Bloodsuckers and Blunders

by Poppy Inkwell

  “C’est parfait!” That’s perfect, he said in French, before enveloping her hand easily within his own, tugging her toward the growing line where they waited in line to buy their tickets. He made holding hands feel simple. Normal. As natural as breathing air... just before an asthma attack. Alana felt her palms become slick with sweat and her chest felt tight. Was her tongue swelling? It felt massive. Like it was overtaking her mouth and filling her throat. Maybe she had caught Khalilah’s cold? She should check. Bathroom. Mirrors had bathrooms. No, that wasn’t right. Oh crud. What if she choked on her own tongue? How embarrassing would that be?

  Alana.

  Without any warning, Alana heard her dad’s voice. She resisted the urge to turn around. She knew he wasn’t really here. Hadn’t she heard him hundreds of times before? Usually before she was about to do something daunting. Always reassuring Alana that she could do this. That she had it In The Bag. That everything was going to be alright.

  Alana and her dad used to play a game when she was little, a game where Hugo would make Alana choose whatever superpower she needed to conquer her fear. Gills for breathing underwater when she used the diving board for the first time, stretchable toes which kept her balanced on her bike...

  Help, she thought, what kind of superpower do I need now?

  Just then Flynn’s hand gave a tiny tremble. Alana looked up and realized with a jolt that Flynn was just as nervous as she was. Gone was the cocky slouch, the carefree grin. Flynn looked shy, and kind of pleading, and maybe even a bit, well... scared.

  Maybe the sweat pooling between their palms didn't belong to her. Maybe the jerky gasps weren't only coming from her throat. Maybe she didn't need a superpower because she was already powerful. Look at what she’d done to Flynn! Alana felt her breathing slow and her body flood with... with what? With something that felt like calm and adrenaline at the same time. Something like what she imagined The Force must feel like. That was it. The Force was with her. And her dad. And he did approve.

  He was right.

  She could do this.

  ...

  “No, no, no, the worst bit was when the mummy came out of the closet and unraveled herself to strangle him with her bandages!” said Alana.

  “How can you say that? It had to be when the zombie ripped off the doll’s head with his mouth and started choking...” argued Flynn.

  “Or the shower scene. That was pretty funny, too. Kind of like Hitchcock meets Tarantino...”

  “... meets Jackie Chan...”

  Alana gave an unexpected chortle which made her drink spurt through her nostrils. Flynn doubled-up, clutched his sides and backed away, laughing.

  “Gross! That is so gross!”

  Alana clutched her nose in pain. The effervescent bubbles were agony but she couldn’t stop laughing. She felt drunk on happiness. Most of the moviegoers had already drifted away to argue the merits of the films over coffee. Pockets of people spilled out of surrounding cafés onto the pavement, like bobbing flotsam from a ship. Alana’s phone buzzed. It was James. He’d sent a video of what looked like soccer moves from the World Cup archives, which she would have checked instantly... any other time. Alana didn’t give herself time to think why tonight was different and pocketed her phone. She glanced at her watch.

  “I’d better go,” she said, pulling away reluctantly. “It’s late. I had a great time, though.”

  Flynn’s eyes mirrored her disappointment, but he was quick to disguise it. “Me too. Apart from the ‘drink thing.’ Which was almost scarier than the horror films. Like, it could have been made into a movie of its own. They could call it, ‘Attack of the Schnoz.’”

  Alana thumped his arm but without any real venom. That was another weird thing she found herself doing. Hitting Flynn. Punching him. Pushing him. Not that her hands made much impact. His body was rock-hard. It must be all those exercises Flynn did at the barre: pliés, and jetés, or whatever they called them, in ballet. He was asking for it, anyway. Comments like that. It was his own fault.

  Flynn rubbed his arm in mock hurt. “You punch like a girl.”

  “You dress like a busker,” she shot back.

  As if on cue, a busker behind them started drumming. If you could call “drumming” banging the top of two metal trashcans with drumsticks, and the side of two upside-down bins. They turned.

  Bang. Bing. Bang. Bing. Boom. Ka-thud. Boom.

  The jarring sounds seemed to hold the squat man in a trance. He shook his head from side-to-side in time with the beat with his eyes closed. Flynn, who played the saxophone, shuddered at the lack of musicality. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The beanie on top of the man’s head threatened to shoot off into the air because it was three sizes too small. A woolly waistcoat cuddled the man’s rounded belly, and the threadbare shorts he wore had rips in all the wrong places. Tartan socks within fake Doc Marten’s tapped a rhythm of their own. Flynn was silently horrified. He dressed in a casual, off-beat way on purpose. The busker looked like he’d closed his eyes before reaching into the cupboard... at the Goodwill Shop. Alana was comparing Flynn to this guy?

  “You dance like an elephant,” Flynn retaliated.

  Alana’s fists flailed at Flynn’s chest. “No, I don’t. I’m worse,” she admitted. “I’m like an elephant that’s been shot with a dart gun in its last death throes...”

  “... on a good day,” said Flynn, catching her fists, locking them to him.

  Alana fell silent. If she fanned her fingers out, she still wouldn’t be able to reach his chest from end to end. “That’s a low blow, Flynn Tucker. I can’t help it if I’ve got two left feet.”

  Flynn opened her fists. They succumbed to the gentle pressure easily. “Hey bro, can you do three-four timing?” Flynn yelled over his shoulder.

  The busker, after several attempts, managed a stuttering beat. Despite Alana’s embarrassed attempts to pull away, Flynn began to guide her through the waltz. “Give it up, Oakley,” he said into her ear, “you’re going to conquer the waltz and I’m going to help you.”

  Some onlookers laughed. Others cheered. A few of them clapped. Emboldened, the busker beat his trashcans and lids louder. One couple began to dance alongside them. And then another. And another. It was ten o’clock on a Friday night in May on King Street and the pavement was full of waltzing couples. Newtown had seen dog shows, knitting on trees and kooky costumes, but it had never seen anything like this. Passing cars beeped their horns in approval as they passed.

  “You are IN-SANE, Tucker,” Alana said, with a disbelieving shake of her head.

  Flynn shrugged. “Andyou are waltzing, Oakley.”

  Alana looked down at her feet and promptly tripped.

  “Don’t think. Just let yourself go. Trust me. I’ve got you,” Flynn said.

  Alana looked back up and fell into Flynn’s eyes. They weren’t stormy with a hint of purple. Or slate with a tinge of blue. Flynn’s eyes were warm and dark like a pebble baking in the hot sun.

  You could lose yourself in eyes like that. You could trust them. You could let go.

  So she did.

  CHAPTER 29

  Gross but cool

  Flynn turned on his side and cupped his face to stare at Alana. They were lying in a spot in the park which was shaded and grassy, somewhere where they were unlikely to be hit by a Frisbee or football. He was careful not to dislodge the earbud from his ear because he wanted to take in the music as he watched. Flynn and Alana were listening to Jeff Buckley. It was on Alana’s pen drive of songs which she’d finally given to Flynn, her own mixed tape version of PJ. Harvey, Janis Joplin, and AC/DC. Of the songs Flynn had given her, Alana said she loved John Coltrane and David Bowie, but was less than impressed with Tom Waits. She understood him as a musician, she said, but not as a vocalist. He made everything sound like a suicide note, or creepy, or worse, like a creepy suicide note. Flynn liked how Alana didn’t care she was committing sacrilege. Alana had never been afraid to disagree with him and these days, wasn’t afrai
d to agree with him, either.

  Alana looked even smaller when she was lying down. Her dark hair fanned out like it was floating in the sea and her eyes bunched shut like she was just about to blow out birthday candles. She was concentrating on the lyrics and mouthing the words. All trace of her cute dimples was gone.

  Flynn loved to watch her lips move.

  Flynn loved to watch her lips.

  Flynn loved to watch her.

  ...

  Alana listened to Jeff Buckley crooning in her ear as she sang along and snuck a look at Flynn from beneath her lashes. From this angle she could see his lips which were parted, just enough so that they made a tiny “O.” They looked soft. Alana imagined biting into them. She wondered if that made her as bad as a vampire. Or worse.

  Alana’s eyes closed and then fluttered open on impulse, so that she saw it happen before she felt it. Wet. And warm. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and sat up so suddenly Flynn and Alana almost knocked heads.

  “I cannot believe you did that!” Alana shouted.

  “I... it...” Mortification painted Flynn’s face a deep red. “It just happened. I couldn’t help it.”

  “You dribbled on me. What are you? Two?!”

  “Think of it as drooling for you,” Flynn joked weakly.

  “Either way, it’s gross,” Alana said, lying back down with her arms crossed, clamping down on the smile that threatened to split her face wide open. She hugged the thought to her heart, hard. She made Flynn Tucker drool. How cool was that?

  Gross.

  But cool.

  CHAPTER 30

  A close shave

  Thwuck! The knife whistled through the air and landed near Jefri’s trembling elbow.

  “Strewth, that was a bit close!” he protested.

  Khalilah rubbed her hands together. “That was only my warm-up,” she said. “I think I can do better.”

  Alana picked up a knife and bent it backward and forward. They were made from rubber, similar to the props used in movies. Alana was teaching Flynn something, this time: knife-throwing for learning the waltz. It felt like a fair exchange.

  “Have a go,” Alana said, stretching out to give Flynn the knife. But Khalilah grabbed it before he could.

  “Let me have another go, first,” Khalilah said grimly.

  “I already said I was sorry, Possum,” Jefri whined. “No need to chuck a wobbly.”

  “I missed most of the school holidays because of you,” Khalilah said. Thwuck. “And I missed soccer practice.” Thwuck. “And the movies.” Thwuck. “AND the Bondi Beach Skate Bowl.” Thwuck. Thwuck. Thwuck.

  Jefri yelped. Each knife landed in quick succession near both of his ears, neck, and hips. There were two knives remaining. Alana snatched them from the table just in time. Khalilah’s eyes looked murderous.

  “Let’s give Flynn a turn, shall we?” Alana suggested.

  Khalilah got out of the way in a huff. Alana demonstrated the throwing action in slow motion. She handed Flynn the knife and adjusted his stance and the position of his shoulders. She had to reach up on tip-toes to do so. Alana felt momentarily miffed that everybody else was growth spurting and leaving her behind. At this rate, she might never grow again! What if she ended up the same height as Coach Kusmuk? Alana suppressed a shudder.

  Flynn did some practice leg squats and then ran on the spot. “Don’t worry,” he called out with confidence, then instructed, “Just don’t move.” Flynn leaned back and stretched his arm as far as he could. With a grunt, he released the blade with an overarm pitch that reminded Alana of a drunken cricket bowler.

  Thwuck-k-k-k! The knife wobbled in place. Jefri looked down. He couldn’t have moved even if he’d tried. Flynn had him pinned to the target by his baggy crotch.

  “Oi! That’s my Down Under!” Jefri squeaked.

  Flynn held up apologetic hands. “Sorry, Jefri. I was aiming above your head.”

  Jefri found no comfort in the news.

  Khalilah held out the final knife to Flynn. “Why don’t you take another shot?” she said sweetly.

  CHAPTER 31

  Snooping, shopping, and an epiphany

  With her friendship-or-something-more with Flynn back on track, Alana had one thing left to accomplish before school started: to gather more “intel” on Will and his family. Since their day at the beach, Alana had discovered another fact to add to her list of suspicions: Will’s mother had a clothing store on the south end of King Street called Revamped. It turns out she was a dab hand at upcycling fashion from old clothes, and her newly acquired fans - Sofia, Maddie, and Khalilah - were the perfect excuse to drop in and do some snooping. The first thing Alana noticed was that the shop’s interior was decorated in much the same way as the family home, an eclectic mix of antiques and original new-from-old items.

  “I love this style,” enthused Maddie, on one of her rare breaks from violin practice. “It’s so Steampunk!”

  “This is Steampunk?” Alana said, surprised. Alana looked at the décor with new eyes. Doesn’t change anything, though, she thought stubbornly. All the other weird stuff about Will still holds.

  “Thanks,” Will’s mother, Corinne Löfgren, answered. “Will made those. He’s like me. Will likes to tinker with old junk and make it into something new, only I prefer fabric.”

  “And your husband prefers dead animals,” said Alana under her breath.

  “Your son is a really amazing dancer,” Sofia ventured to say shyly.

  Corinne shook a head of red-gold curls. She had the same pale skin of her children with an almost porcelain sheen, and light brown eyes that were strangely reflective. Corinne was dressed in one of her own creations - a wraparound dress to which she had added long, bat-like sleeves with an accordion fold. “I used to work in theater, costume design and the like, and of course the performers would look after the children, from time to time, to keep them from getting under my feet. An elderly couple, the Schiapelli’s, taught Will ballroom dancing.” She chuckled. “I still remember him riding the tops of Mrs. Schiapelli’s shoes when he was three years old, dressed in a tuxedo I’d made for him.”

  Dancing since he was three?

  “And of course, Alice was glued to the violin by the same age. Martin made sure of that. Terrible actor, but a brilliant musician,” Corinne reflected.

  “No wonder Alice is so incredible,” Maddie interjected. “I’ve never seen anyone play the violin like her.”

  “Yes,” Alana couldn’t resist adding snidely, “your family is certainly unique.”

  If Corinne noticed the tone in Alana’s voice, she ignored it, preferring instead to reassure Maddie that Alice couldn’t help it. “Alice has Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. Her body doesn’t produce much collagen which gives her almost circus flexibility,” she explained to the girls’ puzzled glances. “The upside is that it gives her a physical advantage when she plays the violin. Her hands are extremely flexible. But the downside is muscle fatigue, weak lungs, and easily damaged skin. She has to be careful not to overdo it.”

  “Wasn’t there a famous violinist with the same thing?” said Sofia slowly, dredging her memory of random trivia. “People accused him of having made a deal with the devil because he played so well.”

  “Ah yes,” Corinne smiled, “Niccolo Paganini: a man who supposedly exchanged his immortal soul for exceptional musical talent.”

  “Paganini?” Maddie exclaimed excitedly. “He was the world’s greatest violinist!” she said. “They say he could play up to a thousand notes a minute, and could double- and triple-stop. That means play multiple notes at once,” Maddie explained in a rush, “and even do left-handed pizzicato!”

  Sofia and Alana, who didn’t know Maddie was describing a plucking technique that usually used the non-bowing hand — hence the excitement - nodded with vague interest, while Khalilah, who thought pizza was involved, showed more enthusiasm.

  A tiny part of Maddie felt crushed that Alice shared the same physical characteristics as her idol
and not for the first time, she experienced a spiky heat that blew hot and cold at once. Alice was everywhere she turned - with her perfect trills, deeply moving vibratos, and screechy laugh that made Maddie’s ears shed skin like a cheese grater. She wondered if it was wrong to fantasize about the younger girl being squeezed by an anaconda and then squashed flat by a falling piano. Then Maddie realized with dismay that she was jealous. It felt strange on her tongue. It had a kind of vomit-like sourness that made her mouth pucker. But just as quickly Maddie realized the physical cost: muscle fatigue, weak lungs, and easily damaged skin. Late nights at the movies for Alice were unlikely. She could never try out for the Gibson Gibbons. Alice would never be able to sunbake at Bondi Beach with friends.

  Friends.