Blood Orange Soda: Paranormal Romance (21 page)

“Where’s Taurus?” I ask.

“Right there,” she says, pointing straight up. “And that’s Cancer. Ohmygod, I’m sorry. Does that make you think of your mom’s illness?”

“It’s all right.” I shrug off her comment.

She points in a different direction, closer to the French doors. “That’s Mercury, then Venus, Earth, and Mars. You know Venus is the goddess of love?”

She pulls me closer to her, not quite on top of her but almost, and we kiss. We’re lost for a brief moment as my mind’s eye watches her from behind. This is too good to be true. The lights are dim, the music pounding, we’re under fake planets and stars.

What if her mom walks in?

Or even worse, what if her dad is on the phone while driving home? What if he comes in here and finds me cuddling with his daughter?

I sit up, looking around her room and at the French doors.

“What?” she says.

“Thought I heard somebody.”

“My mom is cool.”

The French doors fly open and Mrs. Rork enters, carrying a tray with ice waters and chips. Well, apparently her mom isn’t as cool as Shelby thinks she is
.
Her eyes are closed, as if she doesn’t want to see anything that we could be doing behind closed doors.

“I don’t mean to interrupt. Darius might be hungry, honey,” she says, setting the tray on the chair next to the vanity.

“Mom! Jeeez,” Shelby says, annoyed and laughing at the same time. “Open your eyes.”

“Something to drink, Darius?” Mrs. Rork asks. “Coke or water?”

“Water, thanks, Mrs. Rork.” I take the glass and drink a long sip.

I move away from Shelby so there’s distance between us on the beanbag chair. I’m hungry, too, and my body craves those chips. The past week of running and working out with Jack has left me famished. I should’ve run this morning, and I feel guilty for sleeping in.

“Water for you, Shelby,” her mom says. “And I’ll leave the chips here.”

“Fine, go, please!” Shelby says. “You’re ruining the mood.”

Her mom ignores me and looks directly at Shelby. “Remember, you have your sweet sixteen T-Party next weekend. No biting between you too.”

Nodding, I look at Shelby, and she’s completely embarrassed. So am I.

“I knooooow,” she says. “We were only kissing.”

“Shelby, sit on the chair,” her mom says. “And the doors stay open.”

Shelby stands in a huff and sits on the chair by her desk as Mrs. Rork leaves us and walks out to the patio.

“Your mom is still way cooler,” I say, to make Shelby feel better. “My mom would have us in opposite rooms.”

“She and my dad are so conservative,” Shelby says, standing up from the chair and returning to the beanbag. She picks a strand of my black, matted hair out of my eyes. “You look tired.”

“It’s all the training, the early morning hours,” I say, looking at her alarm clock on the nightstand. It’s almost 5:00 p.m. When I’m almost due for another dose of Blood Orange Soda my blood sugar drops and my body enters a torpid state.

“You can rest here for a few minutes. We can listen to music,” she says.

“I should probably go soon, but let’s rest here for a bit.” I look up at the dim glow of the planets and stars on her ceiling.

“Okay, I’ll drive you.”

“I could run home. It’s only a couple of miles. I skipped my morning workout today,” I admit, my eyes starting to close.

“Why does Jack want you to run?” she asks. “He’s training you for a fight.”

“I dunno,” I say, because I don’t want to mention the Soda.

“You look sleepy, Darius. Am I asking too many questions?”

My mind drifts between the dream world and the waking world. “No, I just need to rest for five minutes. We can sit here and talk.”

“Ask me some questions,” Shelby says. “Ask me anything.”

“Of all the guys in our school, how did you find me?” I open my eyes and turn to see her staring up at the ceiling.

“Before I transferred schools, I searched Facebook to see who’s who at Stearns County High. I already knew a few Normals, so I creeped on their pages to see who else I could find. I found your page and saw photos of you, Angel, and Weezer.”

“And from that little information, you knew you wanted to meet me?”

“You could’ve been a dweeb, I suppose. I had to meet you to find out for myself,” she says. “Later, when I saw you’d updated your profile photo—that picture of you giving the finger? Ohmygod, I knew you had a sense of humor!”

“That was right after one of my run-ins with Bao,” I say, laughing with her.

“Everyone was talking about it, and that’s why I wanted to meet you at the football game. And then you had another fight after the game and I thought, ‘There’s something special about this Goth Boy.’”

We hold hands, laughing at how absurd it was, our first night together in urgent care, my eye swollen and Weezer sick to his stomach at the sight of my stitches.

“You get your rest,” Shelby says as we hold hands.

My sore, stiff body feels heavy on her soft beanbag chair and I feel myself sinking into sleep. Giving in, I drift off somewhere between the music and the warmth of Shelby’s hand.

When I awaken, the room is dark. Where is Shelby? I feel both sides of my neck to make sure she didn’t bite me while I napped, then I look at her clock and it’s 5:45 p.m. I check my phone and there are two text messages from Kira asking when I’ll be home.

I send Kira a reply text:
Home @ 30 mins.

Stepping over to Shelby’s nightstand, I flick on the lamp to inspect my neck in the mirror one more time. All is good. I notice a corkboard on the wall where Shelby has pinned photos of her friends. They’re all Normals. Nobody in these photos is a Goth or Emo. No wonder she felt she had to transfer to Stearns High. I look closer at the photos and most of them are at campfires or on a beach. She obviously partied a lot at her other schools. A guy in one of the photos holds a bottle that looks a lot like Blood Orange Soda, but I might be wrong. My mouth waters.

When I leave her room I notice the red-orange sunset, not on the horizon, but reflecting off the surface of the lake. The lake water reminds me of Blood Orange Soda, and I’m hungry and thirsty again. I could slip out the back sliding-glass door. Instead I climb the stairs to say goodbye to Shelby. She’s not in the kitchen, and I hear her call out to me.

“Over here, Darius.”

She’s in the family room that overlooks the lake and she’s with her parents on an L-shaped couch. Now I’m self-conscious. I remember the beanbag chair.

“This is Darius,” Shelby announces to her dad.

“He’s in Vampire Club,” Mrs. Rork adds. “Isn’t that right?”

I nod as if yes, I’m a charter member of V-Club. Apparently it’s important to the Rorks that their daughter hang out with other soon-to-be Vamps.

“Hello,” Mr. Rork says, standing from the couch, shaking my hand.

He’s dressed in a suit and tie, hair combed straight back with lots of gel that glistens with each head movement. His smile gives way to sharp fangs. He’s a dapper, corporate Vampire, the total package.

“Shelby mentioned you’re in a band,” he says, “and you’ll play at her party next week?”

“Yeah, we were checking out the backyard. There’s plenty of room on the stage,” I say, pointing out the window.

He stands, walks to the window and looks out at the stage. He’s tall, over six three, and in good shape. There’s no soft belly on Mr. Rork. How old is this Vampire?

“What kind of music do you play?” he asks me.

“They play everything,” Shelby says to her dad. “They even have their own songs.”

“Uh, we’re eclectic, I guess. We play Goth Rock and Punk. We also cover blues and rock songs for the older people.”

“So what you’re telling me is it might get loud?” Mr. Rork says. He makes a ridiculous air guitar with his hands, and Shelby rolls her eyes.

“We should warn the neighbors,” Mrs. Rork says.

“The louder we play, the better my voice sounds,” I joke. “Yeah, you’d better tell the neighbors.”

“Very good!” Mr. Rork says, with a pat on my shoulder.

“Shelby, are you giving Darius a ride home?” Mrs. Rork asks.

“I told her I’d run home,” I say.

Mr. Rork sits down between his wife and daughter. They’re like the model parents, seated together at the end of the day, sipping wine, watching the sunset. Would my parents have done this if my dad were still alive?

Shelby leans toward her dad and whispers, “Isn’t he perfect?”

I pretend like I didn’t hear it, but I’m curious about what she means.
I’m perfect for what?

“I can drive you home, Darius,” Shelby says, standing from the couch.

“No, really, I need to run anyway. I’m getting in shape, and it’s only a couple of miles from here.”

“Getting in shape? You’re skinny as a rail. Are you training for something?” Mr. Rork asks.

I can’t tell them about the upcoming fight. If parents find out, then the school finds out, then it becomes a tangled mess. I’m too far into my training to blow it now. “Training for a 5k race.”

“The Halloween Haunt?” Mr. York asks.

At first I’m taken aback by the question. Where had I heard of that race before? Then I remember Mr. Striefland mentioned it when I bumped into him on my morning run.

“Yeah, that one,” I say.

“My dad’s running it, too!” Shelby says, offering me a high five from the couch.

I slap her hand. “Oh, cool…awesome.”
Fuggars! Why does Shelby’s dad have to be one of those fit Vampires like Jack?

“You look like you’re in great shape. What pace do you race at?” Mr. Rork asks. “I bet you run least at a seven-minute mile,” he says, sipping his wine.

I know nothing about running or racing, no clue what he’s talking about. Jack never mentions pace. All he says is “jog to burn off the Soda.” I never wear a running watch, and I never care how fast I’m running.

“I’m a jogger, Mr. Rork. Slow as a turtle. I just run to keep in shape.”

“Darius is actually very athletic,” Shelby says, as she reaches and holds my hand.

“Ah, I bet you’re being modest,” Mr. Rork says. “I look forward to seeing you at the starting line next week. It’s the same day as Shelby’s party, so we’ll both have to hustle back in time, right?”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” I reply. “Well, it’s getting dark and I need to hit the road…”

Mr. Rork hops up from the couch and escorts Shelby and me to the front door. He reminisces about his running, how he’s overcome injuries by cross-training and testing different running shoes. He shows me the Nike running app on his phone and the 120 miles he’s logged in the past month.

He looks down at my Converse high-tops. “You’re not running home in those, are you?”

“I left my Nikes in my locker.” A total lie because I don’t own running shoes. I borrow Jack’s, and I have no idea what brand they are.

“You want to borrow a pair of mine? What size shoe do you wear?”

“Dad, gross, no!” Shelby says.

“It’s only a couple of miles,” I insist. “I can run in my shoes. Thanks.”

“Well, you’re young. Your legs can absorb the shock,” he says.

Shelby and I walk out the door along a stone path that’s bordered by a low hedge near the house, with flowers on the other side. When we get to the driveway, we walk over to Shelby’s MINI and I open the back hatch and fetch my backpack.

“You’re running home with that on your back?” Mr. Rork asks from the front door.

“Yeah,” I say, strapping it on tightly.

“How heavy is it?”

“Maybe ten pounds?”

“Ah, to be young again! You kids are amazing,” he says, before he steps inside and closes the door.

I wait for a second before giving Shelby a quick kiss, nothing too sensual in case her dad is watching from the front windows. She holds onto me, trying to prolong the kiss, but I pull away.

“Don’t worry. I won’t bite you. Not in my own driveway, with my parents spying on us,” she says with a subversive laugh.

Stepping back at arm’s length, I see her parents’ shadows behind the sheer drapes. Shelby sees them too, but seems to enjoy tormenting them with teen love and the threat of biting. He mom isn’t in favor of biting, and I doubt her dad is, either. As for me, Shelby is starting to feel more dangerous every time we meet.

“I’m late for dinner, and I need to run a few miles.”

“Off you go then,” Shelby says. She turns and runs up the stone path and opens the front door. Before she closes it she blows me a kiss and says, “Remember, you can’t run forever!”

Her words give me a foreboding feeling:
Every day, in every way, I’m becoming Bitten and More Bitten.

My phone shows it’s 6:10 p.m. so I decide I’ll time myself. I’m not sure of the exact distance, but I know of a path on the other side of the lake that should make this trek shorter than if I run on the road the entire way. I like Mr. Rork’s running app, so I go online while walking up the driveway and download it.

I begin my run home in the cool, dry October air with the sun setting behind me. Shelby’s street winds back and forth so much that I find myself running in the middle of the road, as if I own it. I’m like one of those marathon runners, leading the pack, so far out front you see nobody behind me. I think about the 5k run that I’ve committed myself to, and run harder and faster down the road, testing my fitness. I can definitely complete a 5k race. The question is, how fast can I
compete
in a race?

By the time I reach the running path along the lake, I’m approaching the beach where Weezer and I would hang out as kids. It’s too cold for swimming today. There’s a silhouette of a man fishing off the end of the dock, casting his line into water that looks like glass until the lure breaks a ripple of circular waves.

My lungs feel hearty and they’re not on fire like on my first runs, but tonight my stomach is bothering me. I’m so hungry and thirsty for my evening dose of Blood Orange Soda that I feel as if I’m pushing myself too hard. Every stride I take brings me that much closer to home and to my drink. This actually worries me, because I never considered whether Soda could be addictive. Will it be hard for me to stop drinking it once I’ve transformed? Where will I get my blood then? Jack never mentioned it. All he says is to not share the Soda with anyone.