Wade glanced back at the crowded, noisy house. Just inside the window, I could see the vampires watching Danny and Harley play. “Until now.”
Just then, Jane stuck her head out of the back door and called, “Hey, Libby!”
When she saw the two of us standing so close, she did a quick double take and stepped back into the kitchen. “Sorry.”
“It’s OK, Jane. What’s going on?”
“Well, the boys are threatening some sort of cookie coup if you don’t get in here. Gabriel wants to try to negotiate, but I think Dick is secretly slipping them contraband candy to support their cause.” Jane ducked out of sight, calling, “Their blood sugar levels have given them the strength of ten men.”
“We’d better get in there,” I murmured. “I know they’re nice kids, but they can’t be trusted to make rational decisions right now.”
Wade nodded, stepping back. “Yeah, we’re not allowed back at Chuck E. Cheese after the cotton-candy incident at Emma Perry’s birthday party.”
“Harley is the kid who took out Chuck E.?” I gasped.
“Kids will do regrettable things for tokens.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I tried to turn it into an object lesson about violence and greed. But I just ended up bannin’ him from playin’ any of those Grand Theft Auto games, ever.”
“Seems reasonable.”
7
As a living parent, you may feel pressure to make sure your child “measures up” in terms of intelligence, athleticism, or popularity. As a vampire parent—let’s just say that it’s not appropriate for children to compete in terms of vampire virtues.
—My Mommy Has Fangs: A Guide to Post-Vampiric Parenting
Why had I said yes?
I’d told myself that I didn’t have time to volunteer for the PTA this year, that I needed to focus on my complicated home life and adjusting to my liquids-only diet. I could have declined when Chelsea Harbaker, PTA president and all-around terrifying personality, called to confirm my nomination to serve on the Pumpkin Patch Party’s prize committee. But for some reason, I’d said yes. Some perverse urge had me agreeing so I could prove to these snotty wenches that I was still the same committed, involved parent I was before, that being a vampire didn’t make me less of a mother. Also, I thought it wouldn’t hurt for people to see me working diligently on school projects while my in-laws tried to convince the community that I was a dangerous slacker mom.
So now I was sitting in the cafeteria of the elementary school, with a little paper placard in front of my seat that read “Libby Sutton—Prize Committee.” That’s right. They spelled my name wrong. And I was without Kerrianne to amuse me with smartass asides, because she had an excuse not to come to the meeting. She had to work. Of course, she had to work for me so she could keep my child as I attended this meeting. It was a “damned if you do, relieved because you get out of attending a boring meeting if you don’t” situation.
I was barely listening to Chelsea drone on about the importance of the Pumpkin Patch Party to the community, the long-standing tradition and the fund-raising capacity for the PTA. I couldn’t focus on the lists of tasks to be done when I felt like a weird little rock in a stream, with conversation flowing around me and people passing me by. But I didn’t feel quite so alone as I had when I was human.
The wonderful thing about Jane’s friends was that when they said “Call me,” they meant it. And if you didn’t call them, they called you. I had a coffee date scheduled with Andrea that week. Nola had offered to take Danny to Children’s Day at the local Civil War history museum the coming weekend. Gabriel asked me to come by the Nightengale house for dinner, ostensibly so I could look over the payroll for a string of frozen-yogurt shops he owned and determine whether one of the regional managers was being dishonest with reported overtime. But I think he and Jane just wanted to see me without the Council mantle on her shoulders.
The Half-Moon Hollow vampires friended me on Facebook. They added me to their group texts. I got the impression that I had somehow been marked as part of their pack.
It was a little overwhelming, having this many people reaching out to me when I was so used to a small social circle. But they didn’t breach my boundaries. They listened when I said no.
Which was more than I could say for Chelsea Harbaker.
While Chelsea was preaching, I took my little paper placard and slashed through “Sutton” in bright, blood-red Sharpie. Under my corrected last name, I drew a little smiley face . . . and then little red triangles under the smiley’s mouth. And a little drop of blood.