by Adam Selzer
I post a reply to one of her posts that just says, “I’ll bet he says that to all the girls.”
Ten minutes later, I have ten responses (and thirty private e-mails), from girls who think I have a lot of nerve to suggest this girl hasn’t found true love because her boyfriend wants her to be dead.
One person writes and says, “How can you not want to be a post-human? Humans are so awful! We’re selfish monsters who are destroying the planet. Everyone should convert.”
I write back, “Maybe the fact that they don’t have to drive much gives them a smaller carbon footprint, but part of the life cycle is that you’re supposed to die and stop taking up space! If everyone lived forever, there wouldn’t be any room left eventually!”
Another writes and says, “u r being a total bigot, u no. Some of my ancestors became vampires. Its my heritage, and u r not respecting it. We should ALL become post-humans just as a show of solidarity for what they suffered through.”
I write back, “My people used to be slaves, but that doesn’t mean I want to go build a pyramid!”
One girl says she wants her and her boyfriend to become zombies because they won’t be able to have sex. “He wants to do it eventually, and being a zombie will make being abstinent so much easier for him!” she says. “We’ll never have to do it!”
I write back, “Few religions want you to stay abstinent forever unless you’re a nun or something. If you’re that freaked out by the idea of ever getting past first base, talk to a shrink, not a zombie-maker.”
Thirty more e-mails come from the girl’s “fans.”
It’s a good thing I haven’t decided to give up on being Alley of the Vicious Circle completely. I can put her aside and be Gonk when I’m with Doug, but if being in a mixed relationship means I might have to talk of more of these idiots, I’m going to need to have Alley waiting in reserve.
I spend the next hour just making snarky comments to girls who think it’s great that their boyfriend pressures them into dying instead of pressuring them into having sex. I make fun of them right and left before I realize that I was just about as dumb as them a few hours ago, and that I should take it easier on them. Most of them aren’t dumb so much as delusional and depressed people who’ve tricked themselves into thinking they’ve found a way to turn things around. They’re sick, really. It’s not nice for me to be mean to sick people, even though they honestly need to hear the stuff I’m telling them. It’s not even like I’m picking on their taste in music—it’s quite literally a matter of life and death. But being mean about it won’t get me anywhere.
You sacrifice things for love. You overlook flaws. But you have to draw the line someplace. And even though I’ve decided that being dead isn’t necessarily the place to draw the line, dying yourself has got to be over the limit.
By the time I have to go to Sip Coffee for the newspaper staff meeting, I’ve decided to just forget about dying. The fact that I might go to Drake instead of the University of Seattle to stay with Doug ought to be enough, right? If Doug insists that I have to die to be with him, we’ve got problems. Just because I’m not going to be the Ice Queen anymore (and the e-mails I’m getting from people on the boards call me a lot of things that are a whole lot worse than that) doesn’t mean I have to be a dumbass.
Sip is a coffeehouse (another of Eddie’s establishments) in the old downtown area. It’s about as hip as Cornersville Trace gets. Trinity works there part-time, so she gets us a discount on coffee whenever we go in.
The whole staff has to attend the meetings there, not just the few of us who sit at the lunch table, along with Mrs. Winterbaum, the faculty sponsor. She’s the best kind of faculty sponsor: the quiet kind. She stops us from putting in swearwords or really explicit references to sex and stuff, but other than that, she just sort of lets us do what we want with the paper. I’m convinced that’s why we’re a success.
Most of the crew is already there when I arrive, and I sit down next to Sadie on one of the couches.
“Did you ever hear back from Doug?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “He was sleeping, and now he’s at band practice.”
“Boys,” she says. “You can never tear them away from band practice.”
“They’re playing that party tomorrow night,” I say. “You know they need practice.”
“And a new drummer,” says Sadie.
“If you ask me, Doug just needs a band of his own,” I say. “I’ve already recorded him singing a few songs. We’re going to do a whole album.”
The door to the back room opens and Trinity walks out, followed by Troy. Her shirt is untucked, and his belt is undone. She’s told me before that she likes to make out with him against the ice machine. Maybe Doug would like that—the cold might numb the pain.
“Okay,” says Trinity casually. “Is everyone here?”
“I think so,” says Sadie. “Everyone but Winterbaum.”
“Then let’s get started. Deadline is tomorrow night and I only have columns from about half of you.”
“Well, excuse me,” says Peter. “You guys haven’t been particularly witty this week. It’s all just talk about dead people at lunch!”
“Then go with it,” says Trinity. “Write something about Alley and Doug. A profile or something.”
“Got it,” says Peter. “From Ice Queen to prom queen.”
I blush.
“Save that line for after the prom,” says Trinity. “Alley, you’re thinking of converting, right? That’s a timely issue.”
“I’m not converting,” I say.
“What?” asks Marie.
I’m just about to explain that teenage conversion is for suckers when the front door opens, and Mrs. Smollet walks in and gives me a smile before coming to the corner where we’re all sitting.
“Um, hi,” says Trinity. “Can we help you?”
“You certainly can,” says Mrs. Smollet. “I’m your new faculty sponsor.”
For a second, no one says anything.
“Don’t get too excited, guys,” she says. “Mrs. Winterbaum will be handling the 4-H club from now on.”
“The 4-H club?” asks Trinity. “We have a 4-H club?”
The 4-H club is for kids who are into farming. I know we live in Iowa, but it’s not like anyone in school actually lives on a farm. A Future Insurance Industry Workers of America club would probably do better.
“Of course we do,” says Mrs. Smollet. “And it’s a better place for her, since she’s clearly not been trying very hard to keep you guys in line.”
“I think we’re doing all right,” says Trinity.
Mrs. Smollet pulls out a printout of the latest online issue and looks right at Peter. “Peter,” she says, “you used the words ‘wiener,’ ‘dick’ and ‘cocky’ in the last installment of ‘No Siree.’” She looks like it pains her to say those words, then gives him a glare that would probably kill a lesser man.
“Uh, yeah,” says Peter.
Then she turns and narrows her eyes at Trinity and me.
“And he was quoting something you two said out loud at lunch?”
We both shrug.
“This is a high school newspaper,” says Mrs. Smollet. “You shouldn’t be using those words in print, let alone at lunch!”
“You can say those words on basic cable!” cries Trinity. “As long as you’re using ‘dick’ as a synonym for ‘jerk.’”
“And ‘cocky’ isn’t even a bad word!” says Peter.
“Neither is ‘wiener,’” I point out. “It’s just another word for wimp.”
“But in this context, it’s an obvious play on words, and it’s inappropriate,” Mrs. Smollet insists.
Everyone grumbles and scowls, and Mrs. Smollet takes a look over at me.
All of a sudden, I hear her voice in my brain out loud, like I have headphones playing a recording of her—it must be some kind of vampire trick, sending words into my head that no one but me can hear.
You know why I’m really here, A
lley, she thinks at me. I want to make sure you don’t start writing about the advantages of “mixed” relationships here. Call me old-fashioned, but I think that if you want to date dead boys, you ought to be dead yourself. Think about Will’s proposal.
It’s incredibly creepy. Like, “I might need to change pants” creepy.
I try to think Get out of my head, you old bat! back at her, but I’m not sure the “thought projection” thing is a two-way street. Honestly, I hope she can’t hear any of what I’m thinking.
I feel totally violated. What gives her the right to send words into my brain? That place is private.
“I have to go now,” I say, standing up. “I’m feeling a bit verblecht. I’ll have a column in by tomorrow, okay, Trin?”
“See ya,” says Trinity. She can tell by my face that I’m serious. I really need to leave.
I don’t want to be anywhere near Mrs. Smollet. I can still hear her voice in my brain saying, Get back here! as I walk away, but it gets quieter and quieter as I move across the room, and it’s totally gone by the time I’m out the door.
Back at home, I do some Googling and find out that thought projection is a skill a few vampires have learned, but none of them can project their thoughts very far, so I don’t have to worry that she’ll come barging into my brain while I’m at home. Only when she’s right near me.
Of course, as fast as vampires can move, sneaking into my house wouldn’t be that hard for her. Do you have to invite vampires into your house before they can come in? I saw that on a TV show once, but it was back when everyone still thought vampires were fake.
Some more research tells me there are certain things vampires need permission to do, but the Council of Elders hasn’t made all of them public. No one can think of any instance when a vampire has entered a house uninvited, but then again, who does barge into a house uninvited, other than burglars and annoying relatives? The only place that anyone knows for sure vampires can’t go is inside other people’s graves.
Vampires have assured us that we’re safe from them and all, but there’s still a lot that we don’t know and that they won’t tell.
Call me a bigot, but they make me freaking nervous.
11
“Here it is,” I say to the lunch table. “My resignation.” Sadie is holding my hand for support. Marie and Ryan look shocked, but they’re probably relieved. They know as well as I do that Smollet only took over as the paper’s sponsor to make my life hell until I agree to become a vampire. If I’m gone, she’ll be gone, too, before she can turn it into a “good old-fashioned wholesome paper.” Which is what she plans to do. Peter says she even wants to bring back the print edition. And probably a social register, like they had in old-time small-town papers: a whole column of stuff like “Ryan Kowalski’s family entertained visiting relatives with a barbecue at their 76th Street home Tuesday…. The Ladies’ Auxiliary plans to host a barn dance as soon as a barn can be procured….”
“You don’t have to do this, Alley,” says Trinity.
“Of course I do,” I say. “I don’t want to wreck the paper for everyone else. This should get Mrs. Smollet off your backs before she starts making you include whole pages of farm reports and reviews of tractor shows.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” asks Trinity.
I nod. The mood around the lunch table is pretty grim. I’m feeling pretty lousy myself.
“Plus,” I say, “I don’t really feel like writing mean reviews anymore. I, like, don’t want to be that person all the time now. I’m Gonk now. Not Alley the Ice Queen.”
“A legendary member of the Vicious Circle bites the dust,” says Trinity wistfully.
“Oh man,” says Peter, “there’s a zombie joke in there somewhere.”
“You’ll still cover that party tonight, right?” asks Trinity.
“Sure,” I say. “It’ll be my farewell article.”
Being on the paper has been a part of my life as long as I’ve been in high school. Even if I’m not going to be Alley full-time anymore, it’s sad to have to give it all up. In the great scheme of things, it’s nowhere near as big a deal as giving up being alive will be, but still. It’s a sad moment. I feel like I’m giving in to someone I shouldn’t be surrendering to. Maybe I can send Mrs. Smollet some nice photos of me and Doug doing #7 on our menu. She’d love that.
By the end of the day, though, it’s all out of my mind. I have a party to attend.
I’ve been to parties before—Trinity has them all the time, and I’ve had a couple myself. But I’ve never been to one of the popular kids’ parties before, and I’m sort of thinking of myself as one of those people who go to live among chimpanzees for a while to study their habits and see what they’re like in the wild. I’ll have a full fair and balanced report for my last article.
It also happens to be sort of a “coming out” party for Doug and me—our first date where people from school will see us, and therefore my first real chance to show off my hot boyfriend. I’m not above that. I used to think I was, but, well, I guess I’m not.
And at some point in the evening, I fully intend to do #7 on our list with him for the first time. And tomorrow, after prom, #8.
After school, he’s waiting for me in his car out on the street. Girls are kind of hovering around the general vicinity, trying to get a glimpse of Doug and trying not to seem all jealous as I get into the passenger seat.
I lean over and make a big show of kissing him before he drives off. Not just because I want everyone to see, but because I’ve been craving him. I’m becoming, like, a formaldehyde addict. If I don’t taste that hint of embalming fluid, I start to go through withdrawal.
I may have decided I don’t need to die to be with him, but I still feel like I could be with him forever. This doesn’t feel like a relationship with an expiration date.
“I missed you,” I say.
“I missed you more,” he says back as we start driving away.
We cruise away from school and up to Cedar Avenue, where there’s a men’s clothing outlet. I’m buying him a new suit.
“It’s so weird to be buying clothes again,” he says. “I haven’t really needed any new clothes since I died.”
“Yes you have,” I say.
“No, really,” he says. “I don’t sweat anymore, so I never really smell like anything but the fluid.”
“Yeah, but that suit is falling apart,” I say. “Plus, there’s dirt all over it.”
“It goes with my skin,” he says.
“You need a new suit,” I insist with a chuckle. Boys!
He pulls into the parking lot, and I grab a few suits off the rack that will look good on him, then drag him into the dressing rooms. There’s no one around to stop us, so I walk right in with him and watch him try them on. It’s just about the hottest thing ever.
Eventually, we decide on a charcoal suit with brown pinstripes. It has a cool, vintage gangster look.
“I think you need a hat,” I say.
“You just want to cover my messy hair, don’t you?” he says.
“Nuh-uh,” I say, even though his hair isn’t great. “I just think you look really good in hats.”
“Well,” he says, “if I’m gonna wear a hat to prom, wouldn’t your parents want me to wear one of those … beanie things? The Jewish hats?”
“A yarmulke?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Those.”
I laugh a bit. “You’d look cute in one, but let’s see what they have here first.”
We find a fedora that matches the suit—and completes the 1930s gangster look, which is a really hot look for him, and not just because of my “dead guys from the 1930s” fetish.
We head downtown for a coffee (and a sandwich for me) at the Noir Café, which is sort of becoming “our place.” I’ve never really felt like a part of an “us” before, but it turns out that it’s pretty awesome. And on the way there, we actually drive right by the Drake University campus, and through the little campus-town area
, which is about like any other college town (if a bit smaller). I could probably survive there.
In fact, the forms to get me into Drake and out of Seattle are sitting at home on my desk.
Going there will be enough of a sacrifice. I don’t need to convert. I’m only eighteen, after all. It’ll be at least ten years before I’m really too old to be with Doug. Probably more. By then, maybe they’ll have some new surgery or something that’ll stop me from aging or help zombies live more normal lives. Scientists are learning a lot from vampire blood. It’s better than stem cells.
After our coffee, we head back to Cornersville Trace and park outside the cemetery on Bartleby Way. We’re pretty early, since Doug wanted to be here when the band set up (which he thinks is only polite if they’re going to let him sing). He’s got a whole stash of embalming fluid, so hopefully he can sing more than just a couple of songs.
I’ve got my laptop and Doug’s got some recording gear he rented from a music store—we’re going to record the show. Multitrack, too, so if the whole band sucks, I can edit out everything but his vocals and get some better musicians to overdub parts later. I don’t plan to tell the band this, though. They’d just get pissed.
As we wander into the graveyard, I look up at the house. I’ve driven past it a million times—the creepy old haunted house like the one that stands on the edge of every town. It’s just about the oldest house in town, and looks like every haunted house you’ve ever seen on Scooby-Doo. Busted shingles, peeling paint, gables, the whole bit. I don’t think it was ever a nice house to begin with, and now it’s not much more than a fire hazard.
“Have you been in here before?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “I went to parties here before I was even dead.”
“So people have been partying here a long time, huh?” I ask.
“Probably,” he says. “It’s pretty well set up. There’s a stereo and everything. And the cops never get called, no matter what goes on.”
