Blood Doll (16)

            The school days proceed with relative boredom. Friday morning Ang seeks me out, demanding that I find her before I get on the bus. At lunch, Peach and I exchange opinions of whether Dead Can Dance could be considered Gothic Rock or not and which article of clothing in our wardrobe is our favorite. As the last bell drones to release us from school, the realization that Wade has kept away from me for three days now lifts my spirits almost twofold.

            Ang’s miniature blue hued convertible sits at the far end of the parking lot, sporting a dolled up Ang leaning against the hood, briefly touching the arm of none other than her Andrew. He grasps her hand, tugs her into him, and places a playfully wet kiss to her lips. Part of me considers turning around and bee-lining for my bus so as to avoid the small dart in my chest at seeing them together, but I forge through.

            Andrew and I make eye contact briefly before Ang notices me. “Girly! I thought you would never make it.”

            “Of course I did,” I reply. “You wanted to tell me something?”

            “More like demand that you do something.” Taking my upper arm in her sparkly pink nailed hand, she draws me away, giving Andrew a “one sec” gesture. “You. Call him. Now,” she commands me.

            “Who?” Though I feign innocence, she and I both find my lie.

            “You know who, girly. Call him. You’ve been mopey and daydream-y all week, and me and you both know who is the center of all of it. You want to see him again. Don’t even try to deny it,” she says in her all too familiar motherly tone. My lips purse in defeat, and I nod. “So do it. Right now. You have his number. Ask him to coffee or something.”

            “Not now,” I reject. “The buses are about to leave. I have to go. Maybe tomorrow I will.” I mean to scutter the other direction from her persistence; I am not even sure how she has been able to interpret me well enough to know that my mind has been focused on only one thing, one person. Quite a frustrating topic to consider, him and his attachments.

            “Eve, at least promise me this,” Ang stops me. “Tonight you will? Please? If not for me, then for yourself. I know you want to see him again.”

            Just the thought of potentially hearing his voice again excites me. I nod before steering towards my bus, clambering onto it and selecting a seat in the middle.

            The ride home is spent in a full-fledged debate within my mind. More than anything I wish to do as Ang demands and call him. He has indeed been on my mind the majority of the week, close to the only thing on my mind since Saturday. Regardless of the attachments�"one attachment, really�"following him like a lost puppy, I want to see him again. Strangely enough, he has even haunted my dreams.

            His attachment slightly repulses me, though not as badly as it has. Shock must have worn off from a week and a half ago, when I first learned of some peoples’ need for blood. In fact, it is more intriguing than anything else. There are people in the world that feel they need blood to survive. The thought would be total balderdash had I not gone to Drac’s Lair, had Mason not explained its generalities to me last weekend.

            If I am honest with myself, not only do I want to see Mason again, but I wish to learn more about them, about Sanguinarians.

            Now I must convince myself to call him.

            It is ten fifteen at night when I finally am able to pick up my phone, dial his number, and press send. Procrastination has led me to call this late, but I am counting on him being a bat.

            He seems to be one, as the line clicks on the third ring, and his suave voice answers, “Eve?”

            A moronic grin lights my face at his acknowledgement. “Mason, um, hi.” Nervousness has overtaken me, encouraging words to stick to my tongue. Doom creeps into my marrow at the realization that I will likely make a fool of myself during this conversation. Great.

            “Hey, I was worried you wouldn’t call.” His tone soothes me as before, though I cannot retain the hummingbirds beating in my chest.

            “I thought about everything,” I begin. “And I’d like to see you again on one condition.”

            “Yes?”

            “Will you tell me more about Sanguinarians?”

            “I can do that, I’m sure,” Mason agrees. A smile is evident in his voice. “Are you free tonight?”

            Shaking my head before remembering he cannot see me, I say, “Not tonight. What about tomorrow night?” My parents will murder me if I so much as attempt to leave the house at this time, regardless of my curfew being in an hour.

Crap. My brain reprimands me extensively, reminding me that once again I am a moron. How could that detail have slipped my thoughts?

He may not know I am a minor.

“Before you agree or decline, whichever you may do, I believe I should tell you something.” He definitely will not want to see me anymore now. All of my wanting and moping will have been for nothing.

            “What is it, sweetie?”

            I wish to melt into a puddle of both elation and hopelessness at that. With the best collected deadpan I can manage, I admit, “I’m only seventeen.”

            Silence.

“I’m sorry,” I rush. “I should have told you when we met at the park, or earlier. It totally escaped my mind. I�",”

“Eve, Eve, it’s okay,” Mason interrupts me. “I don’t mind. Really, I don’t. It’s not much of an age difference, though, I have to say, you don’t look seventeen.”

“How old are you?” I question.

“I just turned twenty.”

“Oh.”

Humor coats his voice still. “What time shall I pick you up tomorrow?”

“You don’t even know my address,” I point out breathlessly. I am reeling in relief. “Can we meet somewhere at five? Wherever you want to is fine.”

“Do you know, on Windsor Avenue, the little coffee shop called Aberrant?”

“Vaguely, yes.”

“You can leave your car in the parking garage a few buildings down. It’s free parking there. Would you like to meet there?”

“Absolutely,” I accept, aiming and failing to maintain composure when my insides are anything but. “I suppose I shall see you then, at five?”

“I suppose so,” Mason replies. “See you.”

“Bye.”

            My limbs are jelly by the time I hang up, and I can do no more than flop back on my bed and grin moronically at the darkness through my skylight.