"It's not fair that he's brought you here to look for another girl," I say. "You're his girlfriend."
She blinks at me for a few seconds before lighting up in delight to finally have someone's sympathy. "I know! I think that I've been very understanding."
"Totally," I agree. "What's so great about her anyway? Is she, like, some miracle child?"
"Supposedly," she says with disdain, while I struggle to keep my delight in check at having called it. "She's said to be the great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter of some dumb baby of some musty vampire family named Mervaux."
"Let me guess. A half-vampire baby?" I ask, leaving off the ". . . who fights crime."
"No!" Marisabel says. "A plain old human baby. That's what makes the whole thing so weird. Who cares about a human baby? People have those all the time." She pauses. "Well, I mean, not vampires. They never have any babies, which is good because child vampires are freaky." Suddenly, her face turns severe. "You're not going to tell anyone this, right?"
"Oh, no way," I say quickly, shaking my head. I want to ask more questions about the connection between this child of the Mervaux vampire family and the Danae, but Marisabel's burst of sharing starts to fizzle.
"I mean, I try so hard to be enough," she sniffs. "But he's never happy. I'm starting to think that even if he finds her, that's only the beginning. I would just like for this to be over. If Vlad could just see that this wasn't going to work out, if he could just see that it's not going to be so easy, then maybe he would give up." She sniffs again. "Maybe you could keep getting in his way."
I can hardly believe my luck-here's the perfect source of information, and it's offering to crawl into my lap. But there's something fragile in Marisabel's voice that keeps me from pouncing.
"Is Vlad really worth this?" I ask. "He's kind of mean to you. Do you-"
I'm interrupted by the click of heels on tile. There's no way that staccato terror belongs to a student. My eyes roam over the utter ruin of the bathroom stall; the last thing I need right now is a charge of petty vandalism. Holding a finger to my lips and motioning for Marisabel to climb up on the toilet, I push the door shut just as Ms. Kate rounds the corner. Clutching my stomach, I do my best to imitate a victim of cafeteria food poisoning.
"I thought I heard something in here," Ms. Kate snaps as she approaches me. "Hall pass?" When I hand it over, she barely even looks at it; years of practice have made her able to distinguish types of hall passes through the power of touch alone. "This is for the nurse," she says. "You are in the bathroom. What is wrong with this picture?"
Apologizing, I tip forward like I'm about to hurl on her ugly black pumps. "I thought I was going to be sick." I cast a queasy look at the door behind me. "Don't go in there."
I don't know if she believes me, but her expression of slight disgust tells me that she's thankfully not willing to investigate. "Let's go to the nurse, then," she says, walking me out the door and through the halls. She makes no move to leave me alone, not even when we hit the labyrinthine hallway that leads to a cluster of guidance counselors, speech therapy rooms, and the dreaded nurse's office. If you're truly sick, you can't expect to receive much more than generic aspirin and an embarrassing pamphlet about your growing body.
We find Nurse Ellis alone and shaking her head at a copy of Us Weekly. After Ms. Kate stomps off to catch more students unawares, Nurse Ellis spins toward me on her stool, a trusty stethoscope looped around her neck. Her light-brown hair is dusted with gray, and she has a round face and equally round body.
"Not feeling well, Sophie?" she asks, genuinely concerned. "You do look flushed."
Thank God for pale skin and wimpy blood vessels. "I feel nauseous and light-headed," I croak.
"Well, why don't you lie down on one of the cots and give it some time? If you still feel bad in a little while, we'll see if we can reach your parents."
A fabulous idea. I lie down on the nearest cot and draw the hanging curtain around me. This should help me avoid Vlad, as well as keep me out of James's way for a while. Researching with him on my tail is going to take a lot more cunning than being the first person to ask for a hall pass. Who knows the next time when I'll have a moment alone?
I sit up. I'm alone now, and who better acquainted with the student body's bodies than the school nurse? The metallic curtain rasps as I push it back.
"You don't happen to know of any girls who have a strange and unusual birthmark, do you? Like a star?" As soon as I say it, I realize what a weirdo question it is. Oh well-no guts, no glory. Although one could also argue that "No guts, no extreme social embarrassment" is just as accurate a statement. "Like on their backs or their legs or their shoulders, maybe?" I add.
To her credit, Nurse Ellis says nothing, just squints at me for a pregnant moment before wheeling herself over to a wall that's close to buckling from the weight of multicolored pamphlets. She plucks out a dark yellow one and hands it to me. "Is What I'm Feeling Normal?" the bold headline asks. Boy and girl stick figures hold up their hands in "Why me?" gestures, their heads surrounded by a cloud of question marks.
"Read this, Sophie. Then let me know if you have any questions," she says, passing it over and giving me a gentle pat on the hand before closing the curtain.
I flop back on the cot. This is off to a great start.
When Nurse Ellis asks me how I'm feeling an hour later, smiling as though we now share a great secret, I tell her that I'm ready to go back to class. Chemistry is in full swing by the time I hand my pass over to Mr. George, and surprisingly, there's no James. This should be a relief. Why am I now consumed with curiosity over where he's run off to? Maybe he was bluffing.
Hopping up on my stool, I open my chemistry book and prepare to do more research under the cover of balancing equations. Because of an unfortunate incident involving mixed chemicals and Greg Ives's knee, I have no lab partner. I'm busy spreading out my things when a figure walks past me to Mr. George's desk. I watch James's back as he introduces himself to the teacher, who pulls out his seating chart.
"Okay, then, Mr. Hallowell. Why don't you have a seat by . . . ," he starts, but then frowns at the paper in front of him, scans the room, and then frowns again. "Well, it looks like you'll have to sit by Miss McGee."
Unbelievable. When James turns around, I prepare to withstand a cocky grin, but his energy level seems to have taken a nosedive since last period. His face looks drawn and tired, his skin stretched and tight. Math class is no fun, but I've never seen it take this much out of a person.
"Having trouble keeping up?" I whisper when he slides onto the stool beside me.
"I had something to take care of," he says tightly. "Since we're not sharing anymore, I won't tell you what it is."
I'm about to retort that I'm not interested anyway and warn him to guard his knees, but then I see that his fingers are shaking as they open the cover of his textbook.
"James, what's wrong?" I ask, my annoyance taking a backseat to sudden worry.
"Nothing."
In my experience "nothing" doesn't make you seem like you're about to keel over at your desk. But James ignores my worried looks, studying the periodic table like he's Marie Curie.
"I'll see you after lunch," he says as soon as the bell rings and then leaves before I can respond.
Chapter Eleven
James doesn't come back after lunch, and he's still MIA when the final bell rings. On my way to my locker, I poke my head into the journalism room only to find that Mr. Amado is missing too, although his perpetually wrinkled jacket and messenger bag are still hanging from a cabinet hook. I wait for a few moments, but when he doesn't show up, I take a casual peek at his planner. Staff meeting: 3:30. Nuts.
Since I have time to kill-and since, so far, Vlad has left me alone-I decide that French club can be approached with caution. Still, knowing his habit of roaming the halls, I tape a few pieces of paper over the narrow window as soon as I close the door.
"Hello, Sophie," says a high, dulcet voice.
Oh crap. Violet. Violet the fluent French speaker and newest member of our miniscule language club. I'm starting to lose track of all the people I need to avoid. When I work up the courage to turn around, she's smiling at me serenely, her hands folded primly in front of her, always the lady, even when plotting my demise. Regina Michaels and Calvin Abrams flank her on either side. Luckily, they seem oblivious to any tension as they argue about the sex of various fruits. I've come to learn that arguing about French is how they flirt. The imparfait debate is third base.
"Are we going to do drugs?" Calvin asks nervously when he notices my makeshift window coverings. "Because I am president of the ‘Just Say No' Club, and we had to sign something saying we would never-"
"Don't worry about it, Calvin. I left my stash at home," I say, trying to play it cool but still keeping my eye on Violet. At this point, I'm not sure how much I am supposed to know around her. She wasn't there for the forest debacle, but Vlad has surely talked . . . unless he doesn't want them to know about the "misunderstanding." Her cat-with-canary face isn't helping me decide.