Vampire Crush(8)

Unable to resist the possibility of seeing Vlad uncensored, I peek around the edge of the door. They are by the far wall, Marisabel leaning against a locker with a knee up and Vlad looming over her. Devon and Ashley loiter to one side, silent as usual.

"But it's been a week," Marisabel says, "and you're getting nowhere. All I've seen you do is whisk around that blond girl."

"It's been three days. If you are so concerned, you might try helping instead of flitting around with that pack of harpies."

"They're not harpies-they're nice." When Vlad gives a dismissive snort, she changes tack, reaching out as though to brush his face. "Why don't we go away? Just the two of us, like before."

He smacks her hand away and then slams his fists into the locker, one on each side of her head. "I am sick of living like we don't exist," he spits as the clang echoes down the hallway. "If you want to traipse off and remain in obscurity, fine. I am staying here."

Marisabel doesn't respond, just rubs her arms and stares at the worn blue carpet. I check to see if Devon and Ashley are finding this as frightening as I am, but they are staring off into the distance.

"I am waiting for your answer," Vlad says, straightening but not allowing Marisabel any more space to breathe. I can hear the tick of the classroom clock that hangs over the doorway.

"I don't want to go anywhere without you," she finally murmurs.

"Excellent. Then I believe we can leave," Vlad says, and then he pivots so quickly that I barely have time to tuck my head back behind the door. I hold my breath as they stride past. When their voices echo enough to signal that they've reached the main lobby, I emerge from my hiding spot with a new plan. First I am going to convince Caroline that she needs to drop Vlad, and then, no matter what Mr. Amado says, I will be getting to the bottom of what these people are doing here. Because one thing's for sure: He and Marisabel are not stepsiblings and they're not just here because Vlad's parents are "off in Europe."

As if on cue, the door to the speech room bangs open, and students start to trickle out. When Neville emerges, I jump in front of him and rush through my boilerplate proposal: interviews, new students, embarrassing icebreaker questions, please help me. I leave out the part where, after I know his favorite B-movie, I am going to grill him senseless.

"Of course," he says, placing a hand on my back to usher me into the nearest empty classroom-health class, if the mutant ovaries on the board are any indication. Once we're seated he looks at me expectantly. Not wanting to scare him off too early, I start out with questions that I consider boring. But when I ask if he likes it here at Thomas Jeff, his face lights up.

"I do! Everything is so lawless," he says. "Yesterday I fought with a young man who said that I was staring at his girlfriend. And I was, but not for the reasons he believed." He points to his earlobe. "She had a hole as big as a button, right here."

It's hard to imagine a place that could make Principal Morgan's reign seem like anarchy. "Where did you go to school before?"

He hesitates a second too long. "Here and there."

"Where was here and where was there?"

"Oh, I don't remember," he says before leaning over to peek at my notepad. "What other questions do you have?"

I back off for the moment, and we chat about hobbies. He's not much into sports, although he knows enough about boxing to punch you in the nose if you trap him in a corner; he's always loved acting but it has been a while since he has had the opportunity; the speech meets have been wonderful because they've given him a reason to dust off his old monologues. Since things have been going so well, I decide to ease back into more sensitive topics.

"So, you're staying with Vlad, right?"

Neville has been the perfect interviewee, receptive to all my questions and nice enough to phrase all his replies in neat little sound bites. But now I see a wall go up behind his eyes, and he does nothing other than give a sharp little nod.

"How long have you known each other?"

"A few years."

"How did you meet?"

His eyes slide to the side like a senator who's just been asked that same question about the new intern. "The usual."

"Which is?"

"Class," he says quickly.

"What class?

"Music class."

I hope he is a better actor than improviser. "That's interesting," I say. "What do you play? I can't wait to get Vlad's side of the story. Oh, maybe we could take pictures of you both with your instruments!" I threaten, knowing that a person would have to be crazy to have something like that published in a high school newspaper.

"No, I don't want that!" he panics. "Don't write that."

I hide my smile in my notebook. "I'm sorry?"

"No, I was thinking of . . . another friend. George. Yes, George."

"How did you meet Vlad then?"

He leans back, his eyes flicking toward the door. After a discreet cough, he pushes his sleeves up, revealing a small, strangely iridescent tattoo on the inside of his forearm. Considering he got in a fight after ogling some girl's ear gauge, I would never have pegged Neville as someone who had even a dot of ink. It's a star with eight points, light in the middle and darkening to a shimmering blue as it approaches the tips. A swirl sits in the center-no, wait, not a swirl, an ornate letter "D."

"That's an interesting tattoo," I say. "What does the ‘D' stand for?"

Neville follows my gaze and stares at the tattoo as though it's a scorpion perched on his arm.

"Ex-girlfriend?" I ask.

He snorts. "Hardly. There must be something else we can discuss. I will tell you about the time I played Oberon in A Midsummer Night's Dream."

"What's the significance of the star?" I ask, refusing to be deterred, but then try to soften the question. "I'm sorry; I'm just really into tattoos. I'm thinking of getting one, but I really want it to, you know, mean something."

"There is no significance," he says with a new edge to his voice. "I would be rid of it if I could, but the damned thing won't come off. They make sure of that."

His inflection makes me pause. "You mean tattoo artists?" I ask innocently. "Because that's sort of the point."

"No, I mean the-" Neville stops, his mouth compressing as though he's trying to bite something back. He covers it up with an easy smile, but I can tell he's annoyed with himself. When my eyes flick to his tattoo again, he shoves his sleeve down. "Are we done? I should be heading home."

"No," I say, deciding that it's time to attack while he's rattled. "What's the real relationship between Vlad and Marisabel?"

His eyes widen. "That's not . . . I don't . . . they're siblings," he finishes lamely.

"Right. Then what sort of company do Vlad's parents work for that sends them on an extended business trip to Europe? And how are your parents okay with six teenagers living together? And what does Vlad mean when he says that he's-"

He stands up so quickly that the student desk crashes forward. Before I can react, he leans toward me and grabs my hand, his grip crushing. "It was wonderful chatting with you," he says. "I mean it; I enjoyed our talk. But you should stop asking so many questions," he says. "Please."

And then he's out the door before I can even ask him to wait.

I replay the interview on the drive home, cursing myself for being too aggressive and wondering about the tattoo and Neville's mysterious "they." I think back to the tiny snippet I overheard that first day in the cafeteria, when they were at odds over the importance of going to Basic Skills; Vlad definitely acts as though he is the boss of something and an organization of some sort would explain why they all arrived knowing one another. As I pull into the driveway behind Caroline's silver VW Bug, I brainstorm possibilities-a cult? A social experiment? A new low for MTV reality shows?-but all of them seem preposterous and none of them explain why his number-one priority upon arriving was to make a beeline for Caroline.
Which reminds me: The first order of business is to convince my sister to dump Vlad. Normally I try to avoid discussing guys with Caroline. When we were eight, I told her that the boy she had a crush on picked his nose and she punched me. But considering that dating Vlad seems far more dangerous than a few stray boogers, I'm going to have to try again. Still, I wish I could delay the talk until later, like after she's eaten a tub of ice cream. Or better yet, after she's been accidentally hit with a tranquilizer dart while on African safari.

Caroline's bedroom is on the second floor. The door is already open when I get there, and I catch her standing in the middle of the beige carpet, trying on a pink sundress that matches the walls and makes her look like the ballerina in a jewelry box. A tag still dangles beneath the armpit, and she tugs at it while sucking in her cheeks and examining herself in the full-length mirror. After a few deep, calming breaths, I knock lightly on the jamb.

"Sophie! Okay, so what do you think?" she asks as she whirls to face me, holding out the skirt of her sundress. "I think it makes me look like a cupcake."

"Do you want to look like a cupcake?"

"Sure." She twists around to check out her butt in the mirror. "I want Vlad to bite."