Vampire Kisses (Vampire Kisses 1)

He ran away.

"Don't go!" I cried. "Alexander--"

But he ignored me. He was gone, back to the solitude of his attic room.

I stormed into the gym. The band was on break, and everyone looked at me in silence as I crossed the floor. "The end," Trevor announced and started clapping. "The end! And what a wonderful production it all was, if I do say so myself."

"You!" I yelled. Mr. Harris could see I was going for blood and grabbed me from behind. "You are evil incarnate, Trevor!" I screamed, my arms flailing as I tried unsuccessfully to wriggle out of the soccer coach's grasp. "Trevor Mitchell, you are the monster!" I looked at the faces around me. "Can't you see that? You all pushed away the most giving, lovable, gentle, intelligent person in this town while accepting the wickedest, vilest, most evil monster, just because he dresses like you! Trevor's the one who's destroying lives! And you just watch him play soccer and party with him while you cast out an angel because he wears black and is homeschooled!"

Tears streamed down my face, and I ran outside.

Becky ran after me. "I'm sorry, Raven. I'm sorry!" she shouted.

I ignored her and ran all the way to the Mansion, struggling over the slippery gate. Huge moths fluttered around the porch light as I banged the serpent knocker. "Alexander, open up! Alexander, open up!"

Eventually the light went out and the disappointed moths flew away. I sat on the doorstep crying. For the first time in my life I found no comfort in darkness.

Chapter 20 Game Over

I cried all night and stayed home from school the next day. At noon I ran to the Mansion. I shook the gate until I thought it would fall over. Finally I climbed over and banged the serpent knocker. The attic curtains ruffled, but no one answered.

Back home I called the Mansion and spoke to Jameson, who said Alexander was asleep. "I'll tell him you rang," he said.

"Please tell him I'm sorry!"

I was afraid Jameson hated me as much as Alexander.

I called every hour; each time Jameson and I had the same conversation.

"I'm going to be home-schooled from now on!" I yelled when my mother tried to get me out of bed the next morning. Alexander wasn't taking my calls, and I wasn't taking Becky's. "I'm never going back to school!"

"You'll get over this, dear."

"Would you have gotten over Dad? Alexander's the only person in the universe who understands me! And I messed it all up!"

"No, Trevor Mitchell messed it up. You were nice to that young man. He's lucky to have you."

"You think so?" I started to cry mansion-sized tears. "I think I ruined his life!"

My mom sat on the edge of my bed. "He adores you, honey," she comforted, hugging me like I was a crying Billy Boy. I could smell the apricots in her shampooed velvet-chestnut hair and the sweet soft scent of her perfume. I needed my mom now. I needed her to tell me everything would be all right. "I could see how much he adored you when he came to the house," she continued. "It's a shame people talk about him the way they do." "You were one of those people," I sighed. "And I guess I was, too."

"No, you weren't. You liked him for who he really was."

"I did--I mean, do. I really do. But it's too late now."

"It's never too late. But speaking of late, I'm late! I have to take your father to the airport."

"Call school," I called to her at the door. "Tell them I'm lovesick."

I pulled the covers over my head. I couldn't move until night. I had to see my Alexander, to shake some sense into his pale body. To beg his forgiveness. I couldn't go to the Mansion, and I couldn't break in--he might call the cops this time. There was only one place to go--one other place where he might be.

I climbed into Dullsville's cemetery with a bouquet of daffodils in my backpack. I walked quickly among the tombstones, trying to retrace the steps we had once taken together. I was as excited as I was nervous. I imagined him waiting for me, running up to me, and giving me a huge hug and showering me with kisses.

But then I thought, Will he forgive me? Was this our first fight--or our last?

Eventually I found his grandma's monument, but Alexander wasn't there.

I laid the flowers on the grave. My belly hurt, like it was caving in. Tears started welling up in my eyes.

"Grandma," I said out loud, looking around. But who could hear me? I could shout if I wanted to. "Grandma, I messed up, messed up big time. There is no one in this world more wild about your grandson than I am. Could you please help me? I miss him so much! Alexander believes I think he's so different, and I do think he's different--but from other people, not from me. I love him. Could you help me?"

I waited, looking for a sign, something magical, a miracle--bats flying overhead or a loud thunderclap. Anything. But there was only the sound of crickets. Maybe it takes a little bit longer for miracles and signs. I could only hope.

One day of being lovesick turned into two days, which turned into three and four.

"You can't make me go to school!" I shouted every morning and turned over and went back to sleep.

Jameson continued to tell me Alexander couldn't come to the phone. "He needs time," Jameson offered. "Please be patient."

Patient? How could I be patient when every second of our separation felt like an eternity?

Saturday morning I had an unwelcome visitor. "I challenge you to a duel!" my father said, throwing his tennis racket on my bed. He opened the curtains and allowed the sun to blind me.

"Go away!"

"You need exercise." He threw a white T-shirt and white tennis skirt onto my bed. "These are Mom's! I didn't think I'd find anything white in your drawers. Now let's scoot! Court time is in half an hour." "But I haven't played in years!"

"I know. That's why I'm taking you. I want to win today," he said and closed the door behind him.

"You think you'll win!" I yelled through the closed door.

Dullsville's country club was just as I remembered it from all those years ago--snobby and boring. The pro shop was filled with designer tennis skirts and socks, neon balls, and overpriced rackets. There was a four-star restaurant that charged five dollars for a glass of water. I almost fit in, with my mom's white threads, except for the black lipstick. But my father let it go. I think he was happy I was in an upright position.

I ran after my dad's shots with a vengeance, each ball having Trevor Mitchell's face on it. I hit the balls as hard as I could, and naturally they either crashed into the net or into the fence.