First Day
"Class, we have a new student joining us today! Everyone, please welcome Ebony Drag…um…"
"Dragulia," I said, trying not to sigh. I was standing in front of my third class of the day, wearing a black nylon blouse with two velvet dragons on the front and a black tank top underneath, black pants, black boots, a black cloak with dark red lining that my mom had made for me, and my three bullets as a specially made necklace and pair of earrings. This was the third time today I had had to listen to this drivel. No one cared anyway. "It's Romanian."
"Then where's your Romanian accent?" someone asked.
"In Romania," I replied. Turning to the teacher, I added, "As I'm sure you're going ask if I want to say a few things about myself, I think I will. Yes, I am a descendent of Vlad de Dracul, or Dracula, on my mother's side. No, I am not a vampire nor do I drink blood or impale people. Don't be stupid. And yes, the bullets I'm wearing are, in fact, real. Any questions?" Several hands rose. I pointed first at a Goth boy near the back of the room. He seemed like someone I could get along well with.
"What do you mean, they're real?" he asked.
"Exactly what I said," I replied. "The one around my neck was pried out from between two of my lower ribs, and the ones in my ears came from the corresponding shoulders."
"You were shot?" gasped a preppy girl incredulously.
"Haven't I made that clear?" I asked. "I was shot. Do you want to see the scars? They're very pretty." This last remark was scathing and dripping sarcasm. The prep got the hint. The Goth smiled at me. I returned the smile. "Don't you kids read the papers? A girl was shot in an ally by a paid assassin, and not a very good one at that. She survived. She stands before you now." They stared at me in awe. Good, now I had their attention if not their respect. That could come later. I smiled frostily and gave a little shrug. "Where do I sit?" I innocently inquired of my thoroughly spooked teacher. She didn't answer, just gestured for me to take a seat anywhere. Smiling in a way people told me could freeze fire, I made my way down the rows of desks, noting with amusement that the kids were shrinking away from me, praying that I would not sit next to one of them. The Goth in the back, however, smiled at me welcomingly and gestured to the empty seat next to him. I returned the smile and accepted the seat. He leaned over next to me as our teacher tried to start the lesson.
"I'm Damien," he said softly, extending his hand. I took it and, to my surprise, he kissed the back of my hand lightly.
"I'm Ebony," I said, figuring I'd be polite. He smiled. "And I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship." Damien's smile widened to a grin and he nodded. I returned the smile. I liked him immediately. Not only were we of the same dark ilk, but he was physically attractive too: black hair standing slightly on end and shot with gold, adorable deep brown eyes, and flawless practically white skin. His clothes were all black, and somewhat old-fashioned, but old-fashioned was becoming fashionable again anyway. Besides, fashions are for preps. Damien's clothes made a statement about him. They stated that he was different and he liked it, that he didn't care what others thought.
'All he needs is a pair of black draconic wings and he'd be an Angel of the Night,' I thought. I pictured him with aforementioned black wings, and found I rather liked the image. I wondered what he thought of me. I didn't consider myself beautiful, but I thought I was at least pretty. I had inherited my mother's pale skin (made paler by hours in front of a computer screen with minimal lighting and as little exposure to the sun as possible), but I had my father's silvery-grey eyes and glossy raven-black hair that shone with a silvery sheen. People with natural gold highlights in their hair were said to have 'sun-streaks', I have 'moon-streaks'; it makes perfect sense. Well, to me at least. And that's all that matters.
"Are you new around here, or just to this school?" he asked softly.
"Just to the school," I replied. "I've lived here all my life."
"Well, how about I give you the grand tour later? Do you know what lunch you have?"
"D."
"Great, same as me. It's right after this class, actually. We can eat together in the third cafeteria, OK?"
"Sounds great." And I meant it. For the first time since I could remember, I was actually looking forward to spending time with another member of the human race. When was the last time I had actually done that willingly, I wondered? Ah well, it didn't matter. All that mattered was lunchtime with Damien.
The rest of the class just passed me by, pretty much. I wasn't paying attention; I couldn't care less about the Pythagorean Theorem, or why rise-over-run gives you…slope? Whatever. I knew all this already; my dad had taught me. All I cared about was getting out of there so I could spend more time with Damien. I didn't want to be fast, but I found myself strongly attracted to him – on a spiritual level.
I think he felt it too.
Finally the bell rang, signaling our release. There was a mad flurry of kids hastily snatching up books, coats, and other accessories, eager to get out and get food. I was inclined to agree with them in their haste; I hadn't eaten that morning. Bad idea, I know, but I hadn't had the time. Besides, I never ate much anyway. Not that I was anorexic; I just don't eat much.
I stuffed my books haphazardly into my (black) shoulder bag and slung it over my shoulder. Damien was standing near me when I looked up again, but he didn't startle me. Little ever did, really. I simply smiled and gestured for him to lead the way, which he did. The cafeteria was a zoo; no, not quite, because animals at least have the sense not to throw their own food – they throw someone else's. I rolled my eyes, having forgotten what school lunchtime was like. I remembered the food, though, and how it looked and tasted like it had been made out of whatever the chem. lab had thrown out that morning. Or last week. It depended on what you were eating.
"It's not too bad if you don't look at it," said Damien helpfully. I laughed and followed his advice.
"Nope, still bad," I said. Damien simply shrugged.
"So where did you go before here?" he asked. I looked at him silently.
"Can you keep a secret?" I asked in a conspiratorial tone. He nodded, leaning closer. "I dropped out a while ago. By rights, I should be a frosh."
"Why'd you drop out?" asked Damien in surprise.
"My dad was in the 9/11 tragedy in America," I said. "He was in a meeting. After he died, Mom and I struggled to keep living. I dropped out, and ended up getting shot, because I started doing…business with a wheeler-dealer who called himself Hob, or Ol' Hob. I don't know why. After I got to know him better, and he got to trust me, I started ripping him off. I'm guessing he found out and wasn't amused. After my life was narrowly saved in the ER, thanks to the medical team and a blood donor named Mary Heller, I realized what I mess I had made of things. I didn't want to die like that: a worthless thief. It almost killed me to think of what my mom would have done if that was what she last remembered me as. I love my mom; she's all I've got now. I'm all alone otherwise. I promised her I'd try to straighten out, for her sake if not mine. And I'm trying, I really am." Damien didn't speak for a time. Then he gently placed his hand on mine.
"Maybe you don't have to be alone anymore," he said softly. "You can think of me as your friend." I smiled. More than anything I had wanted to hear those words (well, something like that). I turned my hand over and squeezed his.
"Thank you," I said. He smiled and sat back.
"You said the donor's name was Mary Heller?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said. "Why? Do you know her? If I ever meet her, I want to thank her."
"I know her," replied Damien. "At least, I know of her. Most people do. Except she doesn't call herself Mary Heller anymore. Now it's Mary Sheppard."
"My mom works for the Sheppards now," I said in surprise. "At Carfax Antiques. Is her husband's name Simon?"
"Yeah, that's them," said Damien. "You're mom's landed herself a sweet job. One that many will try and appropriate behind her back, I'm sure."
"No one," I said steadily, "will ever hurt my mom and live to tell about it. Or if they do, they will live on in great agony."
"I can believe it," replied Damien with a friendly laugh. "What's your defense?"
I didn't know how to respond at first, then I realized what he meant. "A dagger. Or a bow, actually. I'm also a good shot with a firearm. If all else fails, black-belt karate. But I haven't had to use any of that yet. I go to shooting galleries for fun, and to show up all those machos with their huge and essentially worthless rifles that they don't know the first thing about."
"Swell. Remind me never to piss you off," he said. I laughed freely. "Hey, have you heard about the secret abbey? The one that used to be off-limits to everyone except Mr. Van Helsing before he died?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Ever thought about going down there?"
"Sure, but I don't know if I would. I've heard that a bunch of thieves broke in a few years back and most of them died. Two of them were actually impaled. Creepy, huh?"
"Most definitely. But have you heard what's down there?"
"Something about a faceless evil, or something like that. I wish I could check it out. Minus the deadly booby-traps, of course."
"Of course."
There was a pause for a moment, until the bell jolted us out of out thoughts. We grabbed our books hurriedly and went out into the hall. As I was turning to leave, Damien caught my arm.
"Listen, are you doing anything after school?" he asked.
"I'm going to Carfax. The Sheppards told Mom that I could come there and keep her company while I did my homework, provided I don't go anywhere I shouldn't."
"Well, I was just wondering…do you like horror flicks?"
I grinned, liking where I thought this was going. "Yes. Very much. I love being scared. You know, the safe kind of scared that you know you can live through."
"Well, I wondered if you might be interested in coming to my place later to watch some movies, maybe study together."
"I'll have to check in with my mom first, but I think it'll be OK. After all, it is a Friday. Gimme your number and I'll call later, OK?"
"Sure." We swapped digits and parted ways. I was glad I only had one more class that day, or else I truly think my head would have burst. What the hell did I care what the past participle of léver was? What the hell is a past participle anyway! How could I concentrate on French when my mind was on Damien? And I swear the clock stopped just as the minute had was nearing the twelve. Time actually froze on me, just for a minute there, before the last bell finally rang. I bolted out the door with the rest of the herd when it did.