Chapter 3: Carlyle vs. The Man

One time, we just got home from school—and I got the "Red Alert!" text message.

"Come on!" I grabbed Stephanie.

"Where we going?"

"Just follow my lead." We flew out the door, and ran like three houses down.

"Why all the mystery?" she said, as we were running. (I did the hurdles freshmen year, but she had to walk around some fences.)

The door was unlocked, and we walked in.

"What's going on?" Steph said. "We breaking and entering now?"

"I wish," I said. "So, you've been to our real house—of the Rising Sun..." (She actually said it wrong half the time: "House of the Midnight Sun." We all made fun of her. "Don't you know that song?" said Carlyle. "It's basically the same plot as Hotel California.") "But, this is—officially—the real house, on paper…when Children's Services show up."

Then, speak of the devil: the doorbell rang. I answered it. "Why, hello, Madame Ogilvy."

"Hello, my darling boy." She stopped to tussle my hair, although I was taller than her.

I strolled to the fridge, grabbed an apple—to have a prop in my hand, not have to talk so much. It tasted like wax fruit.

"Where's all the others?" Ms. Ogilvy asked, taking a look around.

"I think they're at the zoo with Mrs. Coltrane," I said.

"They sure love that petting zoo," she said.

"Oh, yeah. Carlyle says it's better than meditation," I said.

"You are so polite," she beamed. "I think you must be his favorite foster-child."

"We…don't use the word foster," I said. "Just regular. Oh, this is my girlfriend, Stephanie, by the way." They shook hands.

"Pleased to meet you."

Then Carlyle dashed through the door, out of breath. "Madame Ogilvy," he said. "What a pleasant surprise. I was…picking up groceries." (Although he was empty-handed.) "I wish Gloria was here, to say hi, in person."

"Edgar told me—the petting zoo."

"That's right," he said. "The blesséd zoo."

They started talking. She had some stuff to check off, on her clipboard. "Only take a minute."

We went in a back room and played ping-pong—where the other house had a pool table. The floor plan was about the same.

"So, Carlyle has two houses?" she asked. (We had to whisper.)

"Yeah, you know the other one…is a wreck, smells like Dante's Inferno..." The curtains always drawn. "But, yeah…In case, anyone important ever drops by. It's pretty brilliant." She had to agree. "Except I'm like the only one who answers his text message. The others…are too lazy, don't realize how important this is. Sometimes, I come here—if I need some peace and quiet."

"Or go to the petting zoo?" she asked.

"The perfect alibi," I said. "Carlyle knows the guy who runs it. If Ogilvy calls up, he'll confirm."

"Then…who's Gloria? Is Carlyle really married?"

I thought I heard footsteps and said "Just a sec."

Ms. Ogilvy stuck her head through the door. "Okay, I'm off," she said. "Keep up the good work."

"Alice'll probably be home any minute—if you wanna wait," I said. "Think she had chess club after school."

"Ah, that's okay," she smiled. "I'm just passing through." Then, she was gone.

Carlyle peeked in, flashed a thumbs up and "Thanks a million."

"No sweat," I said.

"Stephanie," he nodded.

"Hey, Mr. Coltrane."

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

I rolled my eyes.

"I like it here," said Steph, when we were alone. "Let's stay a little longer." I made some microwave caramel popcorn, we sat down on a couch, for some TV—but weren't done talking.

"So, you know…if I tell you this stuff," I said. "You can't tell another soul. Not even your little pink diary."

"Cross my heart and hope to die," she said—but made the motion of zipping her lips, swallowing the key.

"Lemme see your phone, too," I said. Sometimes she'd been using the tape recorder, to help out with dialogue. She called it her "Dictaphone."

"Wow, you don't trust anyone, do you?" she said. But took it out, obediently. Turned off the whole thing and placed it on the table.

"You know…" I said. "Give me a reason..I trust Carlyle. But that's why this is so über-confidential…"

"More than you being a vampyre?" she said.

"That's just a joke," I said. "But, yeah, anyhow…So, Carlyle did used to be married. And her name was Gloria. But, then, she died. I'm not exactly sure how. It's a mystery. But it happened at the old abandoned chapel, on top of the precipice above town…"

"Oh, yeah. I heard about that."

"Mostly a make-out place now," I said. "So, here's the thing—and how it's connected to Carlyle's foster parenting…It turns out: Gloria was Sheriff Braithwaite's brother."

"Oh," she said.

"I know the Sheriff is your father in your book, but…Just a coincidence." (Really, her father was an electrician. I still hadn't met him.) "So, a few people—the Sheriff, especially—know Carlyle owns two houses. And, judging by outward appearances, not the greatest foster parent in the world…"

"And there's no mother, either," Stephanie added.

"He has a few lady-friends who can play that role in front of Ms. Ogilvy. So, anyhow…But, so far—in, like, six years—nobody's ratted him out. Maybe he bribes a few people. It's possible. But the real reason: because he's holding the body of the Sheriff's sister ransom."

"Holds her ransom?" Steph asked, confused. "But she's already dead?"

"It wasn't buried in a normal cemetery. Keeps her in a sarcophagus, in the basement—and it's booby-trapped! I think he did it on purpose, for leverage. Like, immunity from any crime."

"Such as statutory—" Steph almost said.

"He's not a criminal," I protested. "Those are rumors. Carlyle still loves his wife. But, so…I guess he figured out: the Sheriff really loved his sister, too. Almost more than natural. Wants her to have a decent burial. Deathly afraid of her remains being desecrated. So, they, somehow have an understanding. Braithwaite doesn't say a word to Ogilvy. Carlyle can do what he wants."

Stephanie was trying to wrap her mind around it. "But…wouldn't the Sheriff just wait for him to leave, then swoop in and grab her?"

"I told you: it's booby-trapped. And Carlyle almost never leaves—but, supposedly, has a camera on her and walks around with a remote-control detonator. I don't think he'd really do it. But…just the threat. The Sheriff thinks he's crazy. Like…using her for a voodoo doll."

"That can't go on forever," said Stephanie.

"You're right. Probably not. But…six years, at least. Long as I can remember."

"It's almost like The House of Usher," she said. Then, she asked a follow-up, as long as we were on the subject: "What is Carlyle's occupation, officially?"

"Well…you wouldn't believe me, if I told you…" I said. "One time Carlyle told me 'You know the secret of being rich?'…"

"Inheriting it?" said Steph.

"He did inherit a little—but no. Multiple streams of income. So, he still owns an art gallery in Florence…California. He actually does a little taxidermy."

"What's that again?" she said. "Not…being an accountant."

"Stuffed animals!" I said. "You know that peacock in the front room? He did that."

"Really?" she said.

"Yeah, usually just big game. Has a warehouse and workshop downtown…but, lately, his assistants do most of the work. We used to have a real live hyena, too. But…one time, Benji hallucinated, and…there was nothing left. But my main point is… Most people think he's a drug dealer—"

"Or worse."

"But he's just a connoisseur. Dabbles in it. Like, as if, they're antiquities, on Antique Road Show. Out for the new, exotic thing—that can transport him to a new…whatever. He actually lived in India, for a while. It's like a ritual with him—like peyote."

"But the rest of you crazy kids…It's not a ritual to them," Steph said.

"Yeah…Carlyle's on a higher plane," I said. "But: that's what it's all about. Finding your own way, to deal with the madness."

"What madness?" she said.

So, most times: she wanted what we had. Other times, she could take a step back—and judge us. "It's just like reading a book," I thought up. "Or watching TV. Science fiction or fantasy—or reality TV…that's for escapism. Everyone chooses their own path."

"What are you saying?" she said. "That's…not the same thing."

(That was our first argument…maybe.)

So, I went back to what I was saying. "Carlyle…actually plays the stock market, too. Not so sure—how good he is at that. He says it's just like picking horses at the race-track. He does that, too…"

Chapter 4: The Night Visitor

One time, I was sitting around with Jasper, Ben, and James. Benji wants to be a DJ—under the name Emcee Escher… (No one has the heart to tell him how lame that sounds.) So he was playing us some stuff he mixed. That took a while. One song goes on forever.

Afterwards, we just sat there—drinking, smoking. James is the one who asked: "So what's Miss Meier writing in that little book of hers? You never told us."

"Didn't I?" I said. (I knew I hadn't.) "But, okay, sure…It's not a secret. She's writing about us."

"She is?" said Benji.

"She's changing it up a little. Fiction-alizing it. That we're a coven of vampyres."

"Huh," said Jasper. I could see the gears moving, transparently, through their heads. (Some kind of rusty.)

"Maybe they'll make a movie out of it," said Benji. "I could play myself. Maybe that'd launch my music career, like Eminem."

"They wouldn't do that, you goon," Jasper told him. "They'd hire real actors."

"Your name's changed, anyhow," I said. "She made you Emmett…I don't know why."

"I like that better," he said, after some thought. And had a brainstorm: "Maybe because I was always wear that Emmitt Smith jersey—Dallas Cowboys—when I dee-jay."

"Oh, yeah," I said. "You might be right."

It took me a second—while Jasper and Benji argued—to realize James wasn't saying anything. So I couldn't be sure what he was thinking.

I had no idea how mad James was with jealousy. How hard he was falling for her…because he acts that way around every girl. He can fall in love with anything on two legs.

"So what's the plot?" Jasper asked me.

"I'm not sure," I said. "Hard to tell. Mostly, a love story, I guess…"

"With you?" said Jasper. Benji made some "Oo" sounds.

I continued: "And, then, there's some werewolves they end up fighting."

"I can understand the vampyre metaphor," said Jasper. "You look like an albino..."

Stephanie'd actually told me: "You look like a poster-child for Hitler's Youth, or the Aryan race…Ever thought about dying your hair black?"

"No," I said.

"Why not?"

"Because it'd look stupid. That's why. You're one to talk—and give out fashion advice. You look like Marilyn Manson."

"Sucks to your asthma," I told Jasper. (One of our inside jokes—from reading Lord of the Flies once or twice.)

"…But who are the werewolves?" Benji asked.

I guess I hadn't given too much thought to them.

"Is it based on El Dinero?" he asked.

Then James finally said something: "If you're supposed to be the love interest and main character…Are the werewolves muscling in on the vampyres' territory—in more ways than one?"

"Yeah, what if you die in the end?" said Benji. "Would you die in real life? Like, when you dream you fall off a cliff…"

"Shut up, Benji," Jasper said.

For some reason, I got a little curious. As if The Real Me could hate the enemy of my Fictional Me. (Like: "The enemy of my enemy is my friend.") Or be jealous of the other person in my fictional love triangle. But I hadn't got that far. Just the insinuation from James.

So, that night…I don't know what I was thinking…I was pacing a little, and somehow ended up outside Stephanie's house. I'd been inside a few times, but not as much as she'd been to ours.

I thought about throwing a rock at her window. But, then…How clichéd is that?

Then, I didn't totally feel the need to talk to her. Just wanted to know how her book ends. I really hadn't read that much. Just what I had to, for school. And a little more, to feel smart. (Carlyle subscribed to National Geographic and The New Yorker.)

I was kind of a lazy reader. Tried reading some of Dan Brown, for example—but I couldn't stand it. Had to flip to the end halfway through. (Like with Inferno: "Airborne aerosol? They just did that in Spiderman.")

So, I got a crazy idea. (Actually, wasn't thinking—just did it.) Climbed a tree. Figured it got close enough. Could swing over. Then, she slept with her window open a crack. Popped off the screen.

That wasn't my standard procedure. Never done that with another girl. (Although Benji made the suggestion every now and then: "We should go on a panty raid.") So she was getting to me—into my head. Maybe, I had a few feelings for her. It was slightly complicated, my negotiations with myself about her.

I found her ever-present back-pack on her bed-post, the Hello Kitty diary inside. I sat by the window. There was just enough moonlight to read by.

Jasper was right, I thought. El Dinero. That's some fake gang at school. A few of them have motorcycles. Jake the Snake graduated three or four years earlier, but he fixes—or builds—their motorcycles. I thought When does she find time to hang out with them?

There was, coincidentally—or strange as it seems—a little rivalry between them and us. I think they needed to have an enemy. Wasn't enough drama in town, so had to create some. And we were the closest thing to a gang. But Carlyle told us to stay the f-k away from them. "Anyone get in a fight, dabbling in gang activity—whatever—is outta here. Back to the drawing board, central processing. I don't need the Federales going through my garbage cans—for any more reason."

Benji was the one most tempted—and they provoked him. He'd been in a few fights, we managed to hush up. But, really: we didn't care that much. We were pretty mellow. Actually, the whole thing…is almost like how pot-smokers and people who do speed don't get along. Because their personalities are completely different.

"F-k them," Jasper had to tell Ben. "Don't let them get to you. Water off a duck's back…"

Anyhow, I read enough to satisfy my curiosity. (Noticed the new title: Twilight.) The book is really big—and she is a pretty slow writer. Didn't find out everything that happened in the end—wasn't written yet. Or get too deep into the love triangle. It was just starting to be fleshed out. "Jake the Snake?" I said. Thought it was a typo.

So, I was putting the book away—right where I found it—when she stirred a little. Then, I couldn't help myself—from looking over her a little. I never gave much thought to God or anything, but really agree with the idea: that Woman must be the pinnacle of creation. (Don't know what a guy would see in another guy, for example. Lesbians make more sense. But that's their business—more power to 'em.)

It took me a second—some more movement on her part—to figure out she slept naked. From the top up, at least. Then, I did wonder…like If those legs went all the way up. The bottom half. But: I have some manners. Don't go around looking up people's skirts, if I can help it. But it was right there. I was really curious. Just wanted to slide the blanket over, just to check.

No, I told myself. Are you that sick and twisted? Breaking and entering was enough. So, I was all set to turn and go—when her eyes popped open. "Edgar?" she said, giving herself a start—and gathering her blankets around her, when she thought of it.

"Hey…I couldn't sleep," I said. That part was true.

"So, you just came over—to see if I couldn't sleep, too?"

"I guess so," I shrugged. "So…? I was right."

Then: "I was just having a dream about you."

"You were?" I said. "…That's kind of freaky."

"Not as freaky as finding a boy in your bedroom."

"Good comeback," I said.

"I feel…"

"Violated?" I said, slightly ashamed.

"But that's not a bad thing! Like Lady Godiva," she said dreamily. "Am I still dreaming?"

"I don't know," I said, absent-mindedly. "I was just leaving."

"You wanna come in here for a second?" she said—moving over, patting the spot next to her. "It's nice and cozy in here…" (She didn't say: "Since you're a Cold One.")

"I don't know," I said. "I really shouldn't…Carlyle'll get worried."—was all I could come up with.

"Carlyle?—get worried?" She raised her eyebrows. "Don't make me laugh."

"Okay," I said. "Just for a second." And sat down. "But you're tired…I don't wanna take advantage of you…when you're tired."

"No," she said. "Go ahead—take advantage. I'm wide awake." She took my hand and moved it like a puppet, made me caress her. "Isn't that nice?" she said.

"Yes," I said. I couldn't deny that, being human.

"Good," she said.

And she was trying—forcing herself—to be alert. You'd think the shock would've had that effect. It did a little, but then it faded. I could see her fighting it, and losing. "This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity," she said. "Whatever we do…I can't be held responsible…because I'm sleep-walking. It's just a dream..."

"I'm sorry I've been a little stand-offish," I said. "It's just…" I didn't know what to say—what excuse. I was surprised I said that much. Maybe I was getting tired, too.

"You don't have to apologize," she said. "About anything…" Then, she was zoning out. She couldn't help it. "Tell me a bedtime story, why don't you?" She turned her back to me, but still held my hand.

"Okay," I said.

"About vampyres," she said. "If you really were one…what would you do to me right now?"

It was hard to think, but I started talking. It came to me, as I went, kind of slow.

"Really…Das Vampyre…is the weakest of God's creations. Otherwise, if it was real—and so powerful—they should've over-run the earth years ago. Really…they're barely hanging on. By a thread. Scarcely more alive—than a statue. And: they're not bad. Just…that is the only way, they know how to survive. Their body doesn't manufacture blood. Their heart…They don't have a heart…And, so, they cannot fall in love—like you. That's what it means to be the Cold Ones…Cold-blooded."

I couldn't come up with much more than that, but it didn't matter. She was already under. I sat there, thinking about a few things. Actually, even, about my hair—out of everything.

Usually, I don't feel like trying that hard. I can wear the same shirt two days in a row. Sleep in my clothes. And just let my bangs hang down over my eyes. But: if I wake up insanely early. Say, I have insomnia—or if there is someone I want to impress…I have this hair-style. It's kind of my signature thing (although I don't do it that often). It takes like an hour. I sculpt my hair into five spikes. Alice calls it "Your Statue-of-Liberty hair-do." It does kind of look like that. I prefer—was trying to call it—the Hydra Mohawk. If the five-headed monster had a Mohawk…Anyhow.

So, lately, I hadn't found the time. Stephanie had probably seen it three times. So, I thought Maybe I'll do that tomorrow.

Then, I glanced over—and I don't know what happened to the moon, but apparently the sun was almost coming up.

I didn't know what to do. Go lock the door, so her dad wouldn't open it or anything…Fall asleep there, and see her in the morning—or go out the way I came, like a phantom…

What would I do, if I really was a vampyre? I thought. I guess that's simple. Clean her clock. Drain her blood. (There was a word for that.) But that wouldn't make much of a story.

What if she wasn't awake at all—when I'd seen her—and freaked out when she saw me, in broad daylight? That would be awkward. At least her father wasn't really the sheriff.

I really couldn't keep my hands off her body—when I was right there. Ran my fingers over her—as if I was sand-paper, polishing some ivory or whatever. But lightly—afraid I'd wake her. And not have the run of the field.

I ended up—the most natural place—having one hand cupped over her breast, like it was a sea-shell, and she was a mermaid. (That's one thought I had—after my hair.) And, like, if I put my ear up to it: I could hear the ocean. But, that was just her breathing.

I was so comfortable: I couldn't leave. But, man, it was a compromising situation. I didn't wanna have to explain myself in the morning. Or worse: if she wondered why I hadn't taken more advantage of her. And let her fall asleep.

I wasn't thinking clearly, either way—didn't think I'd get any sleep, in that position, either—so I just left. To go do my hair.