Fashionably Dead (12 page)

I was going back to work at the senior center today. I was informed that if I took anymore sick days from my art classes, my very old and talkative students were coming to my house to take care of me. That alone scared the shit out of me. So I was going in. I was fairly sure I wouldn’t eat anyone. Pam assured me I would be fine.

I tried to get an evening meeting, but apparently people over eighty-nine hit the hay at 6:00 PM sharp. Right about the time my monsters and I usually got up.

Pam laughed as I entered the kitchen. I couldn’t blame her—I’d be laughing too if I wasn’t so damn tired. I had on sweat pants and tennis shoes, a long sleeve turtleneck, a big floppy hat, sunglasses and my old boyfriend’s soccer goalie gloves from high school. To make things worse my face, the only skin exposed, was covered in thick white sunscreen. I was hot, as in sweaty not sexy. It was June, for God’s sake, and I was dressed for winter weather. However, the floppy hat and sunglasses slightly evened up my outfit’s chances for qualifying as summer attire.

Who was I kidding? I looked like a dork.

Thank God Almighty other Vampyres weren’t out during the day. I’d die if one of them saw me looking like this. Especially Ethan.
Stop thinking about him. He’s a bad, bad Vampyre. I just wish I didn’t feel all tingly when I pictured his face . . . or his butt.

“Well, Asscan,” Pam gloated, “I don’t envy you.” She laughed and put down copies of my tax returns. Was nothing sacred? “You should probably think about a new career.”

“I’d make a great night watchman,” I snapped.

“There’s always phone sex,” she offered.

“Yep,” I replied and nailed her with a pillow. I grabbed my new Prada purse, and the keys to my old Toyota and headed for the front door.

“Have fun with the old folks,” Pam yelled after me.

I saluted her with my middle finger and left. I could hear her laughing all the way to my car.

***

“Did you get your boobs done?” Charlie asked, reaching out to cop a feel.

“No, I did not,” I said, swiftly moving out of Charlie’s grab range. “And if you try to grab my boob again I will yank that toupee off your head so fast you won’t know what hit you.”

“Awww, come on, give an old geezer a break,” he moaned, adjusting his false teeth and giving me a cute leer.

I slapped a wad of clay in front of him and moved on to the next row. Being back at the senior center felt good. I loved these cranky old bastards. Well, most of them. I could even kind of pretend I wasn’t a bloodsucking Vampyre for a couple of hours. Well, except for the fact I was covered in sunscreen and covered up like an Amish woman. Thank Jesus most of the class was practically blind. “Where are Martha and Jane?” I asked, dreading the answer.

No one said a word. They feebly beat on their clay and avoided eye contact with me. Oh shit. My stomach dropped to my toes. I hated those old bitches, but . . . “Did they die?” I asked in a tiny voice.

“Too mean to die,” an old gal whose name I could never remember yelled from the back of the room.

“They’re on the crapper,” cute little Niecey informed me. She was about four and a half feet tall with a shock of white hair that stood straight up on her head. “Been there for two days.”

A few in the class snickered. WTF?

“Do the nurses know?” I asked Niecey.

“Yep, said it’s their own damn fault,” she grinned, shaping her clay into a penis.

“Okay, um . . . why’s it their fault?” I asked, removing the phallus from her hands and giving her a new hunk of clay.

“Because they’re gonna try out for American Idol,” she told me, as if that made sense.

“I like cheese,” Charlie yelled.

“That’s great,” I told Charlie. “What does sitting on the toilet and trying out for American Idol have to do with each other?”

“Your bosom looks wonderful,” Niecey said, ignoring my question and creating another penis. I had to stop letting them play with clay. “We were so worried about you. That skinny bitch subbed for you and told us she hoped you got fired for cussin’ all the time.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I was gonna rip that skinny, skank born-again loser a new one. She’d been after my job for months.

“Yay,” Charlie yelled. “I just won five bucks!”

“Fine,” Niecey huffed, handing the money over.

“Told you she’d say fuck within the first ten minutes!” Charlie was thrilled. I noticed he’d made a set of knockers with his clay, or maybe it was testicles.

“Shit, did I say fuck?”

“Five more bucks,” he shouted.

Oh my God, he was taking bets on my potty mouth . . . and winning.

“Niecey, why’d you take a bet you knew you were going to lose?” I asked, handing her some paper and charcoals and removing another clay penis from her hands.

“Charlie’s cute,” she whispered. “I want to get in his pants.”

Had I had still been able to eat, I would have thrown it back up at the mention of Charlie in a sexual way. He had no teeth and no hair and was fond of grabbing any breast within reach. “Oookay, that sounds like a plan. Can you tell me why Martha and Jane have been in the bathroom for two days?”

“Laxatives!” She burst into laughter.

“Explain,” I said, grinning. I had no idea what in the hell she was talking about, but her laugh was contagious.

“I can’t,” Niecey snorted, unable to stop.

“They snuck into the kitchen and ate all the pies,” Mrs. Jenkins, a bulldozer of a little old lady shouted, throwing her clay at Charlie. Clearly he’d tried to adjust her lady bits.

“And?” I prompted, moving Charlie to the corner for his own safety.

“They have big plans to be rock stars on American Idol, but since they ate too much pie they felt fat,” Charlie said, placing his hand on my ass. I took Charlie’s hands and tied them to the chair with craft yarn. “Dang it, Astrid, how am I supposed to get some if I’m all tied up?”

“You’re not supposed to get anything in here except art lessons,” I snapped. “Finish the story.”

“Can I touch your butt again if I do?” he negotiated.

“Possibly.”

“Great!” he grinned. “They felt fat from the pies and have a tryout coming up, so they took an ass-load of laxatives to get skinny before they become stars.”

“Did you intend that pun?” I asked.

“What’s a pun?”

“Oookay, let me get this straight. Martha and Jane are trying out for American Idol, stole and ate pies from the kitchen, felt fat, took a wad of laxatives to get their figures back and are shitting their brains out as I speak.”

“She said shit,” Mrs. Jenkins bellowed. “I win ten dollars.”

I ignored her.

“That’s about right,” Charlie said. “Can I touch your butt now?”

“Sure.” I untied his hands and let him touch it for three seconds. “Aren’t they a little old to try out for American Idol?” They were ninety if they were a day.

“Don’t let them hear you say that,” Charlie whispered. “I only have one gonad left because I told them the same damn thing.”

“Has anyone checked on them?” I scanned the class.

“Nope, I’m not going near the ladies’ restroom,” Niecey said, still laughing.

“Hear it smells like road kill in ninety degree weather on that side of the building,” Charlie added and then blanched. The room went silent and I knew the killjoys had arrived.

“Hello, Astrid, we hoped you’d quit,” Martha said, gripping the door with her gnarled old claws.

Holy hell, they looked bad. They never looked good, but today they looked particularly not good.

“What in the hell happened to you?” Jane barked. “You look like a shiny albino.”

Of course Jane and Martha’s vision was outstanding . . . these two could suck the life out of anything. Considering I didn’t have one anymore . . . life, that is . . . I decided to play.

“I have a sun allergy. Heard you two had a little poopchute problem.”

They cast an evil glance around the room. “No, we’re fine,” Jane snapped. “What sort of unnecessary crap are you teaching us today?”

“I wouldn’t use the word crap if I were you. I’d think you’d had enough of that,” Niecey muttered under her breath. Charlie gave her a thumbs up and she blushed with delight.

“Shut up,” Martha hissed. “You are all worthless bags of flesh. We are going to be stars and leave you to rot in this disgusting redneck hellhole.”

“Well that’s lovely,” I smiled. “Are you going to join us today? I’d be happy to push a table over by the door, just in case you have to make a run for it.”

“Your days are numbered, you foul-mouthed piece of trash.” Jane shook her fist at me.

God, it would be so easy to flick my fingers and leave them bald and toothless and in their underpants. I was pretty sure using my new bloodsucker powers against old human ladies would be frowned upon, no matter how vile they were.

“Good thing you got an inheritance from that grandma of yours, because you’re gonna need it when they fire you for disgusting behavior and lack of skill,” Jane spat.

“She didn’t have a brain in her head, leaving you all that money. Stupid woman,” Martha added.

That was about all I could take. I’d been putting up with their shit—
pun intended
—for years. They could say whatever they wanted about me, but my Nana? Game over. They want to hear foul-mouthed? No prob. “Okay, well since I’m out of a job here soon why don’t you have a seat and work with your clay. If your old, saggy asses are too sore from shitting your brains out, you can stand. The assignment is to create a piece of fucking art that means something to you. Something that tells us about who you are. Niecey has made a penis and Charlie is working on some boobs, or possibly testicles. Mrs. Jenkins, what are you working on?”

“A whip and handcuffs,” she replied, giving me a wink.

“Oh my God,” Jane gasped, “this is sinful.”

“These aren’t boobs or testicles,” Charlie chimed in, holding his mound of misshapen clay up. “They’re ben wa balls!”

“That’s wonderful,” I said, giving him a high five and letting him touch my butt again.

“You are a spawn of the devil and probably a Democrat,” Martha shouted. She turned a very unbecoming shade of purple.

“Maybe,” I grinned, “but in my class, there’s a separation of church and state and bullshit. So I’d suggest you sit down, pick up your clay and make something that is a part of you . . . or was a part of you.”

“Like a pie or a pile of shit!” came a voice from the back of the room. Damn, I needed to learn that gal’s name . . . she was hilarious.

Surprisingly, at the end of my class I didn’t get fired, but the powers that be did ask me to watch my mouth. So much in my life was changing so fast that my little job at the senior center felt like the last part of me that was hanging on to my humanity—and I needed that.

Chapter 12

There were people in my house and they were very unhappy. Unhappy with me? Unhappy with each other? Shit, after the day I’d had, could I not have one normal evening? Ever?

It smelled like lemons and grapefruit. Normally yummy smells, but not tonight. They were acrid and bitter. I was beginning to identify scents with their matching emotions, a very handy talent for someone with my bionic sniffing abilities. What I was smelling now qualified as jealousy and a little anxiety, mixed with distrust.

I plastered myself against the wall moving slowly to my den, worried that the emotions might be aimed at me. God forbid I’d need to defend myself. The Kev was convinced that I would be one of the great Vampyre warriors of my time. The Kev also thought silver stretch pants were high fashion.

I rounded the corner expecting to see zombies or werewolves or some other unbelievable entity like that, but it was worse. It was Gemma and Venus.

Together.

Gemma and Venus sat on opposite sides of the room and eyed each other warily. I felt like I’d gotten caught cheating with two guys at the same time. I hadn’t planned on them meeting each other without me present, but this kind of situation was par for the course in my life lately.

Venus was surrounded by garment bags, shoe boxes, and shopping bags all labeled Prada. Gemma was armed with chips, extra hot salsa, and an available wrist. What were the odds? Two of my favorite people with my favorite things in the world, and I had to choose? Shitballs.

I knew if I truly had to choose, it would be Gemma. Even though Venus and I had become very close, Gemma was my best friend. I prayed that I wouldn’t have to choose. I was sure we could work all this out. Maybe my confidence came from the fact that I was a materialistic bitch who wanted my cake (Venus and the Prada) and to eat it, too (Gemma and the chips and salsa flavored blood).

“Hey guys,” I yelled, hoping the sheer volume of my voice would distract them from their intense staring contest. No such luck. Damn, volume always worked for Pam.

“Hey hot mammas,” I shouted as loud as I could, “I see you’ve finally met! That’s fantastic!”

Well that did it. They stopped staring at each other and refocused their killer laser beams on me. They stared at me like I’d grown three heads and dangly parts. Both of them started to speak at once. I heard . . .