Vampires Never Get Old - Zoraida Cordova Page 0,46

of each nail looks as though it was dipped in blood. Hey, I thought it was clever, even if obvious. “Although I’m not really sure what Brittany listens to. She likes my music updates, but usually the lady-rock variety—You know what? You’re the pro.”

When DJ I Will Not Ever Repeat His Real Name flashes a smile, his teeth seem too white and sharp for a second. “I am the pro. Imogen recommended me, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Then I gotchu, baby bird.”

I laugh nervously. “You do that, and I’ll go make sure we have ice.”

I unlock my phone and shoot off a series of messages. I had to invite my friend Miriam from school because her dad owns the club. But she’s nursing strep throat she caught from Andy Jackson III. It was extremely hard explaining to Miriam who this surprise birthday party was for. She was all like, “Vampires are so 2005.” I have a very detailed scrapbook of the time we went to the Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn – Part 2 midnight premiere from fifth grade that says she once thought otherwise. I tell her to feel better, then pull up her dad’s last text. I assure Mr. Greenspan that everything is under control and the adult doorman and bartender have arrived (they haven’t). But it’s early. Mr. Greenspan owns four nightclubs and bars on the Lower East Side. The Root & Ruin is the least popular one, which is probably why he let me have the basement bar, which is pretty much unfinished and has that New York smell of cement, mold, and a dash of pee. But black velvet fabric stapled to the walls makes it look like the vampire den I dreamed of Brittany having.

I rip open a bag of plastic vampire teeth and spread them around the bar. As the DJ dims the lights, some of them glow in the dark. The bartender arrives—a surly guy who looks like Oscar Isaac if Oscar Isaac had been dipped in the same vat of radioactive whatever that turned the Joker’s hair green.

“You the boss, niña?”

“Only my dad calls me niña,” I say, and he laughs. “I’m Theo.”

He shakes my hand. My dad always taught me to look someone in the eye and never be the first person to let go. I wish I could implement that at my school with teachers who seem to look through me. Then again, my dad comes from the generation of immigrants who think that everything is fair if you just work hard enough to die for it, even if you’re undervalued and underpaid. Me? I have dreams. Big ones. A solid handshake can’t hurt, I guess.

“Listen, the doorman flaked,” Latino Joker says, scratching the tattoo on his left bicep. “Want me to call Mr. Greenspan?”

“Actually…” I hold up my phone. My dad also taught me to never lie. Never steal. Never sin. I failed my catechism for a reason. But there are some things my Ecuadorian dad can’t teach me. Not in this city, not in my school, and definitely not in this bar. “I was just messaging with Mr. Greenspan and he said everything’s cool.”

With that settled, I turn my attention to the finishing touches. A rusty candelabra hangs precariously from the low ceiling. It looks like a safety hazard, something out of a haunted mansion. Using a step ladder, I plunk battery-operated tea lights into each candle holder. When I’m finished, I step back. The ceiling makes a strange groaning sound, and I hold my breath for a second, waiting for it to come crashing down. But it’s all good. The DJ kicks off the music—something with heavy bass and deep guitar.

“Now I’ve outdone myself,” I say.

“You sure have,” says a young woman I recognize right away. The kind of ice-blond hair that reminds me of a cotton swab. She’s got killer cheekbones and lips that would make most makeup tutorial accounts jealous. Her dress is all lace, like on the cover of this really old record my mom has of some woman named Stevie Nicks. There’s a white lace choker around her slender throat, and she walks like someone who is used to owning a room.

That’s the pose I’ve tried so hard to capture in my photos. Sure, I get four thousand likes just standing with the Brooklyn Bridge in the background, but I definitely don’t own anything like Imogen does. I will, someday.

“You must be Imogen!” I say. I clear my throat and lower my voice. “I’m Theo. Glad you