Stake That (14 page)

and low, low-rise jeans. And the guys—they literally have no idea other clothing stores besides Abercrombie and Fitch even exist.

My friend River and her parents moved away to Boston a year ago. She says there are tons of cool skaters and Goths at her new school. That everyone’s open-minded and there aren’t really any cliques. Here at Oakridge, we’ve got nothing but cliques. And certainly no Goths besides me. So I’m the desig-nated freak, basically, and everyone knows it.

It’s a lonely life, but it’s still better than shopping at Amer-ican Eagle. I usually don’t care. In fact, if anything, I’ve always en-joyed being unique. An individual. But today feels different for some reason. Instead of mocking the cheerleaders who stride through the corridors in giggling packs, or the lovebirds who press against the lockers, making out and hoping the teachers won’t walk by, or the jocks who “go long,” passing the football to one another down the hallways, I notice myself envying them all. They look so blissful. So content in their pathetic, shallow high school existence. And I, I realize suddenly, am totally and utterly alone. I can put on a brave front, ridicule them, whatever, but at the end of the day I’m the one who’s the joke. Because they’re happy and I’m not. They’re free and I’ve got the weight of the world on my shoulders. All this time I’ve thought myself su-perior to them, but really I’m more pathetic.

As I walk down the hall, I feel the stares of the other stu-dents burning into my backside. They’re laughing at me. They think I’m a weirdo. A loser. And I hate to say it, but maybe they’re right. I mean, my own father doesn’t even think I’m worthy of a birthday cake. And he was there at my conception. Anger churns deep in my gut. I harden my face to match their stares, forcing myself not to cry. Screw them all. I don’t need them. I don’t need Dad. I don’t need anyone.

And then I run into Mike Stevens.

I hate Mike Stevens more than anyone at my school. If I’m the designated freak, he’s the designated golden boy. Captain of the varsity football team, even though he’s a ju-nior. Student body president. Ash blond hair and sparkling green eyes. And a cocky smile that says he knows he’s wor-shipped by half the school and feels he deserves everything life’s dished him.

When we were in elementary school and everyone was like everyone else and there were no cliques, Mike Stevens and I used to play in the mud together at recess. When we were six, he kissed me. That was a long time ago. We don’t bring that up much. Actually, ever. In fact, I’m not sure he even remembers, which is probably a good thing.

These days we’d rather hurl mud at each other than play in it. And today he had the perfect weapon. My hickey.

It’s not a hickey, of course. It’s a bite mark from a vam-pire. But that’s not something I can convince Mike of, obvi-ously. Sigh. I thought the mark had faded enough to stop wearing a turtleneck, but evidently not.

“Hey, my little Goth princess,” Golden Boy says to me af-ter first period, leaning against the row of lockers. I pull out my books and stuff them into my black book bag, trying to ignore him, even though he’s positioned himself directly in my line of sight. He’s all cargo pants and Patriots jerseyed out as usual.
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“Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Not you, that’s for sure.” I growl. I am so not in the mood for this today of all days. Not when I already feel so lousy about life, the universe, and everything.

He laughs. “Of course not. I don’t do freaks.”

“Good. Because I don’t do Muggles.”

At first I think he may miss the literary reference, but evi-dently even this illiterate fool has read
Harry
Potter.
Those books are just way too popular. I may have to give them up for something more obscure.

“So, witch, which warlock gave you the hickey then?”

“It’s not a hickey.”

“Oh, really,” he says sarcastically. “What, did you burn yourself with a curling iron like Mary Markson seems to do every Monday morning?”

Mary Markson and her boyfriend, Nick, have been going out for eons. They’re totally most likely to get married. And she does have a tendency to show up to school with a lot of unsavory neck bruises. She insists she’s just clumsy with the curling iron, but since she never has any actual curls to back up the claim, we’re all a bit doubtful.

“No. Not a curling iron burn. I got bit by a vampire if you must know.” He rolls his eyes. I knew I was safe to say that. He’d never believe me in a million years. “Ah. So that’s your type. I should have guessed.”

“No. You shouldn’t have guessed. You shouldn’t have even noticed. What, are you staring at me from across the halls now? Stalking me?” Ever since I humiliated him in seventh grade (don’t ask) he’s made it his life’s mission to make mine a living hell. Sunny thinks he secretly has a crush on me. Which is just… ew.

Mike frowns. Evidently I’ve struck a nerve. “Please. Your hickey is so big Blind Mr. Bannon the Biology teacher could see it.”

“Good. I want the whole world to see the bite of my dark lover.” Jareth is not, of course, my dark lover. Or even my light one. Or any kind of lover, unfortunately. (As much as I might want him to be.) But I can’t exactly back down and let Mike win.

“So when do you turn into a vampire then?” the stupid jock queries.

“I’m not going to turn into a vampire, moron. I’ve just been bitten. I’d have to drink the blood of a vampire to turn into one. Duh. And they don’t just let anyone do that. There’s a waiting list.”

“A waiting list? There’s actually enough of you freaks out there for a waiting list?” He bends over, hands on knees, and laughs and laughs.

Grr. Did I mention I hate this guy? I notice a few stu-dents have stopped in the hallway, pretending to
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chat, but really wanting to take in the scene. The Goth girl against the jock boy. It’s good reality programming. But I’m just not in the mood.

“Dude, don’t you have some cheerleaders to seduce or beer to chug? Some nerd to copy off of? I know your life’s lame and all, but certainly you must be able to think of a bet-ter way to waste it than talking to me.”

He opens his mouth to reply, then I see him glance over at our audience. He seems to decide against what he was origi-nally going to say and instead retorts, “Whatever skank,” ex-tra loud, to make sure everyone hears him insult me.

Then he hacks up a loogie and spits on me—ACTUALLY SPITS ON ME—before turning to walk away.

I’m so furious I don’t even think. I just drop my books and my bag and run after him, slamming my entire body weight against his retreating back and managing to knock him off bal-ance and onto the floor. My hands take on minds of their own as I punch and slap over and over as he struggles to get out from under me. But he’s no match for my super slayer strength. If only I had my stake. I wonder if it works on Muggles.

The fight only lasts a minute or two before Monsieur Dawson, the French teacher, pulls me off of Mike.

“Arretez!” he commands. “Allez au bureau du principal!” The guy never speaks English. Which is kind of annoying for those of us who take Spanish. But in this case, even foreign-language-challenged me has a pretty good idea what he’s saying.

“It’s not my fault. She just jumped me. For no reason. Crazy freak!” Mike says, shooting me daggers. Angrily I smooth out my skirt and glare back at Mike. Bastard. Now I’ve got detention and Mom’s going to be so pissed at me.

“I’m going to get you for this, you skank freak,” Mike adds as Monsieur Dawson drags him away. “Just you wait.”

I sigh. I just wish I could somehow turn the guy into a vampire so I could stake him through the heart. Him and my father. The two of them should really die.

MONDAY, JUNE 11, 8 P.M.

Parents Just Don’t Understand

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So of course Mom totally freaks out about my detention. Especially since it was due to fighting. As you can imagine, as a hippie she’s very into peace. And it’s not just peace in the Middle East—that would at least be understandable. She evidently is advocating peace at Oakridge High as well. Puh-leeze. If only she knew what an obnoxious jerk Mike Stevens is. I try to explain how he spit on me, but she starts spouting something about turning the other cheek. As if I want to get spit on my other cheek next time. Ew!

And the worst part is that she doesn’t ground me, she wants to have a “talk.” Ugh. I hate talks. I’d much rather be sent to my room without supper and kept there ‘til I grow cobwebs. Locked in a tower like Rapunzel would suit me just fine. Just as long as I don’t have to talk and share my feelings. (And, uh, grow my hair that long. I have a hard enough time with tangles as it is.)

“You’ve been acting very angry lately,” she says, closing the door to my bedroom and joining me on the bed. I stare at my hands. This is so not fair. So, so not fair. “What’s bother-ing you? Is it your father not showing up for your birthday?” she adds, in that horrible pity voice of hers. Grr. Nothing’s worse than the pity voice.

“No,” I retort. I knew she’d try that. Try to drag Dad into it.

“I know that must have hurt a lot, sweetie. I’m really sorry about that.”

“I’m fine,” I retort, anger welling up inside me, bubbling in my stomach, and making me feel sick. I knew we should have never told her about Dad’s supposed plans to visit.

Mom frowns. “I don’t think so, dear. People who are fine don’t get into fights at school.”

“They do if they’re provoked by asshole football players.” Mom winces a bit at the swearing, but doesn’t comment on it. “Are you having problems at school, Rayne?” she asks. “I’ve noticed your grades are slipping as well. You went from honor roll to C student this year.”

“Yeah, well I have stupid teachers.” Stupid teachers who al-ways favor the jocks and cheerleaders. Stupid teachers who think just because I dress in black I’m doomed to be a dropout and don’t give me the time of day. I’m smarter than all those los-ers I go to school with.

“What don’t you like about them?”

Sigh. “Nothing. They’re fine. Forget I said anything.” The less I talk, the shorter this will take. I’m supposed to meet up with Spider and I can’t leave Spider waiting.

“I don’t want to forget you said anything. I want you to tellme what’s wrong.” Mom reaches over to touch me on the shoulder. I shrug away. I know I’m being unfair, but I can’t help it. I know if she touches me, I’ll start crying. And that’s thelast thing I want. “I’m your mother, Rayne. And I care about how you’re feeling.”

Yeah, right. She thinks she cares, but she isn’t ready to hear the truth. That her precious daughter is a weirdo. A freak. A social reject with barely any friends and a father who doesn’t even bother to show up to her birthday party.

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If only that vampire thing had worked out to begin with. I could be miles away from this miserable existence. I could be living in the lavish underground coven with magic powers and riches beyond belief. My days could have been spent reading the classics. Studying philosophy to enrich my world. No schoolwork. No parents. Nothing but bliss.

Instead, I’m stuck here. In my mundane, horrible existence where no one understands me. Mom will never get it. She’s too innocent to understand my depravity. She’s too sweet to see the chaos that swirls under my skin. And I’m okay with that, actually. It’s better that she live her life in her daisy-strewn optimism than know what a monster she created when she had me.

I think I must take after Dad.

“Rayne, I love you,” Mom says, trying one more tactic. I know she’ll give up soon and in a weird way this disap-points me.

“I know you do, Mom,” I say resignedly.

Mom rises to her feet, her hazel eyes looking a bit watery. I feel terrible for putting her through this. For making her deal with me. Part of me wants to jump up and throw myself in her arms. Let her hold me and comfort me as I cry and tell her how much Dad hurt me by not showing up to my birth-day. Take her strength since I have little left of my own.

But I can’t find the willpower to get up from the bed. To lose face and admit weakness. So I sit scowling. More angry at myself than at her.

“If you ever want to talk, I’m here,” she says. “I mean it.” “Thanks,” I mumble, staring at my shoes, barely able to get the word out.

Mom pauses at the door. “I’m supposed to go out tonight, but… well, if you’d prefer I stay home, I will.”

I look up. “Out?”

Mom’s face gets red. “With David.”

Great. She’s still seeing David. Could my day get any worse?

“I don’t think you should go out tonight … or ever,” I mutter. “Not with him.”

“Rayne, why? He’s really nice. What do you have against him?” Mom lets out a frustrated breath. I can tell she’s trying hard to be nice to me still, but at the same time she’s ready to wring my neck. “Is it ‘cause you feel he’s going to replace your father?”

OMG! Does EVERYTHING in my freaking life have to revolve around Dad?

“Do you think I’m stupid?” I yell, scrambling to my feet, absolutely furious that she would even say such a thing. God, I wish that punching bag was here right about now. “Do you really think I’m holding out some kind of inane hope that the guy’s gonna suddenly show up at our doorstep and want to be a family again? That’s crazy, Mom! Really crazy!”

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Mom takes a step backward, her eyes wide. I think she’s afraid of me. Great. I’ve made my own mother afraid of me. I am a loser. Such a loser.

“Then what is it, Rayne? What’s wrong with David?”