Vamplayers (11 page)

He deflects it and laughs. “Something like that.”

“Why’d his parents send him away in the first place?”

He shrugs. “They’re uptight preppies who never understood him. He took me home that first Christmas. You know, to show his folks he’d finally made a ‘normal’ friend, whatever that means. They’ve got this huge brownstone on one of the nicest streets in Boston. His mom’s in an apron, one of those frilly lace things like French maids wear, cooking dinner when we come in. Dad’s at the bar—yes, they have a bar in their house—with Grover’s older brother. They’re both in slacks, starched white shirts, and suspenders. Here come Grover and I fresh from the train, high off his Laffy Taffy stash, in matching Freddy Krueger T-shirts. They take one look at us, and we spend the rest of the holiday playing video games in the basement. Needless to say, we haven’t been invited back.”

“We?”

He shrugs again. “Grover hasn’t been home since.”

“Well, what do you guys do for holidays, spring break, summer?”

He holds up two heads of lettuce. “You’re looking at it.”

I grin. “Please tell me your story’s slightly less tragic.”

He shakes his head. “You first.”

“What, me? What about me?”

“Well, for starters, what’s up with you and your friends? Most girls don’t show up to Nightshade with a built-in posse, you know?”

I shrug and rattle off the same old lines we’ve long since memorized as our cover story. “We’re from the same town in Florida, Catfish Cove. No? Never heard of it? Anyway, our folks are a lot like Grover’s: rich, bored, and selfish. We got sent away freshman year and get shipped around from school to school. New York for a year. LA for another. Now here we are.”

“Yeah, but why together? I mean, how? Nightshade’s pretty hard to get into for one troubled kid at a time, let alone three at the same time.”

“What?” I snap, eager to go off script and quit lying. “I’m troubled?”

He slaps me a lettuce five. “You know what I mean.”

“Well, let’s just say we promised our folks if we can’t all go away to school together, we’re all coming home together. I guess it’s important enough for them to keep us away from home that they work their magic.” I rub my fingertips together. “Money talks.”

“I wouldn’t know. Why do you think I’m doing this?”

“Hey.” I bump him with my hip as he reaches for a fresh box of lettuce. “I’m doing this too.”

“Yeah, but you’re volunteering. You don’t have to do it. Grover and I do.”

“So how come?” I ask. “I mean, how come you’re here, doing this?”

After a shrug and a peek at Grover, he says, “I got in some trouble in junior high. Nothing major but enough to get sent away. My dad couldn’t deal. Some guy at work told him about this place. I’ve been here ever since.”

I shake my head. “That doesn’t sound like you. The ‘trouble’ part, I mean.”

Another shrug. “They said I was acting out after my mom left. I say I was bored.”

“What, you hadn’t discovered sci-fi yet?”

He smiles, biting his lower lip. “Pretty much.”

“So, what, you stick around holidays and summers to keep Grover company? That’s a pretty good friend.”

“Yeah, well, I’m in no rush to go home either. Trust me. Dad’s new wife makes those Real Housewives look like Mother Teresa, if you know what I mean.”

Only a few boxes of lettuce remain. Both of us slow down. Me, to stretch out our time together. Him, I dunno. Maybe that’s why he does it too.

We grow quiet, peaceful, closer.

His warm elbow bumps mine. He works on the lettuce carefully, methodically. When he’s done stripping off the leafy, dirty outer layer, what’s left is grocery store commercial smooth and clean while mine look like the blooper reel versions. I can’t help it: his hands are intoxicating, the long fingers thin but strong and nimble. His wrists are agile and lean, his sleek forearm muscles flexing like pistons as he slowly but surely moves through another box of lettuce.

The kitchen grows even smaller around us, the constant sound of Grover’s hissing hose gun like one of those rainforest CDs in the background, lulling us into lettuce-peeling, leaning-into-each-other pod people.

“Thanks,” he says, breaking my reverie, which involves my clothes being peeled like a head of lettuce by Zander’s long, tender fingers.

“Who-how-why-wuzzthat?” I mumble dreamily, looking up into his deep hazel twinkling eyes

He snorts. “Thanks. I mean, for coming in today.”

”I was probably more trouble than I was worth.”

“Pretty much.” He nods to the many dozens of lettuce leaves I’ve over- or undershot at the trash can. “But as far as hired help goes, you’re a lot prettier to look at than my usual partner.”

“Hey!” Grover spurts the hose at our feet to get our attention.

It works.

We jump, scattering lettuce leaves and toppling the final, empty box.

“Speaking of partners, it just so happens there’s a zombie marathon on the Scream Channel tonight.” Grover looks at me. “Whaddya say, partner?”

“What?” Suddenly I’m feeling like the poor relations. “Our suite doesn’t even have a TV, let alone cable.”

“Yeah, well, rank has its privileges. You game?”

I hesitate, looking to Zander for some sign whether this is a good or bad idea. I think of Alice and Cara, not to mention Bianca, and another lonely night in the dorm.

“All the Laffy Taffy you can eat,” Grover says, literally sweetening the deal.

I slug the big guy, feeling more muscle than fat.

He pretends to nurse his wound.

”Oh, silly.” I bat my eyelashes and clasp my hands dramatically at my bosom Southern belle-style. “You had me at zombie.”

Fortunately, Grover’s not the only one smiling at my reply.

Chapter 15

O
h, what a difference a day makes. Yesterday, PE was a little slice of heaven. Today, it’s hell on earth. Apparently, once a month a nurse from the local hospital comes in to teach something called Feminine Hygiene Systems and Maintenance. (Yeah, that’s what
I
thought.)

Anyway, so while Zander, Grover, and Tristan are out playing pickup soccer with the rest of the boys, we girls get to sit in a spare classroom next to the gym and watch a slide show about how to avoid and treat yeast infections. (Yummy.)

The day started off rocky and has gone downhill. For starters, I haven’t seen Cara and Alice since last night.

They weren’t in the dorm suite after my voluntary KP duty this morning. I got ready alone. I went to my first class alone, second class alone, and so on.

I saw them in the halls, so I knew they were safe, but they were always either with Bianca or racing to catch up with her. There was no time to connect.

Now here we are in the same classroom but miles apart.

As we settle into our seats in clusters, Mrs. Moxley greets us with a smile. She’s wearing simple white slacks, comfortable white shoes, and one of those Garfield nurse smocks with the wide pockets over the hips.

Alice and Cara steer clear of me. That’s fine. I get it. It’s all a job. Still, I came in as part of a group that’s now fractured, and the other girls in the school don’t know what to do with me. Should they rally around, patting me on the shoulders, or stay away in case Bianca catches them and practices a little guilt by association? Apparently they vote in favor of steering clear, so there I sit, front row and center, my neck hot, my shoulders tense. It seems like the entire class is whispering behind my back.

The slide show is torturous: twenty-eight screens of various close-ups of female anatomy better not discussed here. Suffice it to say I now have an honorary degree in gynecology, whether I wanted one or not. (For the record, I didn’t.)

The spitballs start around slide seventeen. One at first, landing just so on the empty desk next to me. Another to my left. Tightly rolled and expertly lubricated, it sticks to the empty seat and doesn’t budge, even when I try to flick it away so nobody will see. Yeah right. I’m in the front row. I might as well be wearing a bull’s-eye on my back.

By slide nineteen I can feel two on my shoulder, one on my arm. I shake them off, cringing with disgust.

The twittering builds softly, one row back, then left, then right, then the row after that. By slide twenty-two, it’s like a wave that crests, then ebbs. I’m hopeful every time the rolling whitewash of laughter rolls out to sea, only to be disappointed moments later when it begins all over again.

The nurse at the front of the class is clueless, apparently assuming we’re all just nervous and giggling at the slides of women’s anatomy.

She couldn’t be any more wrong.

I couldn’t be any more desperate.

Finally the show is over, and before the lights go on I quickly try to dislodge the spit wads from my hair, blanching with each handful. The floor beneath my desk is littered with my castoffs, and still I feel them sticking to the small of my back.

I wish for a shower or at least a bathroom run, but I dare not raise my hand for fear of drawing even more attention—and another volley of spit-balls—to myself.

And still it’s far from over.

“Now that you know what to look for, ladies, I’d like you to pair up and discuss how you might tell a BFF if you suspect she’s harboring one of our nasty little friends here,” Mrs. Moxley says, sending a stake of fear right through my heart.

I scramble, looking for a kind face, seeing only the backs of heads or downcast eyes.

“We don’t have much time, and I don’t want to turn this into a popularity contest, so I’ll pick teams.”

I’m silently thanking her for saving my day until she seats me with none other than—you guessed it—Bianca Ridley.

“Uh, Mrs. Moxley, I think the girl you paired me with has a spitball infection,” she says, pointing to some paper and saliva mass in the middle of my back.

Giggles explode around the room.

“Now, now, girls, you have your pairs. Get to work.”

Alice and Cara have been grouped together, naturally, but Mrs. Moxley seats them in a corner of their own. Bianca isn’t coming to me, so I have to walk all the way to her, passing them on the way. “Thanks.”

Cara looks mildly ashamed, but there’s something else in her eyes. A distance. No, that’s not quite right.

A coldness. And something else. A darkness lurking there. Cara’s eyes have always been alive, happy, but now her gaze is tense like she’s hiding something.

Something big. Something even she doesn’t want to admit to.

As First Sister Alice is usually carefree, laughing, not caring about me or even Cara all that much. She’s always just getting her share and eager to report back to Dr. Haskins as soon as she can.

But now she too seems wary. Docile, even.

They keep looking past me to Bianca.

I step in between them, just for spite, and stomp over to my partner. “So,” I say glumly, slumping into a desk facing Bianca, “what are we supposed to do?”

“Who cares? I’m not even talking to you until you get cleaned up anyway.”

“Well, Bianca, how am I supposed to do that?”

“How am I to know, Lily? But it’s unsanitary, to say the least.”

”You should have thought of that before you peppered me with spitballs.”

She crosses her bare arms, shifting her body encased in a tight chocolate-brown dress with matching heels. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about a high school junior who throws spitballs like a freshman. No, like a
middle schooler!”

She swipes an auburn lock behind one pale ear. “Maybe you should get the hint, Lily. Then nobody will need to shoot spit wads at you.”

I don’t take the bait. I don’t have to. I’ve been here six hundred times before.

Why is the girl we’re supposed to protect from the Vamplayer always,
always,
inevitably the Head Witch in Charge?

Just once can’t we rescue a nice, kind, empathetic, worthy, cool chick who would actually, you know, appreciate it?

I slink down across from her, my hands tightly gripping my desk. I could snap her neck with my pinkie, but I’m unable to do anything at the moment.

She seems content to be silent, which is of course how I prefer her, so I slouch and glare at Alice and Cara instead.

They ignore me and even Bianca, looking intently at each other, whispering across the two desks they’ve pushed together. No, it’s not whispering; it’s more like hissing. And I mean real hissing. Like Komodo dragon hissing.

“What’d you do to my friends?” I say, not looking at Bianca.

“They look
fine
to me,” she says proudly, as if she had anything to do with it.

We’re both leaning back now, our elbows at our sides, our backs halfway down the chairs, our knees almost touching.

How she manages to look elegant in that dress and at the same time comfortable in a slouch is beyond me, but I guess that’s why Tristan loves her.