by Mari Mancusi
About four years ago, he told Mom he felt “trapped” and he needed time to “find himself.” At first, I kind of understood. After all, our town is pretty dull. But I became a little doubtful of this pilgrimage to self-realization when I learned the method of travel was a brand-new red Corvette; his Mecca was evidently the holy city of Las Vegas; and his secretary, Candi, was along for the ride.
We haven’t seen him since. Not that I’ve wanted to. In fact, up until now I’ve always said I’d sooner join the cheer-leading squad and go out with quarterback Mike Stevens than bond with dear old Dad. And that’s saying something.
RAYNIEDAY: So let me get this straight. You e-mailed Dad?
SUNSHINEBABY: ☺
RAYNIEDAY: And you asked him to our birthday party? SUNSHINEBABY: Yup, yup.
RAYNIEDAY: And he said . . . YES?!?!?
SUNSHINEBABY: Isn’t that awesome? I’m so excited I can hardly stand it.
RAYNIEDAY: I can’t believe he said yes. He never comes to these kinds of things. We haven’t seen him in years. Are you SURE he said yes?
SUNSHINEBABY: I’ll forward you the e-mail. Hold on. . . .
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Hiya kiddo,
Great to hear from you. Sounds like you’re doing well in school. Congrats on your role in the senior class play. Maybe you’ll be the next Lindsay Lohan.
I can’t believe you two are turning seventeen. I remember when you were tiny screaming babies running around in diapers. How time flies.
Anyway, I just checked my Day-Timer and it doesn’t look like anything’s going on the weekend of your party. And I was able to find a cheap flight on JetBlue. So count me in! I’ll even bring the birthday cake. There’s a bakery down the street from me that’s to die for.
Thanks again for thinking of me.
Love,
Dad
RAYNIEDAY: Wow. I can’t believe it. I don’t know what to say. SUNSHINEBABY: I know. Me neither. I just sent the e-mail figuring that it’d guilt him a bit into remembering he had daughters that he never communicated with. I never in a billion years thought he would actually say yes and come. RAYNIEDAY: He could still blow us off. . . .
SUNSHINEBABY: No way. He bought a plane ticket and e-mailed me the itinerary. And he rented a hotel room downtown. He’s definitely coming.
RAYNIEDAY: Wow. I can’t believe it.
Anyway, the chatting goes on, but that’s the important bit. Sunny ends up signing off to go to bed and I go back to writing this new blog entry. It’s a bit hard to type, even now, what with my hands all trembly from the news.
Dad. Coming here. For our birthday. A combination of dream come true and scary nightmare. I wonder what he’ll be like. If he’ll have gotten fat or bald. If he still has that ticklish spot behind his right ear. If his favorite food is still mac and cheese. If it’ll be like he never left or if it’ll be weird and awkward. Will he remember all our inside jokes? The stories he used to tell us?
The storytelling is the best part about Dad. Sunny and I would curl up in my parents’ big king-size bed, each resting our heads on one of his shoulders. He’d spin fantastical tales. Fantasy, horror, comedy, adventure. Every night he’d have a different story, but the heroines were always the same. Two princesses, Sunshine and Rayne, who went about saving the world. Even when I got too old for those kinds of stories, I’d always beg for more.
Back then Dad was my superhero. My idol. The person I wanted to be like when I grew up. He was so cool. And he understood me in a way that Mom and Sunny never could. Him and I used to sit out on the back porch on warm summer nights and have deep discussions about life, the universe, and everything.
And then one day he left. Breaking my heart in the process.
The shrinks tell Mom that’s why I am like I am today. Keeping myself at arm’s length from people, not trusting anyone to get close. Dressing rebelliously. Having seedy flings with boys I don’t care about and then walking out on them before they know what happened.
The question is this: Could Dad be to blame for all of it or was I always destined to be a freak? Guess I’ll never know for sure.
Wow. I can’t believe he’s actually coming next week.
That he’s flying on a plane. Staying at a hotel.
That he’s bringing birthday cake.
Okay, I am officially freaking out.
POSTED BY RAYNE McDONALD @ 11 P.M.
ONE COMMENT:
Ashleigh says . . .
That’s so kewl ur dad is coming 2 visit. I haven’t seen my dad in like 10 years, so I totally know the feeling.
COMMENT DELETED BY BLOG ADMINISTRATOR
9
MONDAY, JUNE 4, 8 P.M.
Black Is the New Black
So want to hear the good news or the bad news? Oh, forget it. I hate when people ask that stupid question, anyway. It’s not like they really want you to choose. They’ve already got a preferred news-telling order in their heads. They’re just trying to prepare you for the shock/horror of the bad news which is ALWAYS in these cases worse than the good news.
Examples:GOOD NEWS: You got an “A” on your history paper.
BAD NEWS: You have to read it aloud in class.
GOOD NEWS: The Arctic Monkeys are coming to town.
BAD NEWS: It’s a twenty-one and up show and last week some bar confiscated your fake ID.
GOOD NEWS: There’s a sale at Hot Topic.
BAD NEWS: It’s only on candy-colored big pants rave gear, not that amazingly cool red velvet corset you’ve been eyeing.
ANYWAY, my good news is that I did it. I went and dyed my hair black. This beautiful ebony color that’s so dark and rich it looks almost blue. Now no one will ever mistake me for Sunny in three billion years.
Cheer!
Bad news? Uh, Mom totally flipped when she saw it.
“What did you do to yourself?” she cries when I walk out of the bathroom. (Yes, it was a “do-it-yourself ” project—I’m not spending $100 at the hairdresser when they sell the stuff in the drugstore for $8.99.)
“I dyed my hair black,” I reply, though I’m pretty sure it was a rhetorical question on her part.
She grabs a chunk of hair, her expression as distraught as when I told her I had pierced my tongue last year. “But you had beautiful blond hair. Why would you do this?”
“Mom, I’m sick of looking exactly like Sunny,” I say. “Everyone keeps mistaking me for her and it’s getting annoying.”
“How can people mistake you two? You dress completely differently,” she says, gesturing to my current ensemble of black on black on black.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I agree my superior taste in clothing should tip them off, but evidently not so much. I’m an individual, Mom. I’m my own person. I need to express myself.”
“No, you need to obey me. That’s what you need to do,” Mom returns. Her hazel eyes flash fire. Wow. I haven’t seen her this mad since Sunny went vamp and started missing curfew on a regular basis. (Which is SUCH a bigger deal than a little Clairol #70, IMO.) “And you know very well I don’t want you dyeing your hair.”
“But, Mom—”
“Do you know what kinds of chemicals they put in those dyes?” she demands, hands on hips. “Stuff that can cause cancer in lab rats. And if it can cause cancer in lab rats, what do you think it can do to you?”
I groan. I should have guessed that she didn’t really care about the look. After all, she’s a pretty unconventional dresser herself. No, my mom doesn’t worry about what the PTA will say. She’s too wrapped up in her government conspiracy theories in which Men in Black are developing evil hair dye to sedate the human race while the Illuminati take over the world.
Sometimes I wish I just had a normal mom. One who didn’t think hairdressers were really the Antichrist, at the very least.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
“Come to me next time if you want to change your lo
ok. I’ve got a great all-natural henna coloring we could have used. Stuff that’s made of plant products and is perfectly safe.”
“Sure, Mom. I will.” Yeah, right. I’m so not getting my hair dyed with henna. Maybe I’d consider a henna tattoo, but that’s where I draw the line. After all, let’s face it. Safe and effective or not, henna is for hippies.
She reaches over and gives me a hug. “I’m sorry, Rayne,” she says. “I don’t mean to yell. I just worry about my girls. I want them to be safe.”
“I know, Mom. And I’m glad you do,” I say, squeezing her back.
I mean it, too. Though she drives me crazy at times, overall when it comes to moms, mine’s about as cool as you can get. She’s like a “friend mom.” Sunny and I can talk to her about pretty much anything (besides hair dye and vampires, of course) and she’s completely nonjudgmental. She doesn’t sneak into our rooms and read our diaries or go on MySpace to make sure our profiles are appropriate. (I’m RaynieDay, BTW, if anyone wants to friend me.) My friend Ashleigh’s mom grounded her for like four weeks when she found out Ashleigh had posted sexy pics of herself on MySpace. Not that I have any sexy pics posted, just FYI. (Sorry DarkGothBoy.)
So yeah, she’s okay. If not a little overprotective at times.
After we pull away from the hug, I notice something surprising. “Hey, Mom, what’s up with your outfit?”
Wow. The woman who LIVES in bell-bottom jeans or long flowered skirts and peasant blouses is currently standing in front of me wearing a sexy little black dress with high heels and a pearl necklace. I can’t believe I’m just noticing it now. Observe much, Rayne?
“Oh, this old thing?” she asks, blushing furiously as she smoothes the front of the dress. “I’ve had it for years.”
“Just FYI, that’d be much more believable if you’d removed the price tag,” I suggest, gesturing to her sleeve.
“Oh.” The blush deepens as she reaches to rip off the tag in question. “I guess I’ve just never worn it.”
Eesh. The woman is the worst liar in the known universe. “Spill, Mom.”
She sighs and motions for me to come into her bedroom. I follow, plopping down on the old-fashioned, four-poster bed that Grandma left when she died. It would be an elegant piece of furniture if Mom hadn’t covered it with a Technicolor-hand-stitched quilt from her commune days. Still, I’ve got to admit, overall the room is pretty cozy and homey. When Sunny and I were little and big thunderous storms would crash through our neighborhood, we always ran to the oversized bed, crawling under the covers with Mom and Dad. Only then did we feel warm and safe.
Um, anyway . . .
So Mom shuts the door behind us and joins me on the bed. She tries to pull her feet up and under like normal, then realizes she has a nice dress on and chooses to cross her ankles daintily instead. I have to bite my lip not to laugh.
“So?” I prod.
“So . . . I’ve got a date,” she whispers, her eyes alight with mischievous excitement. She’s totally forgotten that she’s pissed at me about my hair.
“A date?” I cry. “That’s awesome!”
She studies me, her gaze turning motherly. “Are you sure? I mean, I know that’s got to seem a little weird. Your mom dating someone.”
“No! It’s not weird at all. I think it’s great.” After all, I’ve been dying for the woman to get out of the house for years. Pining away in a nunlike existence—hoping the next time the door opens my dad will walk through—is just not a way for someone to live. Even a mom. “So who’s the lucky guy? Where did you meet him?”
I wonder for a moment if I should tell her about Dad coming to the b-day party, but decide not to rain on her parade just yet. We’ve got nearly a week to break the news and I don’t want to ruin her big date.
Her cheeks pinken. It’s adorable. I love seeing her so excited. “Actually I bumped into him at the harvest co-op last night,” she says. “Literally. We were both reaching for the same frozen chickpea burgers.”
I smile. Obviously love at first sight. With the only other person in the known universe who would actually eat a chickpea burger. “Very nice. And he asked you out?”
“Yeah, we’re going for dinner at Abe and Louis in Boston.”
I whistle. “Fan-cy.”
She giggles. I haven’t seen her like this in years. Maybe in forever. I love it.
“Where’s this guy from? What’s he do for a living?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I didn’t interrogate him in the frozen foods section, Rayne.”
“Right. Well, definitely find out all the 411 tonight,” I say, mothering my mother. “We want to make sure he’s the right guy for you. We can’t have you going out with just anyone.”
She laughs. “Okay, dear. I promise I’ll get you the full scoop.”
At that moment the doorbell chimes. My mom jumps off the bed and is at the door in a flash. “That must be him,” she says, looking back at me with a grin. “Wish me luck!”
I hold up crossed fingers. “Luck!”
She scurries downstairs and I take the opportunity to peek out her window, which offers a good front porch view. There’s a guy at the door—dressed in a tux, no less. I can’t make out his face, but he seems well built, with a full head of hair. Not hippielike at all, either, which is probably for the best. And the coolest part? He arrived in a limo. Crazy.
Anyway—Mom on a date, and me off the hook for my hair-coloring experiment. Time to head to the Blood Bar and save the world.
POSTED BY RAYNE McDONALD @ 8 P.M.
FOUR COMMENTS:
Spider says . . .
Ooh, Rayne—I can’t WAIT to see ur new hair. You gotta take a camera phone pic and send it 2 me ASAP! And your mom on a date? Whoa!
SunshineBaby says . . .
Mom’s on a date? A date? You let her take off with some strange guy without even meeting him first? What if he’s some psycho killer? Wasn’t there one in the news the other day? And did they catch him? I don’t think they caught him, Rayne! OMG! Mom could be dating the psycho killer right now.
If she’s not home by eleven, I’m so calling the police. Or maybe by ten. Gah! She needs to start carrying a cell phone so we can check in with her. I can’t BELIEVE you let her go.
Ashleigh says . . .
Your mom is way cooler than mine, Rayne. I still can’t believe my mom grounded me over my MySpace profile. I mean, puh-leeze. The pics weren’t even that bad. It wasn’t like I was naked or anything. Just hot. But she’s all, like, “Oh, the perverted old men are gonna see them.” Like I’m going to friend some perverted old man. What-EVER. Anyway, now I’m on Facebook instead and she has no idea. Sweet!!!
DarkGothBoy says . . .
You don’t have to post sexy pics on MySpace, baby. Just e-mail them directly to me. Or better yet, how about you come over and I’ll take some pics for you? I got a new digital camera for my birthday and I’m dying to try it out. And, oh? Don’t you feel like a loser? Your mom is getting more action than you are. Tsk, tsk.
10
TUESDAY, JUNE 5, 1 A.M.
Bite Me, Bay-Bee!
I’ve got to stop with these late nights. They’re totally killing me at school. Today (or yesterday, if you consider it’s once again past midnight) I slept through Algebra II, American History, and three quarters of Art. (Sooo embarrassing to wake up facedown in a palette of paint. Took me a half hour to scrub the stuff off.)
Being a slayer is like having a second full-time job. Luckily I’m not really a homework girl to begin with or I’d be so screwed.
But enough about boring old school. You guys want to hear about the Blood Bar, right? Of course you do.
So I wait ’til after dark and then head on over. My buddy Vin Vamp (a.k.a. Francis) is back on the door tonight, which is a total relief. I so didn’t want to have to whip out my painfully bad fake ID again and try to act all convincing.
“Hey, Frannie,” I greet. “How’s the biting?”
“You’re back,” he observes,
folding his massive arms across his chest and staring at me with cool eyes. “Couldn’t stay away, eh?”
“Nope! You know me,” I say playfully, punching him lightly on the arm. “Well, actually you don’t, I guess. But you will. Soon. I plan on becoming a regular. You’ll see me every night. We can develop clever nicknames for each other and banter a while before you let me in.”
“If I let you in.”
“See? Banter.” I smile sweetly. “We’re well on our way to a beautiful friendship already.”
Francis tries to hide his smile without much luck. He totally thinks I’m adorable, I can tell. “You know, Shaniqua,” he says, still calling me by my fake ID name, “you’re really a piece of work.” He shakes his head. “Okay, okay. Come on in.” He pulls open the door and gestures inside.
But something makes me pause at the door. I look up at Francis’s face, studying it closer. While he does seem amused, there’s something about his smile. Like it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. And I don’t mean in some secretly nefarious, up-to-no-good, one-of-the-bad guys way.
He just looks . . . a bit sad.
“What’s wrong, Frannie?” I ask. “No offense or anything, but you look like someone just ran over your pet bat.”
Francis rubs his bald head with the palm of his hand. He really is a big oafy looking dude for a vampire. “My blood mate is missing,” he confesses. “If you must know. And I’m worried sick about her.”
I’ve explained the blood mate thing, right? Well to recap real quick, each vamp, once they hit a thousand years old, gets to turn one willing human into a vampire. They do all this complex DNA testing beforehand to make sure the human and vamp will be compatible. ’Cause after all, they’re destined to be together for all eternity, so you want to make sure it’s a good match. For example, I was matched up with Magnus originally, before he bit Sunny by mistake. Luckily twins share DNA so those two were still compatible.
