Part 5 (2/2)

There is not a hint of what dark G.o.d must struggle somewhere, writhing back and forth to escape.

The second vampire letter I get is from a girl, the morning after there was a mouth on TV. Paul can tell the letter is from a girl because of the handwriting and he steals it and runs around the room with it singing, ”Chris has got a girl! Chris has got a girl!”

”Give it back,” I demand. ”Give me back my letter!”

He makes a wimp face and mewls, ”Give me back my wedder! Give me back my wedder!”

”Give it!”

”Give it, pwease, big bwudder! Give it back to me, pwease, my widdle wedder!”

”Don't ever change, Paul. I hope you always keep this boyish charm.”

”Paul,” says my mother sharply. ”Give him the letter. It's his. Okay?”

So he gives it back.

I read it alone in my room. It is written on ruled notebook paper in purple felt tip pen. Some words, the special ones, are in all different colors. It is from a girl named Lolli Chasuble.

It says: Dear Christopher,How R U? You don't know me, but I know you! My father asked me to write a letter. So here it is! One of my friends saw you in Bradley a few weeks ago, and we were hoping you'd come and get to know some of us. We're really very nice, and you have nothing to lose. What are we going to do? - bite your head off? (joke! ) )No, seriously! I know you must be scared. I was too!!! The first time my dad told me I had to drink blood, I was totally grossed out. But now I'm like, ”s.h.i.+t, this is great!” and, ”Is there a diet variety?”People say lots of dumb s.h.i.+t about vampires that isn't really true. My dad says you're a pretty brainy guy, so I guess I don't need to tell you that we don't have to wear stupid black capes like in flicks or live in big smell-o-rific castles. I just dress in cool normal clothes, meaning bike shorts, a T-s.h.i.+rt, etc., etc.Being one of us is cool because you're always on the move, like I've lived most of my life in Los Angeles, which I L-O-V-E-D [that word is in different color felt tips] [that word is in different color felt tips], but I've also lived all over the West Coast, since my father had to run away from L.A. It's pretty tough sometimes not having a real address - I have to get my monthly issue of Sa.s.sy at the newsstand! But there are some of us in every city. We have G-R-E-A-T parties but I've also lived all over the West Coast, since my father had to run away from L.A. It's pretty tough sometimes not having a real address - I have to get my monthly issue of Sa.s.sy at the newsstand! But there are some of us in every city. We have G-R-E-A-T parties and do all sorts of cool secret stuff! and do all sorts of cool secret stuff!We also have more fun than mortals, who are just waiting around to die. For one thing, the night is ours, and for another thing, if you've heard of French kissing, we have something called Transylvanian kissing, which is when we bite each other's tongue and exchange blood. OmiG.o.d, it is totally s.e.xy! With mortals, sometimes it's fun to make out with them before you kill them - go, girl!Anyway, I hope you'll come to meet us soon. I'd really like to meet you! The thing is, if you don't come to us soon and learn the ropes from my dad and his friends, you'll probably freak way out in a couple of months or so and get hunted down and killed.G.o.d, not to part on a morbid note! So, I'm looking forward to seeing you! OK?Luv ya,Lolli ChasubleP.S. I don't have a boyfriend right now. There was this guy I had a total crush on at school - he was a complete H-U-N-K-O-R-A-M-A - did I want to get inside his shorts! And he would have been mine, too, except that after the car crash his parents had him C-R-E-M-A-T-E-D Oh, well! Say la vie! Oh, well! Say la vie!P.P.S. My father says you were in CCD or Sunday school or something for a while. Yawnsburg Central, U.S.A.! Make sure you don't bring any crosses or anything to the meeting, because we wors.h.i.+p an eternal being called Tch'muchgar who shall soon lead us to victory.P.P.P.S. My address is P.O. Box 163 in Bradley, MA, 08545. Write!

That is my letter from Lolli Chasuble.

I fold it up and plan to keep it. Then I realize Paul might search my room for it, so instead I tear it up into a thousand pieces and throw them away. I chew on some of them first so he won't try to put it back together.

I don't know what Chet would want me to do. I have heard nothing from him. He is due in another week.

The next day I see a scene that convinces me that it makes real sense for me to have a crush on Rebecca Schwartz. I go into the library to sit hidden in the back aisles, furtively flipping through a book ent.i.tled The Undead: Famous Real-Life Vampires. The Undead: Famous Real-Life Vampires. As it happens, Rebecca is sitting at a table nearby. She is drawing idle dandelions on a notepad, reading books ent.i.tled things like As it happens, Rebecca is sitting at a table nearby. She is drawing idle dandelions on a notepad, reading books ent.i.tled things like The Cabala: Ancient Route to Power and The Lost Spells and Incantations of Hermes Trismagistus. The Cabala: Ancient Route to Power and The Lost Spells and Incantations of Hermes Trismagistus.

Through the wide sixties windows a gray light falls. The panes are smeared with the dull newsprint rain, and down on the street I can see cars stopping monotonously at the stoplight and waiting to go. Inside, the gray light shows up small dirty details of people's faces, like the grease in the creases of chins, and the mangy stubble on upper lips, and the limp hair, hanging like dead weeds on their heads. The stains and wrinkles on their clothes.

All but Rebecca Schwartz. The light sets her face in the matte perfection of porcelain, and she seems, even more, to be poised in the midst of monsters.

”Hi,” I say.

She says, ”Hi,” and slips her eyes back down to the book.

”Too bad about the rain,” I say.

She looks up for a moment. ”It's good for the flowers,” she says.

I nod. She looks down. So I turn my back to her and crouch against the bookshelf and start flipping through the vampire book for parts I haven't read yet.

We both read for a while. I am reading a detailed account of the life of Vlad the Impaler and she is reading The White Arts: An Introduction The White Arts: An Introduction when Kristen Mosley walks over to Rebecca's table. Rebecca notices her coming. I'm interested to see Rebecca smoothly shuffle some school papers over her books, those strange books of power. when Kristen Mosley walks over to Rebecca's table. Rebecca notices her coming. I'm interested to see Rebecca smoothly shuffle some school papers over her books, those strange books of power.

”Hi,” says Kristen to Rebecca. ”I've been thinking: Does history make, like, any sense at all?” This is quite an impressive question and one that might take a long time to answer, but Kristen continues, ”G.o.d, this rain is, like, driving me crazy. It is making everything so wet. It's hopeless. Can you do this history thing at all? I think it makes no sense. What are you reading? reading?”

Rebecca looks startled. She s.h.i.+fts her papers to the side. ”These?” she says. ”These were here when I sat down.”

”Were you reading reading them?” them?”

Rebecca squirms. ”They're sort of interesting. They're about ancient magic.”

Kristen listens. She fixes Rebecca with a look that says, Okay. Now even my jaw is bored with you. Okay. Now even my jaw is bored with you. Then she says, ”Yeah. Whatever. Are you gonna come over and do the history with us, or what? The guys are like, 'Where's Rebecca? We need someone with, like, an actual Then she says, ”Yeah. Whatever. Are you gonna come over and do the history with us, or what? The guys are like, 'Where's Rebecca? We need someone with, like, an actual brain brain at our table.'” The two of them laugh. at our table.'” The two of them laugh.

”Okay,” says Rebecca brightly, leaving her stack of books. ”I'm there!”

She looks at me as she turns away - over Kristen's shoulder - and suddenly I know that there is a price to her popularity. There is a silent pact between her and Kristen, one which I have witnessed and am expected not to mention. Kristen will not tell anyone that Rebecca reads strange, boring books, as long as Rebecca agrees not to talk about them and embarra.s.s them both. She has her secret interests, too; and she doesn't care that I know. She thinks I will keep her secret.

This makes me feel a little better.

I put the book about famous vampires back on the shelf and head out into the afternoon rain to kick pebbles on the street. I'm feeling so happy that kicking pebbles in the rain could be a wacky, hip solo on the jazz saxophone.

It's that kind of game.

Sometimes late at night I think about Rebecca when I can't get to sleep.

I can't ever really get to sleep.

I think about if we were the last two people on earth, because I've made her into a vampire, which is very romantic, and we've withstood the radioactivity and all the madness of nuclear war. Outside, the ancient crumbling city is razed beneath the blood-red sunset moon.

We lie together in a room at the top of a tall, tall stone tower, far in the air. We lie side by side, draped in silk that slithers between her legs, and we feel the pressure of each other's bodies while outside, huge mutant bats beat against the walls.

One night I am watching the news with my mother. She has an afghan over her lap.

On the news, a woman is being tried for manslaughter. She thought that the faeries had s.n.a.t.c.hed away her twin babies and put elfin changelings in their place. You are supposed to throw changelings in the fire after you say prayers and chants. She did that. She threw the twins in the fire. She was right about one: it was a changeling and scurried up the chimney, stretching like a mantis, wheezing and whining. The other was not a changeling. It burned.

My mother, watching, holds her hand to her mouth so the fingers are limp and touch the top lip. She says, ”I can't believe it. I can't believe she'd throw her baby on the fire.”

”There were two,” I point out. ”Two babies.”

”One of them wasn't even hers,” my mother says. ”It wasn't even human.”

It wasn't even human. I get up and go into the den. I sit there, looking out the window for a minute. What would she do, my mother, if she found out a son of hers was not human? Then I go and get out the photo alb.u.m. I look at photos of me when I was small. There I am, walking by the reservoir. I have made a Tinkertoy ray gun and have shot my mother as part of my plan to invade the earth. She is laughing and falling backward, clutching her heart. She is laughing so hard, and I'm laughing, too, holding my ray gun, invading her world. I get up and go into the den. I sit there, looking out the window for a minute. What would she do, my mother, if she found out a son of hers was not human? Then I go and get out the photo alb.u.m. I look at photos of me when I was small. There I am, walking by the reservoir. I have made a Tinkertoy ray gun and have shot my mother as part of my plan to invade the earth. She is laughing and falling backward, clutching her heart. She is laughing so hard, and I'm laughing, too, holding my ray gun, invading her world.

I am walking to school through one of the abandoned mills. It's a shortcut from home. The parking lot is chipped and breaking out in stubbly dead gra.s.s.

The factory buildings loom over me like a canyon. Rows of empty, dark windows in abandoned sweatshop galleries hang above me in the sky. There are sagging slate roofs and broken gla.s.s and wide doors covered in plywood and nailed shut. On the brick wall someone has sprayed green words reading ”Sheila loves Mike for a while.” I walk between the buildings slowly, listening to the sound of my sneakers on the gravel.

One of these mills was closed after a big fire. There weren't enough exits, and fourteen women were trapped upstairs and burned to death. The rumor is that on some nights you can see them still, those fourteen women, shrieking as they work at flaming looms, producing strange garments for an inhuman overseer. It's a desolate place.

Suddenly I hear something.

Footsteps.

Who would be here at this abandoned place at this hour of the morning?

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