“What’s wrong?” I asked, feeling sorry for her. “My mom forgot me!” she hollered, her hands covering her pathetic, wet face.
“No, she didn’t,” I consoled.
“She’s never this late!” she cried.
“Maybe she’s stuck in traffic.”
“You think so?”
“Sure! Or maybe she got a call from one of those nosey sales people that always asks, ‘Is your mother home?’”
“Really?”
“Happens all the time. Or maybe she had to stop for snacks, and there was a long line at 7-Eleven.”
“Would she do that?”
“Why not, you have to eat, don’t you? So never fear. She’ll be here.”
And sure enough, a blue pickup drove up with one apologetic mother and a friendly, fluffy sheepdog.
“My mom says you can come over Saturday if it’s okay with your parents,” Becky said, running back to me.
No one had ever invited me to their house before. I wasn’t shy like Becky but I was just as unpopular. I was always late for school because I overslept, I wore sunglasses in class, and I had opinions, all atypical in Dullsville.
Becky had a backyard as big as Transylvania—a great place to hide and play monsters and eat all the fresh apples a growling third-grade stomach could hold. I was the only kid in our class who didn’t beat her up, exclude her, or call her names, and I even kicked anyone who tried. She was my three-dimensional shadow. I was her best friend and her bodyguard. And still am.
When I wasn’t playing with Becky, I spent my time applying black lipstick and nail polish, scuffing my already-worn combat boots, and burying my head behind Anne Rice novels. I was eleven when our family went to New Orleans for vacation. Mom and Dad wanted to play blackjack on the Flamingo riverboat casino. Nerd Boy wanted to go to the aquarium. But I knew where I was going: I wanted to visit the house of Anne Rice’s birth, the historical homes she had restored, and the mansion she now called home.
I stood mesmerized outside its iron gate, a Gothic mega-mansion, my mom (my uninvited chaperone) by my side. I could sense ravens flying overhead, even though there probably weren’t any. It was a shame I hadn’t come at night—it would have been that much more beautiful. Several girls who looked just like me stood across the street, taking pictures. I wanted to rush over and say, “Be my friends. We can tour the cemeteries together!” It was the first time in my life I felt like I belonged. I was in the city where they stack coffins on top of one another so you can see them, instead of burying them deep within the earth. There were college guys with two-toned spiky blond hair. Funky people were everywhere, except on Bourbon Street, where the tourists looked like they’d flown in from Dullsville. Suddenly a limousine pulled around the corner. The blackest limo I had ever seen. The driver, complete with black chauffeur’s hat, opened the door, and she stepped out!
I freaked and watched motionless, like time was standing still. Right before my eyes was my idol of all living idols, Anne Rice!
She glowed like a movie star, a Gothic angel, a heavenly creature. Her long black hair flowed over her shoulders and glistened; she wore a golden headband, a long, flowing silky skirt, and a fabulous vampirish, dark cloak. I was speechless. I thought I might go into shock.
Fortunately my mom’s never speechless.
“Could my daughter please have your autograph?”
“Sure,” the queen of nocturnal adventures sweetly replied.
I walked toward her, as if my marshmallow legs would melt under the sun at any moment.
After she signed a yellow Post-it note my mom found in her purse, the Gothic starlet and I were standing beside each other, smiling, her arm around my waist.
Anne Rice had agreed to take a picture with me!
I had never smiled like that in my life. She probably smiled like she’d smiled a million times before. A moment she’ll never remember, a moment I’ll never forget.
Why didn’t I tell her I loved her books? Why didn’t I tell her how much she meant to me? That I thought she had a handle on things like no one else did?
I screamed with excitement for the rest of the day, reenacting the scene over and over for my dad and Nerd Boy at our antique-filled, pastel pink bed-and-breakfast. It was our first day in New Orleans, and I was ready to go home. Who cared about a stupid aquarium, the French Quarter, blues bands, and Mardi Gras beads when I’d just seen a vampire angel?
I waited all day to get the film developed, only to find that the picture of me and Anne Rice didn’t come out. Sullen, I retreated back to the hotel with my mother. Despite the fact she and I had appeared in photographs separately, could it be possible that the combination of the two vampire-lovers couldn’t be captured on film? Or rather it was just a reminder that she was a brilliant bestselling writer, and I was a screamy, dreamy child going through a dark phase. Or maybe it was that my mom was a lousy photographer.