“You mock, but he winked at me, Adriana.” I wave my receipt in front of her. “And he didn’t even charge me for the toasted marshmallow.”
“You didn’t want the toasted marshmallow.”
“Not the point!” I sniff primly. Hazarding a glance back at the counter, I realize Gunnar is looking directly at me, and our eyes meet, and I freeze, and I give him a totally deranged smile and a stiff wave and then turn back to Adriana. “Oh no. Oh no no no. We made eye contact.”
“I’m sorry it had to end this way,” she sympathizes. “What should I sing at your funeral?”
“He thinks I’m a psycho for sure now.” My face is melting like the toasted marshmallow I definitely did not want. “Is he still looking? Tell me he’s not still looking.”
“He’s not looking anymore.”
I glance back, and he is totally still looking. “Adriana!”
“I’m sorry!” Her giggle fit, however, belies the words. “I was trying to make you feel better! I didn’t think you’d turn around again. And anyway, he’s not looking at you like he’s scared. More like you’re … interesting.”
“I don’t know what that means. Is it good?”
“It’s good,” she confirms. Then she nudges me. “So, what’s been going on with you, Auggie? You’ve been acting weird this past week—and you never got back to me about when to have dinner with my abuela. She’s thinking tomorrow night, if you’re free.”
Picking up my spoon, I poke at the marshmallow floating in my mocha like a bloated corpse. After I fled school last Wednesday, Adriana was the only person I wanted to tell about Jude and his cryptic warning. But by the time I got home, my chest heaving and my stomach all crampy, I couldn’t figure out how to raise the subject in a way that didn’t scare me to death. I wanted someone to tell me that the whole thing was preposterous, but … what if she didn’t? What if she took it seriously? What if I had to take it seriously?
Nightmares happen, right? I mean, last week wasn’t the first time I had dreams about death and stuff—but blinking and missing two whole hours of my life? That’s brain tumor shit, and just thinking about it makes my blood turn slushy. For five days I’ve reminded myself that vampires are known tricksters, that mesmerism is only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to their machinations for luring humans to their doom. The earliest written accounts talk of the undead rising from the grave and returning to their former homes, preying on loved ones’ willingness to believe in miracles, for a quick bite.
This Jude dude could have drugged me, or hypnotized me somehow—stolen two hours of my life, so I’d be frightened and susceptible when he showed up three minutes later to tell me I’m Mr. Worst Possible Time—all with the goal of making me a more exciting meal than the usual bite-and-run. It was a ruse. He’s an immortal monster looking to amuse himself and fill his eternal hours of free time. That’s it.
For Adriana, I finally muster up an answer. “Dinner with your grandma sounds great. And sorry I’ve been weird. More vampire bullshit.”
She shakes her head in disgust. “I know the volunteer hunting squads were a total disaster, but it’s ridiculous that the city thinks a few patrol cars rolling around at night with sun lamps and holy-water squirt guns is actually doing anything!” Stirring what remains of the ice cream in her cup, she asks, “What was it this time? More dead animals?”
Before I can answer, I’m saved by the bell over the front door, which jingles as someone we know walks in. I skipped the independent study on Thursday, unable to face the sketch I did and the questions Mr. Strauss has about it, so this is the first time I’ve seen Hope Cheng in nearly a week. Grateful for the distraction, I wave to get her attention; but she’s already headed our way, a shy smile on her face, her eyes focused on Adriana.
“You made it!” my best friend exclaims as Hope sits down beside her. Something passes between them, and I shift awkwardly in my seat, feeling inexplicably like someone watching his bus leave without him.
“Hey, Hope.” I cock an eyebrow. “Um, fancy meeting you here?”
“I told her we’d be studying if she wanted to drop by,” Adriana says, her cheeks a little flushed, and she offers me a shrug. “I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
I fight the urge to frown, because now I want to mind. Obviously, I’m cool with Hope, but I’d been working up to telling Adriana about Jude—and instead, I’m suddenly the third wheel on what looks like a practice date. Ugh, and ugh, because I’m super happy for them—but I can’t help it: I’m also jealous.
Over the summer, I downloaded one of those gay dating apps. I know you have to be eighteen to use them, but it’s not like they send the FBI to your house to check, and all I really wanted was to see who was out there. My big fantasy was that I would—surprise!—find a secret profile for Boyd, thus beginning a real-life romantic comedy for us. Or a porno. I was not going to be particular on that point.
But I’d wasted both my time and the storage space on my phone, because there was literally no other guy in Fulton Heights on that app. The nearest profile was over ten miles away, and the dude was in his fifties. So I shut it down and deleted it, and I accepted that Adriana and I would be friend-dates to every school dance until graduation and beyond. But maybe that dream was unrealistic, too.
“Yeah.” I find my voice at last, along with a friendly smile. “Of course I don’t mind. What do you want to drink? I’ll place your order.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” Hope looks somewhat aghast at the idea of inconveniencing me. “I have money—”
“Give Auggie the money and let him do it,” Adriana cuts in. “Seriously, he wants to.” Nodding at the bar, she adds, “He has sort of a crush on the barista.”
Hope notices Gunnar for the first time, and her eyes go wide as she takes in his perfect perfectness. “Oh. Wow. Uh … I think I have sort of a crush on the barista, too.”
“Take a number.” I snatch Hope’s money and get up from my chair. “Fair warning, though: Adriana’s grandmother is a witch, and I’m going to ask her to help me put a love and/or sex whammy on Gunnar, so you better act fast.”
Adriana frowns. “My abuela is not going to help you put a sex whammy on someone.”
“What if I say ‘pretty please’?”
“What if you just show her his picture?” Hope suggests, her eyes still on the lithe, broad-shouldered boy behind the counter. “I mean, I’m a hundred percent gay, and even I kinda want to put the sex whammy on him.”
“But, see, though?” I sit back down. “What if I show Ximena his picture and she decides she wants to put the sex whammy on him for herself?”
A yelp of unbridled panic escapes from deep in Adriana’s throat. “Can we please stop talking about sex and my abuela?” At the next table over, a mother with three young kids turns to glare at us, and Adriana lowers her voice. “I hate my life so much. Auggie, what’s your vampire drama?”
“Vamp— Wait, what?” Hope does a double take, her gaze skittering between us. She’s not originally from Fulton Heights, and like all newcomers, she still freaks when she hears the v-word.