by Molly Harper
“Actually seven years old, as opposed to just looking like I’m seven years old?” Georgie suggested.
“Yes. You drew me a bunny with a piece of charcoal on a scrap of old parchment.”
“Well, this time I drew you a picture of that time in Barcelona in pastel crayon.”
“That time with the circus people?” I asked.
“No, the time with the candle maker and his obnoxious mistress.”
“That was messy.”
“Yes. I wore the red crayon down to a nub,” she said brightly. “Jane was disgusted, but she appreciated my technique and attention to anatomical detail. You probably won’t want to display it in your room, because it will disturb your roommate.”
“I’ll hang it on her mirror.”
“Jane says she’s going to give me some bowls of fruit to draw next time.”
“That’s probably for the best. Do me a favor, and don’t do any works based on our time in Egypt, all right?”
Georgie sighed. “Why must you stifle my creativity?”
“I love you, Georgie.”
She puckered her lips into a distasteful little moue, the same way she had when I’d tried to force her to drink the blood of that vegan nutritionist. “College is making you soft.”
“Just say it.”
“I love you, too,” she intoned, though a little flicker of affection crossed her face.
I kissed my fingertips and waved at her. She grinned at the camera and closed the chat window.
I squeezed my eyes shut. I missed my sister, even though I knew it would be healthy for us to spend some time apart. After four hundred years together, our codependent dynamic was pretty entrenched. But part of me worried that she would like living with Jane more than with me. Or that she would thrive in some way I’d never helped her find.
I would not admit to homesickness. I was four hundred years old. That was far beyond the acceptable age range for crying about wanting to sleep in my own bed in my own house.
I leaned back in the lounge chair and wiped at the suspicious moisture on my face that was in no way related to my supposed homesickness.
Maybe hitting Brianna again would make me feel better.
3
* * *
* * *
Remember that at some point, you will have to study. No matter how old you are, no one completely understands trigonometry.
—Big Vamp on Campus: Strategies to Successfully Integrate the Undead into Postsecondary Education
Brianna’s mess seemed to have mutated and grown over the last week. Ever since our fight, she’d basically stopped making any effort to tidy her side of the room. By comparison, her previous efforts at cleaning were Herculean. She was passive-aggressively creating her own Augean stables to get back at me for smacking her around.
It was surprisingly effective.
Even more surprising was the fact that I hadn’t seen Brianna during that week. Oh, I’d seen some of her human cronies, who sneered and stared me down in the hallways, like that would intimidate me. I didn’t know how she was doing it, but somehow she was managing to dodge me while we lived in the same room and could only stay awake for twelve hours of the night.
I wouldn’t have minded having a near-private room if Jamie had been around to make good use of it, but he’d also been scarce for the last week. The baseball team’s coaching staff was interviewing finalists for the student trainer positions so they could come up with an effective training schedule before spring. It was an honor for Jamie to be considered as a first-year student, even if the same coaching staff had scouted him seriously when he’d been a human student at Half-Moon Hollow High. I was happy for him but annoyed that he would have even less time in his schedule for me.
I’d filled the hours well enough. I’d worked ahead in the reading lists for several of my classes, worked ahead on the semester-long project for my economics class. Hell, I’d even joined the ladies of my floor in a Saturday “mock the teen vampire romance” movie night. I’d yet to clean Brianna’s side of the room, though. I hadn’t reached that level of boredom.
I had, however, voluntarily gone to Tina’s office after the orientation seminar earlier that evening, reacting to the first summons rather than waiting for her to leave me multiple notes on the message board on my bedroom door. Tina had been calling on me in class more often lately. And I hoped that an immediate response would keep me from having to parrot information about appropriate use of the campus intranet or why asking living classmates if you could “borrow a pint” might be unnerving.
In Tina’s office, I marveled that she’d managed to stuff even more tchotchkes into her personal space. “You rang?”
Tina took a pair of half-moon reading glasses off her nose and slid them over her hair, apparently unaware that she already had a pair perched on top of her head. She pinched the bridge of her nose in a gesture I knew had more to do with eye strain than frustration with me, because I hadn’t had time to annoy her properly.
“How are the plans for the mixer coming?” she asked, blinking owlishly as I sank into one of her office chairs.
I was not about to hand this woman a reason to take her obviously bad mood out on me. So I gave her a smile as cool and smooth as glass. “Beautifully, thank you.”
Tina tilted her fuzzy head and stared at me, her expression skeptical. “And I’m assuming that Galadriel is having equal input into the plans?”
Irritated with Tina’s insistence on honoring my roommate’s insipid moniker, I huffed. “Brianna has had some very interesting suggestions.”
“That is not an actual answer.”
“And yet it’s the only one you’re going to get,” I said sweetly.
Tina huffed out an annoyed breath.
“Oh, come on, Tina. You have to admit I’ve been a model student lately. I’ve participated in class. I’ve turned in assignments, complete and on time. Is it so hard to believe I would do what you’ve asked me to do for my punishment?”
Tina sighed. “No. And yes, you’re right. I have noticed an improvement in your attitude lately. I’m sorry if I don’t seem to appreciate that. Please don’t use that as an excuse to have a setback.”
“I will also try not to find that statement incredibly insulting,” I deadpanned.
“Thank you,” she said, sliding her glasses back onto her nose.
I rose from my seat and adjusted the weight of the book bag that took every ounce of my supernatural strength to tote.
“Oh, by the way, Jane asked me to have you write down a list of all the contacts you have on or near campus.”
“As in Jamie and Ben? Because those are the only two people I know socially.”
“I believe by contacts she means any operatives you might have used while working for the Council.”
I looked down at the printed request she’d handed me, which had indeed been marked with Jane’s sadly simple signature. I frowned. This was humiliating. Jane had no right to question me like this. I hadn’t been in contact with my old network in weeks. Why was she bringing this up now?
I gritted my teeth, feeling my fangs grind against my lower jaw. She had me over a barrel. Jane knew I couldn’t refuse the request. She knew I had to cooperate fully with her and Tina or face losing the Council’s good humor. It was exactly the sort of leverage I would have used against a subordinate in years past. I did not appreciate having my own tactics used against me.
“Jane asked that you deliver it to me by Thursday,” Tina added. “Anyone within a hundred-mile radius, please.”
I was fuming by the time I reached my room. I sat down at my computer, pulled up Google Maps, and was surprised at the number of my old “friends” in the Lexington area. I came up with a list of about a dozen vampires who would exsanguinate their own mothers for a free Netflix membership, and I included the last date of conta
ct with each of them, none of which was in the past three years. And then I wrote Jane an e-mail explaining—in very clear terms—that while I had complied with her request, I did not appreciate being asked to “name names.” I finished just in time to dart across campus to my world literature class.
I may have cheated a little bit and used my vampire speed to cross the expansive campus in a few minutes, but my professor, Dr. Venger, locked the classroom door two minutes before the start time. If you didn’t get through the door before that deadline, you were out of luck.
I loved Dr. Venger.
I slid behind my desk at precisely ten P.M., joining my motley crew of classmates. It surprised me at first that the class included as many human students as undead ones, but it turned out that humans didn’t like waking up at dawn any more than vampires did. Human students were signing up for the classes meant for vampire students in droves, meaning that class schedules for the entire campus were shifting away from the dreaded eight A.M. openers to a more nocturnal arrangement. I wasn’t sure the faculty liked it, but it did lead to students on both sides of the life line spending time together, which made the administration happy.
Cowed by Dr. Venger’s no-nonsense classroom management, the other students quietly filed into their seats and organized their desks. Small, white-haired, and wizened, Dr. Venger walked into the room and up to the podium and began his lecture on The Epic of Gilgamesh without so much as a greeting to the class.
I toyed with the pen I kept tucked into the front pocket of my bag. I had not yet embraced hiding behind laptops and pretending that I was taking notes like my fellow students. But my mind wandered during Dr. Venger’s lecture. I’d responded to Jane’s request with more vitriol than I normally would, even for a Jane-related situation. My gut was still churning with anger and insult and . . . anxiety? I rarely felt anxious. Was it because of my difficulty finding my footing on campus, the possibility of lasting “correction” from the Council? Was it Jamie’s distraction and distance? Or was I just bored with pretending to be a harmless domesticated vampire, having done so to some extent since I’d met Jamie?
Sometime during these gloomy contemplations, I’d focused on the young vampire sitting next to me and stared. And I was still staring. And he seemed to realize I was staring, because he was staring back.
This was what it felt like to be Jane Jameson-Nightengale, socially awkward and ill-prepared to interact with others.
I shuddered.
He wasn’t unpleasant-looking. Late teens to early twenties, with all the markers of the undead: pale, pearlescent skin and bright, expressive, compelling brown eyes. He was also thin, with sandy-brown hair and a trimmed goatee. The eyes were further framed by a pair of thick black glasses, an affectation completely unnecessary to beings with super-vision. He was wearing skinny jeans, a red plaid shirt, and a matching bow tie. I had to wonder whether this was the fashion of his time or he was trying to be ironic like so many of the hipsters on campus.
He smiled, white fangs gleaming, and turned his attention back to Dr. Venger. He took careful notes on the lecture, on a page labeled “Kenton Ridgely” at the top right corner. Each point the professor made was bulleted, with subpoints and Kenton’s own notations about where he might look up further information. He was actually paying attention. In class. Despite the optometric pretentions, I kind of liked this vampire. He was sitting in this class to learn. Did he realize how that set him apart from so many of our peers? So many of these children were wasting their parents’ money, using these four years as stalling time before they had to grow up and face the real world. Even my own Jamie was guilty of focusing far too much on sports and his “bros” and not enough on academics. I couldn’t help but compare my boyfriend and his easygoing inertia to this vampire, who seemed to be soaking up knowledge like a sponge.
Why were all of my classmates standing up?
Snapping out of my reverie, I looked down at my notebook and realized that while I’d been mentally cataloguing my neighbor, Dr. Venger had finished his lecture. And despite my distraction, I’d managed to write the whole thing down. Vampire brains were frightening and mysterious things.
I stood and stuffed my notebooks and pens into my book bag. I needed to get back to my room and call Jamie. That would make this anxious, somehow guilty feeling in the pit of my stomach go away. The feelings themselves weren’t nearly as distressing as the idea that I was experiencing them. I didn’t feel guilt, not even when I’d snapped my roommate’s clavicle like a Popsicle stick. So why did I feel rushed and contrite now, when I hadn’t done anything wrong?
“So are you going to the seminar Dr. Venger recommended?”
I turned to find Kenton smiling at me, those bright fangs flashing.
“The seminar next Saturday on the impact of Sumerian poetry on modern literature,” he added, smirking a little. “Dr. Venger said it wasn’t required, but I think it would be really helpful to get more in-depth details on the subject. It’s so fascinating, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “I’m not sure what my plans are for the weekend.” Because Jamie hadn’t told me what his plans were, I noted silently, with some degree of resentment.
“Ophelia, right?”
I nodded.
“A beautiful though tragic name,” he said. “I’m Kenton. Not quite as beautiful but serviceable. Well, I hope to see you there. We could even go for a drink before, if you’d like. It’s always easier for me to handle exposure to big groups of humans if I fill up beforehand. I know this great locally sourced blood bar just off campus.”
Why wasn’t I talking? Why couldn’t I produce words? Why had my tongue, so sharp and trusted over the years, abandoned me now?
“It doesn’t have to be a date,” Kenton said. “Just a casual hangout. It’s nice to have another vampire in class, one who takes the same diligent notes that I do.”
“That could be pleasant,” I conceded.
“Well, just friend me, and we’ll set up the details, OK?”
I waved and kept a neutral expression while Kenton strode out of class. What was I doing? I couldn’t go out with some boy next weekend. I had a bloodmate. A handsome, perfectly sweet boyfriend, who would probably prefer paintball or Ultimate Frisbee to attending a seminar on Sumerian poetry.
I sighed, pressing my fingers against my temples.
“I wouldn’t go if I were you,” a sweet, breathy voice said behind me. “That guy is a pretentious douche. He took a friend of mine to a play and spent the rest of the night quizzing her on her opinions, then explaining how her opinions were wrong.”
I glanced up to see a brunette from one of the human floors in New Dawn smiling down at me with guarded friendliness. What was her name? Keagan? Morgan? No, Meagan. Meagan Keene. Keagan and Morgan were her friends, who were also brunettes who lived on the fourth floor of my hall. I thought of them as the Gan Girls. They seemed to travel in a small pack most of the time, giggling and chatting at a speed that was difficult even for my vampire ears to pick up. But when they were separated, they seemed smaller, less bold, and a little more wary. I preferred them wary.
With her sweet heart-shaped face and wide brown eyes, Meagan was the girl who’d told me, in halting and very careful words on the first day of class, that it wasn’t cool to carry a sequined Hello Kitty backpack around campus. And that unless I wanted to end up as a “Back-to-School Glamour Don’t,” I needed to burn said backpack immediately. While I respected her honesty, I missed my freaking backpack.
She was smiling at me now with an expectant expression, the kind that generally meant an expectation of response. I cleared my throat and curled my upper lip in disdain.
“There’s nothing worse than a guy forever stuck in hipster undergrad phase,” Meagan added, offering me a sympathetic smile.
“Right,” I intoned, nodding, despite the fact
that she seemed awfully young to be distributing advice so freely. “That sounds like a terrible first date.”
“Besides, you’re dating that cute blond vamp I see you with around the dorm, right?”
“Yes, though I haven’t been seeing him around as much lately,” I muttered.
“Ah, high-school-sweetheart syndrome. Classic, especially if you decide to go to the same college. He finds his friends, throws himself into securing dude bros for life, and expects you to be happy with a movie date in his room on a Sunday, huh?”
“Not exactly like—yes, OK, very similar to that.”
“Well, if you’re going to dump him, do it now. Don’t cheat. Your boyfriend will just turn all of your problems back on you because you crossed the line.”
“I don’t cheat,” I told her sternly.
But instead of being cowed by my menacing tone, she shrugged it off. “OK, so you know your limits. That’s good. Look, if you want to stay in the relationship, that’s fine. Just draw some lines over what you are and aren’t willing to take from the boyfriend. If you’re having trouble figuring out what those are, talk to your girlfriends about it.”
“What about talking to my boyfriend about it?” I asked.
She arched her brow. “Uh, sure, if you want to cause problems.”
“Right, ridiculous,” I mumbled. “How do you know so much about relationships?”
“A lifetime of counseling girlfriends through theirs,” she said, grinning. “I take a more low-maintenance approach. I see drama coming, I drop the guy like a hot rock and move along. It’s less traumatic for everybody that way.”
With the exception of Georgie, I didn’t have any girlfriends. Even back at the Council office, I’d kept to myself unless dealing with my underlings, and I certainly didn’t have friendly relationships with any of them. I didn’t have friends beyond Jamie on Facebook, which I’d only joined because Jamie swore by its messaging feature. I wasn’t close with anyone in Jane-slash-Jamie’s family circle. Being around this many women was a new experience for me.
