A. M. Robinson - Vampire Crush

For Mom and Dad

Contents

S ophie McGee, Editor in Chief.

I have to say, it has a nice ring to it. I say it again just for kicks, only this time I use a whimsically French accent, the kind you only see in zee bad comedies. Then, since Im on a roll, I launch into a few othersSouthern (great), Australian (hot), Swiss (breezy and natural, but a person from Switzerland should probably be the judge). Mr. Amado, my journalism teacher, should really give the position to me now. Im just about to attempt Human Who Is Secretly a Robot accent when someone knocks on my bedroom door.

What are you doing? Are you talking to yourself? asks a muffled voice thats curious and impatient all at oncea trademark of my stepsister, Caroline.

Im on the phone, I say loudly, before remembering that last night I left my phone on the coffee table downstairs. I add Lie Better to this years to-do list.

Youre doing the name thing again, arent you? she asks. I dont think your teacher will make you editor in chief if you are crazy.

Its a fair point. Still...

What do you want? I ask.

Mom says shes going to eat your first-day French toast if you dont come downstairs for breakfast now.

Not wanting to waste time when theres powdered sugar involved, I thank Caroline for warning me and return to packing my bag as I hear her skip down the stairs. Pens? Check. Schedule? Check. Journalism notebook with article ideas for this year? Triple check. Name perfection aside, there are a lot of reasons that I deserve to be editor in chief. Ive done everything I can to make sure that its mewriting filler articles, taking extracurricular photography courses, and even going to a summer journalism camp where we were all forced to wear lime green T-shirts and work on a fake newspaper called Teen Issues Today.

After checking to make sure that my hair isnt doing anything too experimental, I clomp downstairs to the kitchen to find my family halfway through the McGee breakfast routine.

Caroline sits at our round table, dressed to the tens as she picks suspiciously at the remains of her fruit plate. Marcie gave her three slices of cantaloupe again, and as usual, one sits smiling and abandoned on the placemat while she taps her grapes as if they might be tiny purple grenades. They dont pass the test. Abandoning the fruit altogether, she crosses her tan legs and sets to picking invisible lint off of her outfit. Today it is a short denim skirt and a series of layered candy-colored tank tops, all beneath a wispy excuse for a cardigan thats designed to make our matronly principals head spin. Caroline wont admit it, but her favorite hobbyafter watching reality televisionis flirting with wardrobe malfunction.

My father sits across from her in a banker-blue suit. For the first nine years of my life, I steadfastly believed that he wore a tie to bed. This mornings selection is red, striped, and currently peeking out from beneath the local business section. Every so often his head shakes as he mutters something about the NASDAQ and the depressed real estate market.

The only thing missing is my stepmother, Marcie, eating my food (lies!) and asking when Im going to try out for tennis to fulfill her vicarious need for high school sports. Instead shes peering out the window that faces our neighbors house, or what used to be their house until they moved out six months ago. I slide into the last empty seat and drag some French toast onto my plate with as much stealth as possible; no need to attract her attention.

I think the house next door finally sold, Marcie announces to no one in particular. Theres a light on upstairs... but I havent seen any moving trucks.

She leans over the sink, not caring that the pink belt of her silk robe is dangling down the drain. If theres one thing Marcie likes more than being our familys judge, jury, and cruise director, its keeping tabs on the neighbors.

Its probably an early morning reflection, my father says.

The signs gone.

Then they moved in late last night.

Marcie looks doubtful, probably because she was spying last night at dinner, too, but she drops the curtain and takes her place at the table next to Caroline.

I wish it were the Hallowells, she says sadly, reaching over to steal Carolines neglected cantaloupe slice. Sophie got along so well with their son.

I shove a bite of French toast in my mouth so I will be saved from responding. Marcie used to think that their son, James, was my soul mate because one time we managed to get through a picnic without starting a ketchup war or calling each other snotbucket. In reality our relationship consisted of hair pulling (age six), doll vandalism (age eight), and relentless teasing about my freckles (age eleven). Not exactly Romeo and Juliet, but try telling Marcie that. Luckily he moved away to New York before either one of us had to drink poison or kill a cousin.

I hope they have a teenage son, says Caroline, whos gone back to scraping the seeds off of her strawberries. A cute one, she adds before glancing up to study my outfit. Seriously? Thats what youve decided to wear on the first day of school?

I look down at my faded green T-shirt, low-rise jeans, and classic Converse sneakers. No reason to go cry in a corner. What? I ask. Is my butt supposed to have something written on it?

She ignores my joke. If you want to borrow something, just ask. You know, like a skirt. Or something not made out of cotton.

Ill keep that in mind, I say, shrugging it off. It might sound mean-spirited, but Carolines concern for the fashion victims of the world is genuine. I once caught her sniffling over People s Worst Dressed list. She claimed it was allergies, but I suspect she was momentarily overcome by a stars debilitating case of quadra-boob.

After Caroline returns to inspecting her fruit, my father lowers the corner of his newspaper and winks at me, his traditional bonding gesture. Before I can wink back, Marcie leans across the table and taps me on the wrist with a manicured index finger, waiting for my full attention before she asks her question.

Have you given any more thought to tennis this year?

And with that, I know that its time to grab my backpack and leave for school.

Thomas Jefferson High is on the edge of town, a location normally reserved for insane asylums and industrial plants that leak hazardous waste. I arrive in plenty of time to snag my usual parking spot at the far end of the lot, right next to the woods that border it to the west. The towering pine trees ensure that the sun does not make my Jeep a sauna, which in turn makes sure that I wont have to kill myself in the afternoon because the car is too hot. For this reason, I like the woods. My classmates also like the woods, but more because they can sneak off and kiss behind the trees.

As for the building itself, nothing has changed since last May; it could still double as a penitentiary, albeit a penitentiary with a lot of jail spirit and a streamer budget. The narrow windows are more suited to a castle turret than a place of learning, and on a gray day its difficult to distinguish brick from sky. Unless it benefited from a surprise makeover this summer, the inside isnt any less gloomy.

The front sidewalk is peppered with clumps of students desperate to soak up the final seconds before the last bell spurs a mad stampede toward the front door. Usually I cut through the gauntlet of chatter and make my way to class, but today Im not hearing the normal buzz about summer pool parties, new cars, and mean bosses at Dairy Queen. Instead its about a group of new students who tried to shake everyones hands in the hallways.

I heard they were foreign exchange students, says Danny Baumann, his sunny, all-American head towering above the cluster of football players to my right. From Bulgaria, or someplace else in South America.