Vampire High Sophomore Year - By Douglas Rees Page 0,47

things on them that I guess were art, because they had price tags. There were tables and chairs that looked like they’d been salvaged from the Titanic. The backs of the chairs and the tops of the tables had been covered with photographs and paintings under heavy coats of thick, clear lacquer. All of these things had been clipped from magazines, and all of them showed terrible things happening to the people in them. On every chair and table were the same words: WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE’S NO COFFEE?!?!?!?!

The customers were mostly kids and mostly gadje, though there were a few jenti kids in one corner. Whichever they were, they all looked like Turk. I wondered if she’d found her own kind here.

It was pretty cool, actually. There was a little stage in one corner with a sign behind it that said POETRY SLAM 7 PM FRIDAY. Next to it was a handmade poster for the Sixty-Minute Shakespeare Theater Company.

Some kind of techno-pop music was playing over the sound system.

I got us a couple of cups of coffee and a sweet roll.

“I kind of like this place,” Turk said. “Not great, but it tries. And the coffee would strip paint.”

“When do you even find time to come here?” I asked.

“Whenever I want to,” Turk said.

“Is any of this stuff yours?” I asked.

Turk pointed one black fingernail straight up.

Over our heads was a paper snake like the one in Turk’s attic, but gigantic. It looped and coiled all over the ceiling. Huge paper wings stuck out from its sides and drooped down. Its jaw hung open to show a double row of fangs.

It was impressive, but there was something weird about it. It didn’t really look like a snake. The head was wrong. On the other hand, why not? Flying snakes are rare, and their heads might look a little odd. But what was it about the face that bothered me?

Then I realized what it was.

“It’s Gregor,” I said.

Turk grinned.

“Not bad, Cuz,” she said. “Hanging out with me has definitely made you smarter.”

“Does he know?” I asked.

“Like I’m going to tell him,” Turk said. “It’s a private joke.”

“Why did you do it?” I asked.

Turk shrugged. “You’ve got a point,” she said. “It should have been a pig. Or a jackass.”

“He’s been a lot of help,” I pointed out. “Him and his guys. Without them, we’d be nowhere near ready to open.”

“Give me a break, Cuz. You don’t like him any better than I do,” Turk said.

She reached up under her shades and wiped away an invisible tear.

“Oh, Cody,” she said. “How noble you are. How fair-minded. You shame me.”

“As if anybody could shame you,” I said.

We drank our coffee and took turns eating the sweet roll.

Outside, the golden light was gone. The shadows spread across the window.

I looked at the kids sitting around us. A couple of them were typing away on laptops. A few others were reading or sketching.

“Hey,” I said. “Maybe we ought to try asking these guys.”

“Asking them what?” Turk said.

“If they’d like to be part of the opening,” I said.

“Nooo,” Turk said slowly.

“Why not? Especially since we haven’t got anybody else,” I said.

“Because they’re nobodies,” Turk said. “And nobodies can’t help us.”

“You know what, Turk?” I said. “You don’t want any help anyway. Gregor helps, Ms. Vukovitch helps. Somebody with a mess of Dumpsters helps. You sneer at them, or you get all paranoid. Maybe what you really want is a bunch of people who can’t help.”

Turk snorted. “Don’t try to figure me out, Cuz. You’re not smart enough.”

I didn’t want to get into a fight with her, so I looked up at the ceiling. At that big Gregor dragon-snake thing.

And then I proved Turk was wrong. Because I had figured out something about her that she would have killed me for knowing. She had picked where we sat. Our table was right under the snake, where the wings joined the body.

Rest beneath the shadow of my wings.

Gregor and Turk? The idea hit me like a splash of icy water.

Gregor and Turk. And Turk would rather die of lockjaw than ever admit it to anybody.

“What?” Turk said. “Your face is all stupid-looking.”

“Nothing,” I said. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

My phone buzzed.

“Mr. Cody Elliot?”

A man’s voice. Kind of old-sounding.

“Yes,” I said.

“I represent the New Sodom Federation for the Arts. We are interested in exhibiting at your venue. I would like to discuss matters of fees, available space, that sort of thing. Might we meet