The Eternal Kiss: Vampire Tales of Blood and Desire

Ambition by Lili St. Crow

“YOU I CAN change.” He leaned forward, his lips brushing mine. His breath smelled like peppermints and desire, his hair was copper and chocolate. Then he rested his forehead against mine.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d said no. But he leaned against me, his arm over my shoulders, our foreheads touching, and everything else was so far away. He was beautiful, and he was holding me as if I was his. It didn’t matter that I was cold all over, that I was scared, or that my throat burned like gasoline. The only thing that mattered was that he’d chosen me.

Me.

So I said yes.

What girl wouldn’t?

“God.” Gwyneth lay on the bench, thick waves of golden hair touching the shade-dappled wood. Out here under the fig trees was one of the most desirable spots for lunchtime. “This won’t ever end. I’ll be trapped here for the rest of my life.”

“We could skip fifth period.” I hugged my bare knees, my bag a comforting slumped weight under them. It was a way to get around the indecency of wanting to pull yourself up in a ball while wearing a skirt. Double scabs from rollerblading were rough patches, I pushed my glasses up with the side of one knee in a quick sideways motion. “I’ve got the homework done. So we can get there at a reasonable time.”

“But I’d have to change.” Cornflower-blue eyes blinked. She held up one hand, inspected her French manicure. “I can’t go in this.”

“Schoolgirl is always in.” Besides, I don’t have anything to change into. I tried hard not to wheedle. But God, sometimes Gwyn even had to be talked into things she wanted to do.

“With perverts.” She stretched again. “Let’s skip fourth as well. You’ve got that homework done too, right?”

She meant, did I have something we could both turn in? I did. But there was a problem. “Quiz today.” I hunched down, my shoulders sharp points. The shade felt good. Dry wind blew across the lacrosse field, full of the tang of sprinkler water and chemical fertilizer. Molly Fenwick and Trisha Brent and their whole crowd were at the benches in the sun, their jackets off and white Peter Pan-collared shirts unbuttoned enough to be daring. Mitzi Hollenweider was telling a story that involved a lot of handwaving and shrieks of ohmiGOD!, careless of whether any of the teachers could hear.

The embroidered badge on my jacket scratched as I rubbed my chin against the one unscabbed bit of my right knee. The hairpins hurt, holding my frizz tightly back. That was one of the things about St. Crispin’s—every button buttoned and every stray hair slicked down. Gwyn’s waves were placid and acceptable, laying tamely wherever she wanted them. But my mess of dark fritz was always working its way free of whatever was used to confine it. I would’ve taken home demerits for that, except I knew when to smooth the teachers over.

They liked me. Adults usually do.

“Dammit.” She stretched again. “So we take the quiz and bail. Right?”

“Tricky.” And it was—Brother Bob, as he liked to be called, pretended to be down with the kids. It was all a big act—he reported to the headmistress and to the bishop who made all the big decisions. The rumor was he was stuck in a girl’s school because he liked the other flavor of young kid. Boy: The Other Catholic Meat.

You’d think we’d have some things in common to bitch about with Brother Bob if he liked boys so much. But he was a narc, no matter how much slang he tried to pick up.

“Well, then what do we do?” She was getting irritated now.

“We’ll figure something out. We always do.” The wind touched my hair, mouthed my knees. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

The bell rang. Second lunch over, freedom gone. A ripple ran through everyone. Mitzi finished up her story, glancing over at us. She always wanted to walk to fourth period with Gwyn. It was getting to the point where being Gwyn’s best friend all the way from second grade was wearing a bit thin, and Mitzi was looking to get her into the popular crowd.

If she could get rid of me.

Gwyn hauled herself up with a groan, like she was forty instead of sixteen. Her knees were smooth, her hair settled into place with a few flicks, and she stood balanced on one leg, propping the other foot on the bench to flick imaginary dust off her shiny Mary Janes. Hers were always polished.

I stood up, and a dragging cramp went through my stomach. Gwyn snagged her brown paper lunchbag, wadded it up. There was half a sandwich still in there.

“We’ll think of something,” I repeated.

“Gwyneth!” Mitzi called. “Hey Gwyneth!”

“God,” Gwyn said, sotto voce. “Her voice drills right through my head. Save my spot in fourth, okay?”

Like anyone else would sit next to me. But I nodded. “Sure. Have fun.”

“Yeah, right. I’ll see what the bitch wants.” Gwyn gave me a weird, stretched-thin smile, and moved out into sunlight. Her hair caught it and glowed, and her legs moved long and lithe, dancing steps as she swung her bag back and forth. I sighed and almost fell off the bench while trying to get myself standing up. My skirt didn’t flip up, though, thank God. Another cramp hit me sideways while I got my books all rearranged inside the regulation satchel.

St. Crispin’s even decrees what bookbag you can buy. They’re like that. Scholarship kids like me get a big break on the prices, though. Not enough of a break, but some.

Mitzi’s voice kept hitting high ugly pitches. I sneaked a glance over while I shrugged back into my blazer. Go figure—here we were in sunny Cali and they wanted us to wear wool.

The gaggle of girls in sunlight all giggled, the very same high-pitched nasal laughter. I was pretty sure Gwyn was laughing at them, though, not with them. I hitched my bag up on my shoulder and walked to fourth period. I only looked back once, and Gwyn was alight with the rest of them, standing in a flood of sunlight that picked out their glossy hair, their pampered skin, and the little glitters of gold jewelry—balls or small hoops, 24K of course—that St. Crispin’s approved of.

My chest hurt. My stomach growled again, telling me I was hungry, but I ignored it. The school doors swallowed me. Smells of linoleum, oil, chalk dust, the janitor’s harsh cleansers, and the funk of miserable kids in scratchy clothes, repeating drills when the whole world was outside waiting, all closed over my head. I trudged toward the classroom, and nobody yelled my name.

They were a couple minutes late to fourth period, but Brother Bob had been delayed with something or another. It was rare that he wasn’t in the room on the dot, so I opened up my secondhand trig textbook.

Gwyneth slid into her seat next to me. Mitzi gave me a pitying look, tossing her blonde pigtails. I slumped down in my chair.

“There’s a party tonight,” Gwyn whispered. She’d gotten some gum from somewhere, and the perfume of Juicy Sweet touched my cheek. “Out in the Hills. Wanna go?”

“I thought we were—”

“Come on.” She grinned while Brother Bob lumbered to the front of the room. He was sweating, and his round face was red. The collar always cut into the crinkled skin of his throat. Gwyn called the look “choked turkeyneck,” and I agreed.

“I won’t know anyone there.” But it was a mumble, because the class had quieted. Bob’s little, moist, dark eyes raked the rows of seats. Mitzi wriggled in her chair. Trisha shoved her bookbag under her seat and fiddled with her hair ribbon.

“Jesus, just say yes.” Gwyneth’s blue eyes narrowed as she stared at the front of the classroom. Brother Bob gulped and stood up straight. The chalkboard was freshly washed.

“Yes,” I said.

“Quiet down, girls,” Bob said.

Then the fire alarm went off. It was a drill, thank God. Gwyn and I glanced at each other, grabbed our bookbags, and got out of there. I guess we were meant to skip fourth period after all.

We stopped off at Gwyn’s house. Her dad was at work and her mom was off somewhere, so there was only Marisa the housekeeper, who clucked at both of us as we tore in through the door, laughing.

“Did you see that?” Gwyn was laughing so hard she hic-cupped. It was a wonder she could drive. Her place was twelve minutes away from St. Crispin’s if the lights were right. Today they hadn’t been, but we were lucky.

Driving with Gwyneth was like playing roulette. You just knew sooner or later you were going to lose. She got distracted and rolled through stop signs, forgot to check oncoming traffic, and didn’t notice red lights sometimes until I pointed them out, usually by yelling Jesus Christ! and grabbing for the dash.

She was in hysterics from the fact that we’d rolled right past a cop at a stop sign, blithely disregarding the fact that it wasn’t our turn to go. The cop hadn’t even glanced or flicked his lights. He’d just been sitting there.

I was in hysterics because we’d come this close to getting pasted by a huge red Escalade. On my side, of course. Because nothing would ever happen to Miss Luckypants. But I just went along, laughing. At least hanging out with her was never boring, not since second grade when she fell out of the monkey bars onto me. And when I spent the night in her parents’ glass-and-white-stucco mansion, sometimes I would close my eyes and imagine it was me who lived here and someone else who just visited all the time.

Gwyn dropped her bookbag on a stool at the breakfast bar and swiped her hand back through her hair. “Hi, Marisa.” She tried to put on a serious face and failed miserably.

“Ola, Marisa.” I waved, hitching my bag up on my shoulder.

She sniffed at both of us, but opened up the fridge door. In under a minute there was a plate of sugar cookies and two big glasses of milk. Like magic. Round-faced, round-shouldered, and round-eyed, she wore a black dress that seemed to be a uniform. A clean, starched white apron never had the slightest stain.

I took a sugar cookie. She gave me her usual tight smile, one that didn’t reach her solemn dark eyes.

Our laughter drained away. Gwyneth dropped down on a stool, and Marisa pushed the plate a little closer to me. I took a gulp of milk, and my stomach eased up a bit.

“Rolled right past him,” Gwyn giggled, and then we were off and running again.

It took a long time for the giggles to fade, especially with Marisa restocking the sugar cookies and pouring more milk. “So what did Mitzi want? Other than to invite you to the shindig of the week.” I even managed to say it casually.

“Oh, just stuff. You know she doesn’t exist unless everyone around her is adoring her. It’s just sick the way they all stand around and valley each other.”

Yeah. It is. “You sure you want to go to this party?” With me was what I meant, and Gwyn gave me a bright little sidelong glance. She looked so healthy, the roses in her cheeks blooming. I’d torn all the pins out of my hair and I felt greasy. The uniform didn’t help.

“You can borrow my black silk shirt.” She wasn’t quite wheedling. But that black silk was her baby. She hardly ever wore it.

“Nah. You can just drop me off at my house. I don’t want to go.”

“You want to go to the Bleu again. The boring old Bleu.”

That’s where you wanted to go five minutes before Mitzi descended from on high to invite you. “No, I’ve got homework.”

“Please. It only ever takes you five minutes to do your homework. I’m driving, you’re coming with me. You have to. I can’t go deal with those squealing idiots all on my own.”

Why go, then? But I gave in. Oh, I played like I wasn’t going for a while, until she got irritated and threw a cookie at me. Marisa sighed and whisked the plate away. I finished my milk and picked the cookie up. I didn’t eat it though. I’ve got some pride.

But I did say, “Okay, fine. I’ll go. Jesus.”

Which made Gwyn all sunny again. She’s always like that when she gets her way.

Some guy’s house, up in the Hills. There was a keg, thumping music, and a lot of whooping going on. Someone’s parents were away—I think the ratfaced guy in the corner taking shots with a bunch of pimpled jocks was the host, but I never found out for sure. It was a warm night, the winds just starting up. Full moon like a big wheel of boiled cheese coming up over the coast, rising above the broken pleats of the Hills. It was a nice view, through whole walls of glass. As soon as we got there Gwyn went for a beer and I was left all by myself near the front door, staring at groups of kids I didn’t know.

I saw Mitzi in the corner, and she perked up when she saw me. When I say perked up I mean swelled up like a frog preparing to spit poison, and I suddenly got a very bad feeling about this.

The bad feeling lasted. I found Gwyn in the kitchen, her golden head together with Trisha Brent’s. They were giggling over something, and I began to feel a little lightheaded. There had to be a hundred people in here. One kid started barfing in the pool just as I passed the wide-open French doors out to the patio. I peered out, the madrona trees down the hill moving gently as the wind poured past me.

It felt good. I wanted to step outside, but the kid horking into the pool kind of destroyed the mood. I stood there, hanging onto one edge of the open door, and someone got a little too close.

When I looked up, it was to see Scott Holder.

Half the girls at St. Crispin’s were in love with him. Blue eyes. Blond floppy emo-boy haircut. Plays soccer and goes to Ignatius Academy, which is the closest thing to a sister school we’ve got. The end-of-the-year dances put Iggies and Crispies together, with the staff of both watching like hawks. Guess they don’t want any of the Catholic escaping.

He was saying something, those chiseled lips moving. I stared at him. He was still in the prep outfit Ignatius makes the boys wear, though he’d ditched the jacket and unbuttoned the shirt. The necklace—a single canine tooth on a hemp cord, its top wrapped with gold wire—was definitely not regulation. He grinned at me, showing those white white teeth.

“What?” I had to yell through the music.

He said my name. “Right? You go to Crispy.”

I nodded. What the hell do you want?

“Want to go outside?” He was too tan and perfect to be real. For a second I actually thought he was asking me to go outside with him, and a weird little double-track fantasy popped up inside my head. It was Scott Holder picking me up from St. Crispin’s in his maroon Volvo, me throwing my bookbag in the back seat and getting in, and Mitzi and her pals watching enviously from the sidelines.

Then I woke up to reality, looked over his shoulder, and saw Mitzi and Gwyn, standing really close together. Mitzi looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary, and Gwyn’s mouth was a round O. They were staring right at me, and I recognized my only friend’s expression.

It was the same way she looked on April Fool’s Day. Gwyn doesn’t have much in the way of subtlety. Mitzi whispered something to her, cupping her hand and rolling her pretty, avid, gum-ball-blue eyes. And Scott’s smile was beginning to look like an inverted V because his eyebrows had gone up.

He looked really sure that I would follow him out the door onto the patio, where the kid throwing up had subsided into a gurgle and a bunch of laughter echoed around him.

Everything fell into place behind my eyes. It’s the sort of thing that happens every day in schools across America. Someone makes a choice and hangs someone else out to dry.

I pushed past Scott, hitting him hard with my shoulder. He swayed aside. I plunged through the crowd and my stomach started revolving. I think I heard Gwyneth call my name once or twice, but I ignored it. The living room was a mass of kids all hopping around to some hip-hop anthem. I got jabbed with sweaty elbows and knocked around until I made it through to the foyer. Pot smoke hazed the air.

Normally Gwyn and I would’ve found a spot to sit and watch, sharing a beer or a joint and making snarky comments about every idiot in the room. But this time I slipped out through the front door and down the wide palatial steps.

The winds had arrived. They smelled dry and burning, but not as burning as the tears flooding my eyes. They splashed on black silk, and I made up my mind not to give the stupid shirt back.

The party had spilled out the front door. Groups of kids were standing around laughing. A line of shiny new cars stretched around the circular driveway and poured down the hill. I kept walking, my Mary Janes slapping the pavement. The roads up here were twisty but had shoulders and ditches, the madrona whispering and moving on either side. Stars of light were houses up and down the hill, none of the neighbors too close to make a fuss.

I had to walk for a while before I reached the little red Miata. Gwyn had left her door unlocked, so I could pop the trunk and get my bookbag and blazer. If I remembered rightly, down at the end of the hill was a crossroads and a higher-end Circle K, in case anyone ran out of booze or Twinkies up here in the rich section of town.

It was gonna be a long walk. The wind whispered and chortled.

Gwyneth yelled my name. It was faint and faraway, like she was standing on a train platform and I was pulling away.

I turned around, hitched my regulation bookbag up on my shoulder, and started walking.

There wasn’t a cab, but there was a bus going downtown. I climbed on, swiped my pass, and sat right behind the driver. That’s the safest place at night, especially if you’re crying. I had to dig in my schoolbag for anything that might possibly be called tissues, found nothing, and ended up wiping at my face with my white school shirt. I had to do the laundry anyway.

It took a solid hour, though the bus only paused at one stop for no discernable reason. I could have been back at the party, necking with Scott Holder and making an idiot of myself. Or maybe they had something else planned. Who knew?

We dropped down into the valley, wound through one of the industrial districts, and ended up at the edge of downtown.

As a matter of fact, I pulled the stop cord before I thought about it, and climbed out in front of the Bleu. It was early yet in the night, only a few minutes after ten, and the all-ages club that was our sad excuse for party central was lit up like a Christmas tree. There was a gaggle of kids out front, some smoking, some just leaning against the wall and trying to look tough. Lots of eyeliner, lots of ratted-out hair, girls that weren’t Crispies in tartan skirts and platform Mary Janes. The goths had taken over the club bigtime tonight.

I paid two dollars in dimes and nickels, got a fluorescent hand stamp. I plunged into the air-conditioned darkness flashing with strobe lights and thumping bass. My bookbag went to the check counter. I stuffed the tab in the little hidden pocket of my skirt and hit the dancefloor. They were playing some industrial trash, but it had a beat and the music shook me out of myself. Everyone was sweating despite the air-conditioning, and the hot salt water on my cheeks was touched with cool little puffs of evaporation.

When you’re dancing, time disappears. Everything goes away. It’s like being a drop of water in a body-temperature ocean, all the rough edges smoothed. When the crowd presses close and the sweat rises on the back of your neck, when you’re jumping or waving your arms and there’s the soft pressure of bodies against you, it’s like not being lonely again ever.

I bumped against him four or five times before I realized he was dancing with me. A shock of dark curling hair, a white shirt, threadbare designer jeans and boots. He looked about seventeen, dark eyes and high cheekbones. The music welled up in crashing beats, he leaned in, and I smelled peppermints and the clean healthiness of a boy. It wasn’t like Scott Holder’s expensive cologne. It was something else. My pulse spiked and I whirled away, but the floor was packed too tightly. He was behind me, his arms sliding around me, and the tears came in a hot gush. I leaned back into the anonymous arms for at least two songs. We were a still point and the rest of the dancefloor whirled around us, a kaleidoscope of eyes and lips and kids dressed up and painted.

A chunk of the crowd broke, and I lunged for freedom. The arms fell away and I made it past the bar (only soda and overpriced water—all-ages means no fun) and through the stiles out onto the street where the wind was still blowing. Stopped, tipped my face up, my cheeks drying and my hair lifting. Kids came out behind me—it was about time for a smoke break, and they were all shouting and laughing. I swayed back and forth as they bumped me, and waited for the bouncer to yell at me not to block the door.

“Hey,” someone said. Right in my ear.

I flinched. The bouncer, a thick pseudo-military guy who probably couldn’t get a job at a real club, yelled. But not at me. I opened my eyes and looked up, and it was him.

If he’d been too pretty, I wouldn’t have even paused. But he looked almost normal. Even the jeans could have been a thrift-store find. He was looking at me funny. A vertical line between his eyebrows, his mouth a little tense.

I swiped angrily at my cheeks. My feet hurt, and I’d wasted two bucks on this. Why? “Hey.”

“Johnny.” He stuck his hand out. “Hi.”

I looked at his hand, up at him, and Scott Holder’s blue-eyed smile, so full of itself, drifted through my head. But I shook his hand. “Hi.” His skin was warm and a different texture, not sweaty like mine. I pulled away after one limp shake. My bare calves tingled under the wind pouring up the street and rubbing against the edges of buildings like a dry cat.

“Mystery lady.” His eyes passed down me once, took in the silk and the skirt and the white socks and the Mary Janes. “I’ve seen you here before. With that blonde girl.”

“She’s not here tonight,” I said immediately. He’d just struck out.

“Good. It’s hard to talk to girls when they’re with each other. You guys do it on purpose.” He grinned slightly, the tips of his teeth peeking out. “You want a cigarette?”

I stared at him. My eyes were hot and grainy, and my entire face felt flushed and blotchy. “No thanks.”

“Good. Let’s dance some more, huh? It’s early.” He hunched his shoulders, sticking his hands in his pockets. His hair was like mine, only curls instead of frizz. He looked very sure. And there was something wrong.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t attractive, because he was. He just looked so sure. You never get a teenage boy who looks that certain about everything. If they do it’s a front.

But he looked … it was weird. I couldn’t figure it out and didn’t want to stare at him. “I’ve got to go.”

“You just got here.”

How the hell do you know? I shrugged, rubbed one Mary Jane against the back of my sock, polishing it. My ankles hurt; I’d walked a long way down the hill to the bus stop. I was going to have blisters.

“Come on. Say yes.” He didn’t grin now. Instead, he looked serious. Very serious. His eyes had gone deep. “We have to stick together, you and me.”

Say what? I don’t even know you, kid. “Why’s that?”

“Because otherwise they’ll eat us alive. Let’s dance.” He offered his hand again, palm-up.

And I suppose it was true. And I’d paid my two bucks. And he didn’t smile, just looked at me as if this was serious business and I was expected to know it. The wind just made its low rasping noise.

So I went with him. We went back past the bouncer, who glared at us but didn’t say anything. Johnny kept my hand all the way to the dance floor, and we melded with the crowd. But we were in a private little space all our own.

When I opened my eyes Saturday morning, early sun striping my bed and my alarm clock wheezing instead of ringing, the first thing I realized was that my feet hurt like hell. The second thing I realized was that the trailer was empty.

Either that, or Dad was asleep.

I lay there for a few moments, feeling the sun. The trailer crackled the way it always did in the morning—like pork rinds in a mechanic’s mouth. The backs of my ankles hurt, but I had clean socks. I’d done laundry the day before yesterday.

I got up. The hole in the bathroom floor watched me while I got ready. The water wasn’t hot, but it wasn’t cold either today. Which was all right. The spotted mirror over the sink was depressing, so I barely glanced at it enough to braid my hair.

When I got out into the kitchen, I found out why Dad was gone.

Job in Bakers today. Got report card. Strate a’s. Good kid. Pay lectric bill! The letters scrawled across the back of a manila envelope from St. Crispin’s, its official-looking coat of arms and Gothic typeface blotched from the coffee he’d spilled.

He had a job. Thank God. At least for a while. I opened up the card, saw the As in a neat row, breathed a sigh of relief. I’d really squeaked through in trig last semester, but Fate and Brother Bob had been kind.

So the scholarship money was safe. I was sure to get approved with grades like these. Who gave a shit what those rich bitches thought or how nasty they were? Who cared?

But Gwyneth. Sitting beside me on the dock at her family’s summer cabin, swinging her legs and eating an ice cream cone. Watching out the window for her dad to get home while Marisa and I played checkers. Standing next to me in the choir, both of us bumping each other when one of the songs full of our little in-jokes came up.

There was cash in an envelope. I was supposed to go out and pay the electric bill. The cheap net curtains moved a little. He’d left the kitchen window open, probably to get the fug of cigarette smoke out. Three beer cans and a pan with scrambled eggs and a few traces of refried beans stuck to the bottom. I turned on the splattering faucet and put some dish soap in the sink.

My cheeks were wet. The wind moaned. From now on it would be a constant sound, the dry dust-laden whisper that wove around sharp edges every fall. If we hadn’t gone to the party I’d be waking up in Gwyn’s bedroom right now, smelling coffee and frying bacon, and hearing Marisa’s faraway hum in the kitchen. Since it was a Saturday her parents might be there and she’d be itching to be gone before her pale, angular mother started up on the “are-you-going-to-church-tomorrow?” We would go to the mall and mock people, laughing behind our cupped hands while Gwyn shopped.

The phone rang. I looked at it and wished we had Caller ID. I’d like to know if it was Gwyneth I was ignoring as I scrubbed the dishes in the sink, rinsed them, dried them, put them away, and then cleaned out my bookbag. And really, who else would be calling over and over again? A bill collector, maybe.

When I left, closing the door behind me and locking it, the phone was still ringing. And I could still see the prints of Johnny’s black Jetta in the dirt of the driveway, almost obliterated by the tracks of my dad’s truck and the blowing wind.

Monday I didn’t have class with Mitzi and her crew until fourth, which I was always grateful for. But Gwyn wasn’t in second. I sat through a whole lecture on American history while her empty chair throbbed like a bad tooth next to me. The bell for third-period/first-lunch rang, and it was like every other school day when Gwyn was sick or hungover and got Marisa to get her out of class. Nobody paid any attention to me, and I liked it that way.

Lunch I spent in the long, narrow library, staring at printed pages through the blurring in my eyes. My nose was stuffed up. I kept my head down when I heard voices at the door. Fourth period was what I was really gearing up for, and I wasn’t disappointed. Brother Bob gave another quiz, the seat next to mine was empty, and Mitzi and her friends giggled all during class, glancing at me and whispering. I got out of there fast when the bell rang, but not fast enough.

“Where’s Gwyneth?” Mitzi asked in a singsong as I passed her desk. I shrugged, hugging my books, and avoided her foot stuck out in the aisle. I got out the door before she could get in enough breath for her next sentence, and fifth period I only had Trisha Brent and Zoe McPherson to deal with. They were toothless without Mitzi there to goad them, and the final bell of the day was a relief.

The wind was up, full of dust and the smell of smoke, and the front steps of St. Crispin’s thronged with girls. The buses crouched yellow off to one side, cars glittering as luckier kids piled in them and whizzed away. I was just about to break for the buses when a shiny black Jetta pulled up right in the fire lane and the horn honked once.

I would’ve ignored that, but Mitzi and her gang had beaten me out in front. I saw her heading for me, blonde ponytails bouncing, and let out an involuntary sigh.

The driver’s door opened, and Johnny rose up out of the car. I stopped dead, hugging my trig and history books, my bag digging into my shoulder.

Holy shit.

In sunlight, his hair was full of red tints. He wore shades, and he turned around, rested his arms on the top of his car, and just looked at me. Like he’d expected me to be there.

Several girls stopped dead, staring. Mitzi was still heading for me, and I could tell she had mischief on her mind.

So I headed for the Jetta. No dust clung to its respectable paint job.

“Hey,” he said, when I got close enough. “Want a ride?”

“Sure.” I made it to the passenger door and saw Sister Agnetha, black habit flapping, heading down the steps in full sail. A boy. On school grounds.

Oh, Jesus.

“Anywhere in particular?” He grinned like he had a plan.

“Just get me out of here.” I found out the door was unlocked. As soon as I dropped in and pulled it shut, the smell of a clean car closed around me. The heat and the wind was closed away, air-conditioning working overtime. He paused for the briefest of seconds, then settled in the driver’s seat and glanced at me.

“You sure?”

“Hell yes.” I didn’t dare glance out the tinted window.

His door slammed, we both buckled up, and he cut across the three lanes in front of the roundabout. Someone honked, there was a screech of brakes and tires, and as we zoomed away I started to laugh.

It was just like driving with Gwyneth.

“So she just … huh.” He sucked on the straw a little. His shades glittered. We sat on the hood of the Jetta, looking down at the valley. You could see the dust in the air, whirling in golden eddies like pollen. The trees whispered all around us. He was right—it was a nice place. He’d bought milkshakes and curly fries, and I was trying not to eat too quickly. I sat on my blazer, he perched there in his jeans, oblivious to the hot metal of the hood. It was nice in the shade, and you could see a big slice of smog-tinted downtown. The hills winked with sharp light through the veils of dust, glass-coated mansions sitting up above the scrabble. “You’re sure?”

“She brought me to the party. I didn’t want to go. And … well, you’d have to know her.” I sighed. Took a middling gulp of strawberry shake. “And why would someone like him talk to me? He’s one of them.”

“And you’re not?” But his tone said something else, like, and I’m not?

“I live in a trailer park,” I reminded him. “And you seem like a nice guy.”

“Huh.” Johnny nodded slightly. His dark curls lifted on the hot breeze. “Let me ask you something. Can I?”

“You just did.” I took another gulp of milkshake. “Shoot.”

He acknowledged the joke with a flick of a smile. “Do you see a future for yourself?”

It was a cheesy question, but the way he said it made it sound completely normal. Reasonable, even. Like he was curious, and willing to listen. I studied him for a long few moments, sweeping my hair back and thinking about it.

“You mean like college?”

“I mean … beyond that. Beyond everything.”

I set the milkshake down. “You really want to know what I think?”

“I do.” He sounded like he did, too.

“I think the entire game’s stacked. No matter how good you are, some people are chosen and some aren’t. The golden people get everything, and the rest of us can work like hell to get just a little. So there’s no future unless you’re one of the golden people. But you can buy a little breathing room.”

“And you’re not one of the golden?” He was utterly still, except for the wind slipping loving fingers through his hair.

I laughed. It was kind of funny. “Oh, hell no.”

“Do you want to be?”

“You can’t just decide to be one. It’s Fate.” I dug in my bookbag for a piece of gum. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.” He seemed to find that funny, or at least he laughed.

“Why did you pick me?” I tried not to feel like I was holding my breath, waiting for the answer. But dammit, I wanted to know. And his answer might tell me what kind of guy he was. Brain, jock, flash, plastic, gliefer, panda, goth—he didn’t seem classifiable.

“What, you can’t tell? Come on. Let’s go somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Wherever. Maybe just drive.” He glanced at me sideways, and I wished I could see his eyes behind the shades. “I’ve got time.”

“I should go home. I have homework.”

“A good little Catholic girl. Okay. When can I see you again?”

I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have just played it off with a joke or something. I’ve seen Gwyn shut guys down a million times. But I didn’t want to shut him down. “Pick me up from school tomorrow.” It was out of my mouth before I thought about it.

“Done. We’ll go somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Does it matter?”

The way he said it, it didn’t.

I got him to let me out at the entrance to the trailer park. Dropping me off in the middle of the night was one thing, dropping me off where Dad could see? Something else entirely. The truck was in the driveway, and I was glad I’d been cautious.

Dad was home, and sober. He didn’t give me the business at all. Instead, he just let out a sigh. “I’ve got a double-shift tonight, honey. They’re payin’ me on Friday.”

“That’s good.” The wind moaned.

He didn’t even notice my sweating palms or guilty face. “Your friend called. Gwyneth. It’s that rich girl, right?”

I nodded woodenly. That rich girl. “Yeah.”

“All right.” He stood up. “She said to call her. I’m’a gonna go to work. You be careful now, huh?”

“I will.” I swallowed hard. His eyes were bloodshot, but he didn’t look angry. “Do you want dinner before you go?”

“No ma’am. Don’t have time.” He dug in his pocket and brought out his wallet. Two twenties, crisp and new, laid on the table. “See if’n you can get some groceries, honey. They pay me Friday, but we can have something before then. All right?”

Milk, at least. And potatoes and ground beef. Beans—we could eat chili for a couple nights. My stomach cramped at the thought, around its load of curly fries and milkshake. “All right.”

He nodded. Big, heavy slump-shouldered man. “I got work shirts. You wash ’em.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I waited until he was gone, his truck making the weird whining squeak of a belt too loose or too tight or something, before letting out the long breath I was holding.

“Jesus,” I said to the empty kitchen, and picked up the two twenties. I might even be able to have lunch once or twice this week, if I skimped on the meat and got extra bread.

The phone rang again. I swallowed, hard, my throat clicking. It rang three times before I could get around the table and to the wall where it hung. I picked it up, but all I got was a dial tone and the sound of the wind.

I was already waiting to see Johnny again.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Gwyn whispered. I sank down further in my chair. Sister Laurel underlined the date of the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act on the chalkboard. I made a note of it. “Really, it wasn’t.”

I didn’t respond. She’d been at it since she walked into class late and settled down in her seat. A fading hickey on the side of her neck told me how the Friday party had turned out for her. Probably with Scott Holder. She was lucky like that.

Gwyneth hissed my name, but I stared straight ahead.

Sister Laurel half-turned. Her profile was like a hawk’s, with a hawk’s beady stare. “Does someone have something to say?” she asked nobody in particular.

You could have heard a pin drop. The wind scraped at the windows. Sister Laurel went on about trade protectionism and the gold standard, and the causes of the Great Depression.

“Don’t be like this,” Gwyneth whispered.

I hunched my shoulders and didn’t reply. We both eventually knew I’d forgive her, right? I always had before whenever she did something stupid or hurtful. That was my place in the cosmos—to be utterly forgiving. And in return, I got to lie awake in her bedroom and imagine I had her parents and her lucky golden life.

Do you see a future for yourself?

I kind of did. Getting through school on scholarship, making it through college, maybe getting an okay job. Working to afford a place of my own.

And then what?

Gwyneth would never have to search like that. Mommy and Daddy would send her to college and she’d catch a fellow rich boy, no problem. She’d make nice little golden babies and drink martinis in the afternoon. She’d never have to carry cash down to the utilities office and plead to be reconnected, or plead not to be disconnected. Dad sent me because I could talk my way around the employees. It was a fine art.

My cheeks were scarlet.

Gwyneth whispered my name again. Girls were shifting in their chairs, wondering what was going on between us.

Sister Laurel turned to face the class. Her gimlet gaze wandered over all of us, and I tried to look innocent and bored at once. I glanced down at my notes.

Did I see a future? Ink scratches on paper.

The Sister finally tapped her meterstick on her desk, a slight padded sound against piled papers. She called on Erica Angier, and I let out a silent sigh. Saved again by luck.

I made it out the door before Gwyneth could catch me. Let her go hang out with her popular friends. It wasn’t like it mattered.

Not when I was going to see him again.

Gwyn skipped Brother Bob’s daily perdition. And the whole sucktastic day got better once I escaped sixth period and made it to the front of the school. Johnny was leaning against his Jetta, utterly disregarding the signs screaming NO PARKING! in the fire lane. He bought me a cheeseburger this time, more curly fries, and a Coke. He sucked on a strawberry milkshake, and said he wasn’t hungry.

We sat on the hood of his car again, in the same spot overlooking the valley, and talked about nothing all afternoon. It was nice to talk to someone who actually listened.

The sun tended westward, and the wind’s rasping moan settling drifts of hot dust over the valley wasn’t nearly as creepy when there was someone’s voice to shut it out. We lay back on the hood and looked up at the liquid movement of light through the branches, and when he kissed me he didn’t take his shades off. But I didn’t mind. I didn’t even mind that I probably reeked of cheeseburger.

He even listened while he kissed. I can’t describe it better than that. He braced himself on his elbow and his other hand didn’t roam, just resting fingertips lightly along my jawline and occasionally dipping down to the curve of my throat where my pulse spiked frantically toward him. I bonked my cheekbone on his shades and laughed with a mouth full of him, and he laughed too. He tasted like strawberry milkshake, and he smelled like peppermints and desire and hot sun and clean clothes. He bit my bottom lip very gently, then kissed me harder.

It was so different from making out with the ugly friend of Gwyn’s current conquest in the front seat while the golden people heavy-petted in the roomy back seat.

We separated, and I still couldn’t see his eyes. “You wear those all the time?” I reached up, as if I was going to take his shades off, but he moved subtly back and I got the hint.

“Not all the time. Listen, I have some work that needs to be done. How about I take you out tonight? I’ll wait at the end of your road.”

My heart was pounding. I probably should have asked some questions, but I was tired of asking questions. I was tired of waiting. The air was bright and golden with pollen and dust, and I wanted to kiss the corner of his mouth again. His skin was smooth, a different texture. Like heavy silk, or something else matte and perfect.

He wasn’t too perfect, though. He wasn’t one of them.

“Okay.” Getting out of the house wasn’t going to be a problem, not with Dad working. I could be gone after dinner, and he’d never know. He’d probably think I was out with Gwyneth, unless she was calling again. “Where are we going?”

“Does it matter?” He laughed, and touched my cheek. The gentle flutter of fingertips spilled all the way through me, a tide of heat.

I should have cared. But I didn’t. I let Johnny take me home, and I even kissed him goodbye. We didn’t say we were together or anything. I didn’t think we needed to.

If I’d known, I probably would have made something nicer for dinner. But I was in a hurry, so it was Hamburger Helper. Dad chowed down silently. I’d even ironed his workshirts, and he had one on. “Late tonight,” he grunted as he stamped out the door.

“Yes, Daddy.” I’m going to be late tonight too. We were probably just going to the Bleu, though.

The thought of being seen with Johnny, maybe by Gwyn and Mitzi if they didn’t have another party to go to, made me laugh out loud while I cleaned up the kitchen. I even put on Gwyn’s black silk shirt again. He probably wouldn’t care what I wore. And dammit, she probably owed me the shirt. She could always buy another twenty of them.

The good mood lasted until I tried to shave my legs and cut a gash in my leg with the cheap-ass razor. I bled all over the bathtub while the sun went down, and all of a sudden I was sure he wouldn’t show up. I’d wait out there in Gwyneth’s shirt and my school skirt and feel like an idiot.

I stopped and put my sweating forehead on my knees. In summer, the tepid water that squeezed out of our ancient plumbing was pretty much a blessing. Right now I was thinking it would do me good. The wind licked the sides of our trailer, and I surprised myself by laughing again, a hard jagged sound.

If he didn’t show up, I would know. And I’d call Gwyneth. And forgive her.

But if he did, I’d be ready.

It was a tinderbox night, the kind that usually starts with heat lightning and ends with a fire out in the hills and everyone jumpy. The Bleu was packed. It always was, even on school nights. I didn’t mind, and Johnny didn’t seem to either. We were glued to each other in the middle of the crowded dance floor. It was dripping hot, everyone breathing on everyone else, glowsticks flashing and the lights smearing over blank young faces.

The music hit a thumping groove and stayed there for a long time. It was like swimming next to someone else’s body. Johnny held me, and I got flashes of peppermint and clean heat whenever he leaned in.

Losing yourself in the middle of a mass of kids is easy. Losing yourself with someone else, that’s hard. We made up a little private universe in the middle of the dance floor. When the lights went out, the only illumination was from the glowsticks and the sheen of sweat, and Johnny nuzzled along my neck. He had swept my hair aside and his chest was against my back. I tilted my chin up when his fingertips pressed gently, and his other arm turned hard across my waist.

His breath was hot on my skin, and I melted into him. I thought he was just giving me a hickey, but a weird thing happened.

Johnny tensed behind me. The music thundered, some singer wailing over the top about a missionary man, and a spot of heat began in my throat. It flushed down my entire body like lava running down a hillside, working inward from my skin and settling in the pit of my belly. Pounding bass drew it deeper and deeper, through my bones and down into the core of me, and the entire club went dark red. Like how you close your eyes against a searchlight and your eyelids turn everything into a crimson haze. The throbbing of my heart melted into the bass and slowed down, my hips jerked forward, and everything inside me exploded.

In the Bleu with the music going full-bore, nobody can hear you scream. Nobody can hear when everything inside you gets smashed. And nobody sees if you’re dragged outside by a boy in a white shirt, darkness smeared on his lips and his shades on even in the middle of the night.

I huddled against the car door. He turned the engine off and sudden silence filled the interior. We sat there for a little while, the wind scouring at the respectable paint job.

“It’s not like you’ve been told,” he repeated. “Forget all that. Just think about it this way: I’m Fate. And I’m choosing you. Inviting you.”

My throat hurt. I clutched the rough paper towel to the side of my neck. It was damp, but I couldn’t tell if it was with sweat or … something else. I had to swallow twice before I could talk.

“Why me?” The words were husks of themselves.

“You said it yourself. You’re not one of them. And we get lonely, those of us out in the cold.” He measured off spaces on the steering wheel with his fingers. Measured them again, like he expected them to change. “You can be. With me.”

I swallowed again. It felt like I had strep or something. My fingers were numb, even though the air pressed, crackling and electric-hot against my sweat-wet skin.

Then I asked the million-dollar question. “How?”

He smiled at me, and took his shades off. The red glow was vanishing, drawn back into the whites of his eyes in thin threads. His irises were dark now, like the first night I met him. “Are you sure you want to?”

I set my chin stubbornly. “First tell me how.”

“All you have to do is give me a present, sweetheart. It’s not so hard.”

Jesus, I don’t have anything. “I live in a trailer park. I don’t have—”

“It’s not money.” He reached over and took my hand, and I didn’t pull away. His skin was dry and warm, normal against mine.

Then he told me. I went cold all over. Ice crackled and settled over me, ground itself together in my heart.

“I do that, and then what?”

“Then you come with me. And there’s a whole world out there for us. I won’t be lonely, and you won’t ever have to worry again.”

He just said it, the way nobody had ever said anything to me before. He couldn’t be lying. He sounded too matter-of-fact for it to be a lie.

And my throat gave another hot flare of pain. I was all frost except for the live coal on my neck, under my clutching fingers and the wilted paper towel.

“So, mystery lady? What’s it going to be? You’re going to spend your short little life playing by their rules, or are you going to take your chance?”

I thought about it, worrying my frozen lower lip between my teeth. Then I made up my mind.

“It wasn’t my fault.” Gwyneth was still on it. She hunched her shoulders, her golden hair playing over them. “I had no idea. Honest, I didn’t.”

“It’s okay.” I even sounded all right. I didn’t have any Band-Aids, but the small twin punctures on my neck were white and worn-looking. You couldn’t even tell they were there. “What are you doing tonight, anyway?”

“I thought you could come over.” She slouched even further, the dappled fig-tree shade painting shadows on her arms and face. “We could watch a movie or something. Pajama party.”

I couldn’t agree right away. “What about Mitzi?” I glanced past Gwyn, to where the blonde bitch queen of Crispie cast a venomous little darting look our way.

“She’s a bitch. You know she’s dating Holder now?” Gwyn rolled her eyes. “It’s amazing. The two of them are like two vacuum cleaners talking to each other. Let’s skip fourth, too, and go shopping. Come on. What do you say?”

What else was there to say, except yes? And I already knew Johnny wasn’t picking me up.

Not today.

Her parents were out and Marisa was in bed. I lay very still until Gwyneth’s breathing evened out, her old pajamas feeling like friends against my skin. I hadn’t packed or even told Dad where I’d be. It was Friday, he’d gotten paid. He might have been at the bar even now. If he was at home, he was missing me.

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now but the waiting.

She lay next to me the way she always did, elbows and knees poking. Even with a queen-size bed she took up all the space.

When she started the heaviest breathing of all, I slid carefully out of the bed. I got dressed quietly, my white shirt a ghost in the gloom. Tiptoed down her hall, avoided every squeak in the stairs with the ease of long practice. The kitchen was spotless and dark, the wind scrubbing the corners of the house and flinging dusty grit against the windows. Soon there would be a spark and the constant smell of smoke.

The glass diamonds on the kitchen door held nothing but the glow of a porch light. I stood there, my throat itching and my hand reaching for the knob and the mellow golden glow of the deadbolt lever. Each time the wind mounted another pitch, I would snatch my hand back.

He’s not coming. Then I would think—He is. I know he is.

I don’t know how long I stood there, feeling like an idiot in my rumpled school clothes, before a shadow appeared at the door. Just appeared. One moment, nothing. The next, a ghost of a white shirt and even through the distortion of the diamond panes, I could tell it was him.

I reached for the knob. Snatched my hand back again and stood there trembling as he waited. I didn’t know how long he’d stay, and if I didn’t open the door he would be gone in the morning. Just like that.

If I kept that door closed, I knew what would happen. I’d go to school. Go to college. Keep slogging away hoping the golden people would throw me a bone or two. And sooner or later Gwyneth wouldn’t need my forgiveness. She’d go back to hanging out with her own kind and forget I ever existed, and there would be no more of this pale perfect seashell of a house that I could pretend was mine.

The deadbolt slid back. He didn’t move.

I was cold all over and sweating again. The knob slipped in my fingers, and I heard a restless murmur. It was impossible to hear either Marisa or Gwyn muttering in their sleep, but I thought I did.

I twisted the knob and opened the door, and the wind came in full of dust and the smell of smoke. I guess the fires had started early.

Go wait in the car, he told me. So here I am in the Jetta. There’s nothing in the glove compartment, and up at the top of the hill the house is completely dark. The porch light was on, but about ten seconds ago it flicked off. The wind rocks the car a little on its springs, mouths the paint job, and brushes velvet fingertips over the windshield. Something white flickers up on the hill.

I am shaking all over. My schoolbag sits obediently at my feet on the clean mat. The entire car smells new. I am cold even though it’s ninety degrees and dry as the inside of my mouth out there.

I don’t know what Johnny is. There’s not a word for it. I don’t even know if he’s really coming back to this car. To me.

An orange wisp sparks up on the hill, behind one of the upper windows. Gwyneth’s room, looking down over the semi-circular driveway and the manicured lawn. The wisp unfolds. It isn’t electric light. It’s something older.

If he comes down the hill I’ll see him silhouetted against the flames. My fingers are twisting together, slick with sweat. The puncture wounds on my throat feel hot and wet.

I am not sure if I want to see him coming down the hill. If he doesn’t, what am I going to do?

What am I going to do if he does?