Vampire Crush(38)

"Seriously?" she says. "Seriously."

This time she stomps up the stairs.

"I'd better go before your sister explodes," James says, and the moment is lost.

Wednesday night brings another visitor. I'm sitting in front of my computer, hoping for a last-minute miracle that will keep me from having to contact Mark about subbing in, when a knock sounds at my door. I open it to find Lindsay Allen with a stack of books balanced on her hip.

"I figured you wouldn't want to fall behind, so I come bearing homework," Lindsay says and then peers around the corner. "Cool room. Can I come in for a second? Sorry for not giving you a warning."

"Uh, sure. Ignore all the socks. There was an explosion." And by that I mean an explosion of boredom that led to me organizing them by print and holiday.

Lindsay walks inside, shutting the door behind her with a deliberateness that makes me nervous. "I have to ask you something," she says as she takes a seat at my desk and crosses her legs. "Did something happen with you and that guy Vlad at that party Friday night?"

Dread creeps over my skin. "Why?"

"Hmm, okay. I don't really know how to put this, but . . . well, he was telling everybody today that you guys are dating and that you're his soul mate and that you're going to get married."

"What?"

Lindsay gives a solemn nod.

"What?" I feel like I'm in one of those teen shows where a caring friend lets her naive schoolmate know that the popular guy in school is spreading rumors about her. Of course, those usually end with everyone finding out they have chlamydia instead of a vampire husband, but the concept is the same.

"I thought it was weird," she says. "I didn't really think that he was your type. He's kind of smarmy. That's why I didn't go to his party."

"We're not even dating," I say. "What is the opposite of dating?"

"Not dating?" she tries. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I just thought that you should know."

It's obvious that I've made Lindsay uncomfortable. She is looking everywhere but at me, rolling a few pens around on my desk and studying an old Happy Bunny poster I tacked to the wall when I was feeling boo-hiss about the world.

"Don't apologize," I say as calmly as I can. "What exactly is he saying?"

She relaxes a little, which means she returns to her usual habit of talking in hyper-speed. "He's saying that you two hooked up. Only he's not saying ‘hooked up.' He's saying that you ‘sported,'" she says, complete with air quotes. "You know, I'm all for fun with vocabulary, but that's just weird. He gives me the creeps. I don't really know why, but he does."

Probably because he tried to make her his lunch. At least I can make sure that Lindsay isn't drawn back into it again.

"He is creepy," I confirm, "and you should stay away from him." Now that my caveat has been signed, sealed, and delivered, it's time to get back to the real problem. I move across the room and collapse on the bed with a bounce. "Do people believe him?"

"Pretty much, yeah," she says. "Well, those who know who you are. The others just asked if you're new or in the special classes. A few people asked if you were the person who wrote that article calling out teachers who don't care about plagiarism." She pauses. "Those kids looked kind of mad."

"But a lot of people were at Friday's party," I insist. "They should know that it's not true."

"They're saying that he dragged you and James Hallowell out of the pantry, and then kicked everyone out in a jealous rage."

There are no words for how twisted the people at my high school are. I fall backward on the bed and put a pillow over my face.

"Smothering yourself is not the answer," Lindsay says.

Lifting up a corner, I peer out from beneath the fringe. She's busy rearranging the pens on my desk into some sort of order. When she notices me watching, she colors and then tells me there's something else.

"What else can he possibly be saying? That I am carrying his love child?" I joke and then sit up. "Oh God."

Lindsay shakes her head. "Nothing like that. Mr. Amado's been asking me if I know when you'll be back. He's going to be out for personal reasons starting on Monday, so he's going to pick the editor in chief early because he wants someone who'll make sure that stupid sub doesn't accidentally erase the whole issue again," she says. "I thought it was only fair that you know."

I look at her, wondering what I would have done if our places were switched, whether I would have taken the time to give the competition a heads-up about the new deadline or about the fact that she's the victim of vampire rumor-mongering. I don't think I would have. Suddenly, I want to apologize for lying again, but she'd just think I'm crazy. So I apologize for what she'll remember.

"I'm sorry that I didn't call you back this summer."

Her eyes widen a little at the non sequitur, but she just says, "That's okay. I was busy with the animal shelter. To be honest, I smelled like dog most of the time and probably shouldn't have hung out with anyone. Anyway, I'd better get home," she says as she swoops down to pick up her bag. "My mother works late at the hospital on Wednesdays, which means my little brother is home alone. Last time I was late he watched enough HBO to make him sound like Tony Soprano." She stops when her hand is on the doorknob. "Your articles were really good, by the way."

"Yours were better," I say, and it's not a lie. Her article on James captured him perfectly, and the ones on Devon and Ashley reached some sort of Hellen-Keller-Miracle-Worker level that my articles on Violet and her love of the color purple didn't even come close to matching. She even made Andrew and his dirt bikes interesting. But Lindsay just shakes her head.

"No way," she says. I think that she's humoring me, but when I check her face for signs of sarcasm I come up empty.

"Do you want to maybe get together some weekend?" I blurt.

"Oh. Sure! There's a midnight showing of Nosferatu this Saturday at the Main Street Theater-"

"No!" I say sharply, before making an effort to tone down the crazy. "I mean, I don't really like vampires. Let's talk about it tomorrow at lunch."

"You'll be at school?"

I look toward James's house, wondering how the vampires are doing. Every day I sit here doing nothing is another day that Vlad chips away at my real life; I've worked too hard to let him ruin my chance at editor in chief or give me some sort of bizarro reputation. I can't miss the tennis match tomorrow if Friday's my last chance to impress Mr. Amado. I'll just keep my head down and avoid him the best I can-after all, what harm can one day do?

"Yes," I tell Lindsay, "just try to keep me away."

                       
       
           



       Chapter Seventeen

By the time I drag my feet through Thomas Jeff's heavy glass doors the next morning, I am running on one hour of sleep, bus fumes, and the three bites of cereal I managed to take before Caroline's over-the-breakfast-table scowl put the fear of sisterly retribution in me. She didn't say anything, but I knew she was mad by the way she ate three bowls of Fruity Pebbles, finishing off the box before I could go for seconds. Caroline doesn't ingest that many carbs unless she's getting back at someone. At least now I know the reason.

It only takes a few steps into the crowded lobby for me to realize that there's no possibility of getting through today unnoticed. For the first time in my life, whispers dog me through the hallways, all of which involve the words "Vlad" and "party" and "engaged." When I round the corner and see Danny Baumann bending over one of the school's anemic water fountains, I realize that this is the perfect chance to start the rumor-squashing process. I just have to get up the nerve to talk to him.

His light blond hair curls at the neck, and he is wearing the shorts that entranced me so long ago in World Geography, but I am not here to ogle. Much like the hungry lion approaches the gentle, mega-attractive antelope, I move slowly, stealthily. I catch him as he turns around.

"Hey there. I have a favor to ask you," I say, fully expecting him to ask who I am and why I am talking to him. But he just leans against the wall and wipes his mouth with his shirt, relaxed as casual Friday. When we get married, I'm going to buy him a napkin.

"Yo, Sophs," he says. "What's up?"

"You know my name."

"Sure. You told me the difference between Uganda and Uruguay. South America, man. Crazy."

I am aflutter that he remembers our special moment, but all I tell him is that I'm not dating or engaged to or involved in any other sort of relationship with Vlad. "And I was kind of hoping you could spread the word," I finish.

"That's not what he says. Dude is, like, madly in love with you."

"But I'm saying that it is not true. And I thought maybe you could correct people if they mention it?" I give him a hopeful smile. "Okay?"

"I dunno. I don't want to get in the middle or anything. Guy kind of weirds me out."

That gives me pause; last week Vlad was still topping the charts. But by the time I think to ask for more detail, he's already ambling away to do whatever Danny Baumanns do all day.