The Vampire Book of the Month Club (5 page)

“Thanks,” he says as she heads next to a white-chocolate crème that starts melting before it's even crossed the threshold of her lips.

“Those look really good,” I say to Reece, leaning forward a smidge so he won't see my best friend devouring most of the boxful. “You really didn't have to go to so much trouble. I mean, I understand about you being late.”

Then I see the tag on the flowers—Beverly Hills Bouquet Emporium—and realize it's halfway across town. “Although it sure seems like if you'd gone someplace a little closer to campus to get the flowers, you might have gotten here on time.”

“Ah, an eye for the details. Well, what else should I expect from an author of such . . . caliber? I admit, I might have suspected I'd be late and made a few pit stops just in case.”

“Well, either way, it was really way too generous.”

“Yeah,” comes a voice from behind. “From what I hear, a used piece of bubble gum would have been all it takes to impress Nora.”

Abby gasps and probably would have snatched a handful of Bianca's hair if she hadn't been in a chocolate coma.

I do what I always do—ignore Bianca—despite my mortification.

To my relief, Reece also acts as if he hasn't heard. “I hope the offer to show me around school still stands, Nora.”

Bianca says, “Sure, fine, if you want the nickel tour. I'll be glad to give you the platinum version, Reece.”

I watch as Reece's face slowly . . . changes.

He's still smiling, but now the lips look thin, the expression vaguely . . . cruel. He turns. “I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name.”

“Bianca Ridley, as in Ridley's Department Stores, forty-five hundred and counting across the US, Europe, and Asia.”

“I see. So you're here because of your father's accomplishments then?”

For once Bianca's porcelain-doll face looks like it's about to crack. “Well, sure, aren't we all?”

“Well, not quite. Abby, it would seem, is here because of her acting ability. Nora is here because of her writing ability. Why would I want someone who can't do anything for herself to show me around a school full of overachievers?”

As if on cue, the bell rings, and Abby and I stand quickly to avoid further incident. We linger at the door as the crowd floods past.

Meanwhile, Reece stands in front of Bianca, who's still seated, as if he's about to toss her desk across the room.

“Reece?” I ask, trying not to sound desperate.

“In a minute, Nora,” he says. “Bianca and I aren't quite through yet. You run along, and I'll catch up. Promise.”

And still we wait as Bianca rises.

She is alone now, her entourage having known when to make themselves disappear.

On her $760 heels, she is nearly Reece's height, but his glower makes him somewhat larger than life.

I say, “OK,” hoping my voice will snap him out of it, but he barely glances my way.

Abby and I turn, and the minute we're out the doorway, it slams shut all by itself, as if Nightshade Academy is suddenly . . . haunted.

Back in the hallway, we stow the flowers and candy in Abby's locker because, let's face it, I'm allergic to the first and she's halfway through the other.

“What was
that
all about?”

“I don't know,” I say, grabbing my AP English book, “but I'd love to be a fly on the wall.”

Abby chews her lips as she walks with me to our next class. “I dunno,” she says dubiously, avoiding eye contact. “Looked like a lot of sexual tension there, if you know what I mean.”

“No,” I snap before considering it. Then: “Really? You think?”

“I don't know.” She sighs, slowing down to let a group of obnoxious freshmen pass. “I hope not. If he was stalking
you
, he should have better taste than
that
.”

I nod. “I mean, I wouldn't put it past her.”

“Well, you and Bianca have a history, after all.”

“I'd hardly call it a history.” I laugh as we head down D-wing.

“She stole that stupid snowboarder from you. You don't consider that history?”

“OK, for one, she didn't
steal
him; I just happened to break up with him the same day they started dating.”

“I would hardly call making out in the detention room
dating
, but if you want to live in your fictional world, I guess I can't blame you.”

“What?” I say as we finally enter AP English together, sliding into our seats, again near the back of the room. “What does
that
mean?”

“It means,” she whispers, “you tend to create these stories for yourself, and not just in your books.”

“Like what stories?” I struggle to keep my voice down.

A few kids up front slide their chairs back ever so slightly to eavesdrop.

“Like your snowboarder dude story. He did too break up with you first, because Bianca seduced him. I'm sorry, but that's the truth.” I know it's the truth. Does she think I don't know that? That I don't remember it? The months and months of kicking myself for not seeing the signs earlier, and then the months and months after that, pining for the guy even though I knew how pitiful it looked?

And how little he cared?

I shake my head until I can't deny it any longer, then murmur, “So, what, you think history is repeating itself?”

“We'll see,” she says.

“And pretty soon,” I add, nodding toward the door.

After all, I couldn't help but notice on his schedule that both Bianca and Reece share this class with us. We watch the door in silence, waiting for them to appear. We're not the only ones; Bianca's posse sit in the very back row, awaiting their lord and master.

Second bell rings and Mr. Richards appears, looking fresh-faced and handsome, as always.

Abby gives him a special smile, and I return my focus to the doorway.

A few last-minute stragglers come in, none of them as shockingly handsome as either Bianca or Reece.

By the time third bell rings, Abby is holding my hand. Two minutes later I know in my heart that history
is
repeating itself, after all. They're not coming to class. They're probably skipping right now, heading for the nearest cheap hotel to rip each other's clothes off and do who knows what to each other, Lord knows how many times, before curfew tonight.

I shake my head.

Abby “tsk-tsks” in her told-you-so voice. Who can blame her? She's right, after all. Bianca
has
stolen another man from me, and this time it took only one period.

“S
o, I don't get it,” says Wyatt, peering into the dorm-size fridge under our sink after school that day. “The guy shows up at your book signing last night, asks for your autograph—smooth move, by the way; I need to add that to the Wyatt Repertoire—
begs
you to show him around school the next day, shows up late, showers you with affection, gives you flowers you can't smell and candy you can't eat, gets into it with Bianca over your honor, and then . . . disappears? With that snooty Bianca, of all people?”

He emerges triumphantly with the last diet soda, pops the top before asking if I want any (or even if he can have any), and plops down on the love seat opposite the couch. I wonder if he knows, if he has a single inkling, how much I like it when he's around, and how much it would mean if he noticed—just once.

“Pretty much,” I say.

He flinches. “I've heard of playing hard to get, but either the dude's got mad skills or he's just . . . flaky. I mean, you? Bianca? It's apples and oranges. He needs to make up his mind whether he wants ground chuck or filet mignon, you know what I mean?”

“That depends.” I smile, just shy of flirting. “Am I the ground chuck in this story? Or the filet mignon?”

“What do you think?” He laughs over his half-finished soda and, in typical Wyatt style, neither confirms nor denies his answer. “Either way, are you sure this guy's for you?”

“What do you mean
for me,
Wyatt? It's not like we're promised to each other or anything. I was just venting; that's all. Forget I said anything.”

Wyatt eyes me coolly over the shiny silver soda can. “Whoa, easy there. What else should I think? I mean, I stop by for a casual social visit, you're pining away, and the first thing out of your mouth is this tirade about some guy named Reece—that's a fake name if ever I've heard one, by the way, and I'm a model, so I should know—and you expect me to think you're
not
interested in the guy?”

I can't tell if he's mad, bored, jealous, or all three. That's the problem with Wyatt; those endless blue eyes hide all his secrets.

I sigh. “I'm not sure if I'm interested. I mean, maybe I am. I just . . . When did Abby say she'd get back?”

He pulls a cell phone from his jacket, scrolls until he finds her text, and reads it for me: “Another late shoot, no extras needed, working on that screen credit for you. Tell Nora I'll be home after dinner.”

He looks at me skeptically. “What, you'd rather talk about this with her?”

“Yeah, frankly,” I snap.

He's used to it by now. That's what he gets for being a BFF to two FFs (frustrating females).

“Look, I can relate as good as Abby does,” he says.

“As
well
as Abby does,” I correct, not really meaning to. A bad habit.

“Whatever. I'm saying, I saw
He's Just Not That Into You
. I'm down. I'm hip.”

“You are down, you are hip, you
have
seen
He's Just Not That Into You
, but you're still a player, and you can't relate to someone—especially a girl—who isn't.”

“A player? Me? Please.” He crumples the empty soda can and tosses it—for a miss—toward the half-size trash can under the sink.

“Wyatt, please, you've dated three models, two of them super-, twelve starlets, including Abby for two months last year, four girls from the Swedish volleyball team—two at the same time—so how are you
not
a player?”

“Please. Most of those were publicity stunts. Four of the starlets were gay, the models were airheads, the volleyball girls I'll give you, but can you blame me?”

“Not really,” I concede, trying to remain impartial even though every cell in my body seethes with jealousy. “I guess it's hard
not
to get dates when you're posing half-naked on a billboard at Sunset Boulevard.”

“Exactly. Those girls don't want me; they want the image of me they see in magazines or whatnot.”

His jacket is open, the white T-shirt underneath stretched across his pecs and six-pack abs as if it were designed especially for him. For all I know, it could have been.

The problem with a place like Nightshade Academy is there are no average-looking people to commiserate with. Seriously, people think my life is glamorous because of the books, but at the end of the day, I'm just another mousy bookworm tapping away at the keys behind the scenes while Abby and Wyatt are in front of the camera, smiling and seducing people all over the world.

There are very few people here who
aren't
traffic-stoppingly beautiful. Even the do-nothing celebs like Bianca and her minions are gorgeous, as if their genes know they're rich and respond accordingly.

You walk through the halls, and it's like you've just shown up at an audition for
America's Top Model
. You meander through the cafeteria line with a few bowls of mac and cheese, and the anorexics all look at you like you're feeding on live cats or something!

“You wouldn't understand,” I hear myself grumbling.

“Try me,” Wyatt says, giving me his best
I'm listening
smile.

As usual, I fall for it.

As usual, he doesn't let me down.

Here's the thing about Wyatt: beautiful as he is, I would still crush hard on him even if he looked like Elmer Fudd, because he's just a solid, righteous dude. He's the kind of guy who doesn't just become your friend but literally wedges his way into your life. He just shows up, expecting to be charming and actually
being
charming. Like popping into the dorm suite unannounced, no knocking, just, “Hey, ladies, here I am!” Or the way he texts you all day long with funny stories about classmates or teachers, or the way he remembers your birthday—OK, four days late despite about half a dozen social media alerts, but still—with half-price coconut Easter eggs because your birthday is April 12 and you can't be mad at him, ever, because who else remembers coconut is your favorite?

Even Abby mixes it up and always gets me crème eggs, which are just gross, but I have to eat them anyway because she's so proud she thinks she's remembered my favorite.

Is it any wonder I've been secretly in love with the guy since, like, the first day I met him?

It was right after new student orientation, and I'd just come from my counselor's office, loaded down with paperwork and rule books and the keys to my suite. I was already a freshman transplanted from my little Florida surf town, intimidated by this famous school that accepts only “exceptional boys and girls”—exceptionally
beautiful
boys and girls, from what I'd just seen walking across campus. And so what do I find when I step off the elevator on my very first day at Nightshade Academy but a dark-haired god asleep on the floor outside his dorm suite door.

And why is he passed out two doors from mine?

Only because he left his keys at some supermodel's house (of course) the night before and is locked out.

He was still in his party clothes that morning: tight gray jeans and a black shirt unbuttoned to his navel, and although I'd never even met my future roommate, Abby, I let him sleep it off on our (old) couch.