bad person. It’s just random. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s like a raffle.
So my name is Scout—yeah, my mom read To Kill a Mockingbird. Leave it to her to think fifth-grade required-reading is totally deep. She also has a heart thing where she’s had to be on a low-sodium diet since she was my age, which means while she was pregnant with me, so thanks, mom. With high-risk groups, birds don’t even have to fly over your own grave. It can be, like, anyone’s grave, if you’re nearby. It’s like a shockwave. I heard about this one HR guy like two towns over who was a seventh son with a unibrow and red hair and was born backwards, and he just turned by himself. Just sitting there in English class and bang. That’s what scares me the most. Like it’s something that’s inside you already, and you can’t stop it or even know it’s there, but there’s a little clock and it’s always counting down to English class.
The other night I was hanging out with Emmy, trying to be supportive friend like you’re supposed to be. In S/H class they say high-risk kids should cut off their friends if they get turned. Like it’s one of those movies about how brutal high school is and we’re all going to shun Emmy on Monday if she’s wearing a little more black than usual. As if I would ever.
“What’s it like?” I said. Because that’s what they don’t tell you. What it feels like. PCP is bad, it’ll make you jump off buildings. Yeah, but before that. What’s it like? Before you crave blood and stalk the night. What’s it like?
“It’s stupid. My hair’s turning black. I have to go to this doctor every two weeks for tests. And, I don’t know… it’s like, I want to sleep in the dirt? When I get tired, my whole head fills up with this idea of how nice it would be to dig up the yard and snuggle down and sleep in there. The way I used to think about bubble baths.”
“Have you… done it yet?”
“Oh, blood? Yeah. Ethan let me right away. He’s good like that.” Emmy shoved her bangs back. She had a lot of makeup on. Naturally Sunkissed was a big color that year. Keeps the pallor down but it doesn’t make you all Oompa-Loompa. “What? What do you want to hear? That it’s gross or that it’s awesome?”
“I don’t know. Whatever it is.”
“It’s… like eating dinner, Scout. When somebody goes to a little effort to make something nice for you, it’s great. When they eat healthy and wash really good but don’t taste like soap. When they let you. But sometimes it just gets you through the night.” She lit a cigarette and looked at me like: why shouldn’t I, now? “Did you hear about Kimberly? She got turned the old fashioned way, by this gnarly weird guy from Zagreb, and she can fly. It’s so fucking unfair.”
Emmy wasn’t very different as a vampire. We had this same conversation after she lost her virginity—Ethan again—and she was all it is what it is then, too, with an extra helping of I am part of a sacred sisterhood now. Emmy has always been kind of crap as a friend, but I’ve known her since Barbies and kiddie soccer, so, whatever, right?
I don’t know, I suppose it was dumb, but things can get weird between girls who’ve known each other that long. Like this one time when we were thirteen we did that whole practice kissing on each other thing. We’d been hanging out in my room for hours and hours and rooms get all whacked out when you lock yourselves in like that. We sat cross-legged on my lame pink bedspread and kissed because we were lonely and we didn’t know anything except that we wanted to be older and have boyfriends because our sisters had them and her lips were really soft. I didn’t even know you were supposed to use tongue, that’s how thirteen I was. Her, too. We never told anyone about it, because, well, you just don’t. But I guess I’m talking about it now because I let Emmy feed off of me that night, even though I’m HR, and it was kind of like the same thing.
I didn’t see her much, though, after that. It was just awkward. I guess that sort of thing happens after senior year. People drift.
Back in seventh grade, right after the