’t touch the ball once, not even after Alana joined her team making it six (Gibbons) against five (Falcons).