whipping people’s hair into little rats’ nests, their umbrellas flipped inside out under the force of the storm. Seemed like a lovely first-day-of-school metaphor.
When she pulled into my driveway, I noted with chagrin that our front yard had branches down across the walkway and landscaping. Definitely a task for tomorrow. Or, better yet, never.
Picking my way through the obstacle course of fallen oak leaves and Spanish moss, I barely registered the screech of a very black, very European car with dark, tinted windows pulling up to the curb behind me. It was what Katie and I liked to call “vampire chic”—sexy in a way that let everyone know the driver didn’t just have money, he had lifetimes of accrued wealth. Technically, there was no law that said a vamp couldn’t hang out in my driveway if he wanted to. Heck, he could come right up to the front door and still be in compliance with the Peace Tenets. As long as I didn’t accidentally shout, “Please, suck my blood,” I stood very little chance of getting attacked.
Nonetheless, vampires being what they are, I decided to set up a quick, warded perimeter. Nothing too complicated—just a simple vamp repellant.
A cool blast of oak and incense hit me as the front door swung open. My mom had decorated this house when she and Dad built it the same year I was born. Parts of it looked like a museum, crowded with weird things: Egyptian urns, grandfather clocks, huge, throne-like chairs with eagles’ beaks carved into the arms. Of course, my favorite were the random antique toilets scattered around. They looked like little cabinets, for the most part, but I still smiled when I walked past them.
My school bag made an undignified thunk against the lacquered brick floor as I cruised into the kitchen to grab a soda from the fridge. I took the back stairs two at a time, oriental carpet squishing under my feet, and hurried down the hall to my room.
I loved my room.
Mahogany wood trim edged the ceilings and doors in an elegant contrast to, well, everything else. Mom had let me redo it myself the year before she died and I’d milked the autonomy for all it was worth. Pepto Bismol walls, rainbow stickers everywhere, Hello Kitty curtains. Even a dusty white mosquito net hung from the ceiling. I didn’t care that it looked like Toys R Us exploded in there. I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of any of it. Walking into that square haven was like stepping into a much needed hug, especially after a day like today.
As I changed into grubby shorts and a holey T-shirt with the dubious slogan, Licensed to Chill, I tried hard not to think about Jack. Impossible, since everywhere I went it felt like he should’ve been there. In fact, the whole time I did my homework, I kept imagining him working next to me, our legs touching…
Psycho, I know.
By the time Bud pulled in the driveway a few minutes before sunset, I had not only finished my classwork for the next three days (mostly correct, I think), I’d also boiled some pasta, baked a pan of chicken parmesan, and chopped up carrots and cucumbers for a salad.
Before I go any further with this, I should probably mention that, despite his overprotective tendencies, Bud’s a decent dad. He gives me my vitamins and allergy meds every morning (okay, most mornings), he makes me wear a helmet when I ride a bike, and he has never once told me I couldn’t watch my reality TV shows. However, according to the Internet, raising a healthy child requires actual food . Like, beyond popcorn and Lean Cuisine. So, about six months after my mom died I started cooking—vegetables and lean meats and all that stuff. Not bad for an eight-year-old. And once I stopped counting lime gummy bears as fruit, my mood improved dramatically. Over the last ten years, we’d found such an easy groove; I sometimes wondered if he missed Mom at all.
I definitely did. It still bugged me that I couldn’t remember stupid things about her. Like whether she was a
When she pulled into my driveway, I noted with chagrin that our front yard had branches down across the walkway and landscaping. Definitely a task for tomorrow. Or, better yet, never.
Picking my way through the obstacle course of fallen oak leaves and Spanish moss, I barely registered the screech of a very black, very European car with dark, tinted windows pulling up to the curb behind me. It was what Katie and I liked to call “vampire chic”—sexy in a way that let everyone know the driver didn’t just have money, he had lifetimes of accrued wealth. Technically, there was no law that said a vamp couldn’t hang out in my driveway if he wanted to. Heck, he could come right up to the front door and still be in compliance with the Peace Tenets. As long as I didn’t accidentally shout, “Please, suck my blood,” I stood very little chance of getting attacked.
Nonetheless, vampires being what they are, I decided to set up a quick, warded perimeter. Nothing too complicated—just a simple vamp repellant.
A cool blast of oak and incense hit me as the front door swung open. My mom had decorated this house when she and Dad built it the same year I was born. Parts of it looked like a museum, crowded with weird things: Egyptian urns, grandfather clocks, huge, throne-like chairs with eagles’ beaks carved into the arms. Of course, my favorite were the random antique toilets scattered around. They looked like little cabinets, for the most part, but I still smiled when I walked past them.
My school bag made an undignified thunk against the lacquered brick floor as I cruised into the kitchen to grab a soda from the fridge. I took the back stairs two at a time, oriental carpet squishing under my feet, and hurried down the hall to my room.
I loved my room.
Mahogany wood trim edged the ceilings and doors in an elegant contrast to, well, everything else. Mom had let me redo it myself the year before she died and I’d milked the autonomy for all it was worth. Pepto Bismol walls, rainbow stickers everywhere, Hello Kitty curtains. Even a dusty white mosquito net hung from the ceiling. I didn’t care that it looked like Toys R Us exploded in there. I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of any of it. Walking into that square haven was like stepping into a much needed hug, especially after a day like today.
As I changed into grubby shorts and a holey T-shirt with the dubious slogan, Licensed to Chill, I tried hard not to think about Jack. Impossible, since everywhere I went it felt like he should’ve been there. In fact, the whole time I did my homework, I kept imagining him working next to me, our legs touching…
Psycho, I know.
By the time Bud pulled in the driveway a few minutes before sunset, I had not only finished my classwork for the next three days (mostly correct, I think), I’d also boiled some pasta, baked a pan of chicken parmesan, and chopped up carrots and cucumbers for a salad.
Before I go any further with this, I should probably mention that, despite his overprotective tendencies, Bud’s a decent dad. He gives me my vitamins and allergy meds every morning (okay, most mornings), he makes me wear a helmet when I ride a bike, and he has never once told me I couldn’t watch my reality TV shows. However, according to the Internet, raising a healthy child requires actual food . Like, beyond popcorn and Lean Cuisine. So, about six months after my mom died I started cooking—vegetables and lean meats and all that stuff. Not bad for an eight-year-old. And once I stopped counting lime gummy bears as fruit, my mood improved dramatically. Over the last ten years, we’d found such an easy groove; I sometimes wondered if he missed Mom at all.
I definitely did. It still bugged me that I couldn’t remember stupid things about her. Like whether she was a
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