Jessica's Guide to Dating on the Dark Side (28 page)

"If you're so into Faith, then what the hell was that?" I pointed to the leather chair, where we'd just been tangled up together like the laundry on the bed. Where I'd sworn Lucius was about to kiss me—at the very least. "Back in the chair? When you had your arm around me?" I demanded. "What was that, Lucius?"

Lucius lowered the T-shirt he'd been folding, arms dropping to his sides. "That, Jessica," he said sadly, "was very nearly a mistake."

A mistake?
Had he really just said,
"A mistake"?

Rising to my full five foot four inches, and mustering a strength that I never knew I possessed, fueled by an indignation I hadn't known I was capable of, I drew back my open hand and slapped Lucius Vladescu so hard across the face that his head snapped sideways.

He was still rubbing his jaw when I slammed the door.

Stupid Romanian bloodsucker. He was lucky I hadn't bestowed another exalted scar on his imperial body. If he ever messed with Jessica Packwood—Antanasia Dragomir—again, he'd
really
get the royal treatment. Lucius Vladescu could take
that to
the Bucharest Federal Savings and Loan and bank it— right into his damned trust fund.

Chapter 35

"FOCUS, JESS, FOCUS," I urged myself.

But the more I tried to force myself to concentrate, the further concentration slipped away from me. It was like I was grasping at soap bubbles floating on air. Bubbles filled with meaningless numbers and mathematical ciphers. Plus signs, minuses, square root symbols swirling around my head. They all popped the second I grasped them. Popped and disappeared.

Somehow, in spite of skipping several practices, I'd made it to the countdown round of the Lebanon Regional Math Olympics, where the top students competed. No pens. No paper. Not even a chance to reread the questions. Just the moderator firing off oral problems and ten of us standing there trying to answer first.

I wanted to win so badly. This was one arena where
I
could shine. You didn't have to be beautiful, or blond, or rich, like Faith. . . .

Stop it, Jess. You can get to the state level if you get your head on straight.

Glancing at the modest crowd lined against the cafeteria walls, I saw Mr. Jaegerman sweating in today's polyester suit selection—a hideous taupe number—watching me. He smiled and offered a thumbs-up. Mike Danneker was sidelined, too, having been knocked out during the sprint round, when he got inexplicably panicked by some routine polynomials.

Mike cupped his hands around his mouth. "Don't blow it," he stage-whispered. Like that was helping.

The moderator finished shuffling her papers. "Question number two. A distracted bank teller transposed the dollars and cents when she cashed Mrs. Jones's paycheck, handing her dollars instead of cents, and cents instead of dollars. After buying a cup of coffee for fifty cents, Mrs. Jones realizes that she has exactly three times as much as the original check left. What was the true amount of the check?"

I could do this. A Diophantine equation. That's what it was. So why wouldn't my brain function?

I thought harder and harder, and the harder I thought, the more the whole language of equations seemed foreign to me. It was as if a part of my mind was just shutting off. Dying. It had started weeks ago, when I'd begun drifting away from Jake and toward Lucius. Away from regular humanity and toward a world where blood smelled delicious. Calculus had begun to make my mind wander. Algebra had slowly lost its appeal. And now I was standing in a room full of top mathletes, where I should have been a dominant force, and instead all I could think was
Dollars? Cents? Coffee sounds good. . . . Where can you get a cup of coffee
for
fifty cents?
But I didn't want coffee. I wanted to go to the state level.
Think, Jessica. . . .
But no thoughts came. Not the right kind, at least.
Would coffee really help?

"No!" I hollered, not even realizing I'd said the word out loud until the already quiet room went completely silent, and all heads swiveled toward me.

I started sweating like Mr. Jaegerman on a June day getting excited about a word problem involving a high wall and the angle of the sun. Humiliated. I'd been humiliated.

"Sorry," I said, addressing everyone and no one in particular. They were all still staring—my competitors, my teammates, the spectators—and so I left my designated spot on the cafeteria floor and walked, with what I hoped was a little dignity, toward the door.

Out in the hallway, I leaned against the cool, tiled wall. What was happening to the left side of my brain? The part meant to control analysis and objectivity felt numb. And tingly. Like it was being chewed away by the right side, the random, intuitive, non-logical side. I pressed my fingertips against my temples, massaging them, trying to ease an ache that I knew wasn't really physical.

"Jessica, are you okay?" Mr. Jaegerman burst through the door and jogged to my side, puffing a little, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. I knew what he was thinking. His prize racehorse had just broken a leg in the last furlong. He'd invested four years in me, and I had come up lame.

"Math just seems .. . hard lately," I tried to explain, staring at Mr. Jaegerman with no small degree of desperation. "I don't know what's happening. I can't concentrate."

"Are ... are things okay at home?" Mr. Jaegerman attempted to ask. The effort to forge a real human connection between us—one not bridged by numbers—made the sweat pool above his upper lip and cascade around the corners of his mouth. He used his tie to dab his chin. "Not. . . boy trouble?" he ventured gamely, sputtering. He seemed on the verge of some sort of spasm. Like he'd wandered too far into a deep cave only to realize that there was no oxygen there.

If I'd actually started to unload, he might have passed out right there in the hall. I had to save him, let him breathe.

"No, it's not a guy," I lied, sparing Mr. Jaegerman a heart attack.

"Oh, thank God," he cried, clutching his chest. He immediately realized what he'd said. "I mean . . . of course, if it was a boy, you could tell me ..."

"It's fine," I insisted. "It's nothing like that."

But it
was
something "like that." Actually, it was that exactly. Only Lucius wasn't a boy, really. He was a man. And I wanted him back. Too late, I wanted him back. But I knew it was hopeless. He wanted Faith.

"I'll do better next time, Mr. Jaegerman," I promised. "I'll hit the books tomorrow. Focus."

"Good girl, Jess," Mr. Jaegerman said. He reached out to pat my shoulder, hesitated, then withdrew his hand.

"Let's go back inside," I said gamely. "I can at least listen from the sidelines, try to solve the problems for fun."

"Yes, yes," Mr. Jaegerman agreed, clearly relieved that our too-personal moment was over. "That's an excellent idea."

I followed my coach back toward the cafeteria. But to be honest, solving problems didn't sound fun or excellent at all. It sounded like the most miserable activity I could imagine.

Chapter
36

DEAR VASILE,

Were you aware that here in the United States, "choices" are so abundant that some feckless, feeble-minded individuals actually find themselves overwhelmed and in need of psychological counseling (I know
—
we laugh!), all because they are unable to navigate the seemingly infinite options inherent in literally every small act?

Here, even ordering a pizza (at last, I stumbled upon something edible) requires
multiple
decisions. Large? Extra large? Miniature meatballs and pepperoni? Some sort of vegetable? More cheese? Less cheese? Cheese concealed, like a stringy surprise, within the crust? And speaking of crust. . . Thick? Thin? Hand-tossed? Or should one reconsider the entire order and opt for "Chicago-style deep dish"? Or "Sicilian," even?

Really, Vasile, calling for "delivery"
(I
have also finally discovered that I command a virtual army of erstwhile servants, all patrolling about in battered "Ford Escorts") requires as much strategizing as some generals devote to a battle in which actual blood, not just tomato sauce, will be spilled.

Speaking of which, I was sorry to learn that the Dragomirs grow weary of waiting for the
return
of their princess and the completion of the pact.

They always are an impulsive, impatient lot, are they not? But really, to accuse me of not "doing my best" to fulfill my obligation—and then attempting to
stake
a Vladescu in a fit of ire . . . That sort of thing can precipitate a nasty skirmish, Vasile. And
I
find the whole prospect, suddenly, so tiresome.

Must we vampires always resort so quickly to violence? Could we not all sit down over a "refreshing Bud Light" and "just chill," as my television and my teammates relentlessly urge me to do? (You would be amazed to see the effort that American teenagers put into securing any quantity of beer, which is
verboten
until age twenty-one. It's astonishing, really, Vasile, all for a bit of fermented hops. One would think it was blood.)

But returning to the minor flare-up of tensions between the Dragomirs and Vladescus. Please advise both sides to remain patient, reminding them that we are
vampires.
What is the hurry when we have eternity?

And while we are on the subject of impetuous Dragomirs and violence . . . Our princess-in-waiting dealt me quite an impressive blow across the side of the face the other day. You, of all vampires, know how difficult it is to make my head snap sideways with an open hand. I must say, I rather admired the force behind the slap. Very authoritative. And the way her eyes flashed, very regal.

As for the cause of my humbling at the palm of Antanasia's hand . . . Perhaps that is best reserved for another missive.

In the meantime, might I impose upon you to ship, posthaste, some of my formal wear? Say, perhaps, the Brioni "tux" I secured in Milan. And dispatch a discreet set of cuff links, too. I trust your judgment. Keep in mind that most of my fellow party-goers will be attired in "rental" tuxedos. (Were you even aware that one could
rent
clothes, Vasile? Does it not seem a bit. . . cringe inducing? Slipping into trousers worn by a succession of predecessors of dubious pedigree and uncertain hygiene? But it is true.) My
point is, I desire, of course, to present myself in a manner befitting my station
—
without unduly upstaging others. Deliberate sartorial one-upsmanship is just crass, don't you think?

Thank you in advance for your assistance,

Your nephew,

Lucius

P.S. What the hell. Why not sign off with the
traditional
American greeting? "Merry Christmas," Uncle Vasile. "Happy holidays to you."

P.P.S. Really—"counseling"!

Chapter 37

"JESSICA, THE PHONE is for you," Dad said, poking his head into my room. "It's Jake."

"I didn't even hear it ring," I admitted, sitting up and accepting the cordless from his hand. Id been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking as usual about faithless vampires and the fact that my brain seemed to be disintegrating, and wishing that my life was just normal again. "Hey, Jake," I said into the receiver with less enthusiasm than I knew I should have. "What's up?"