“I got that wrong. You are a lying bitch. I can hear the bells!” Monica meant the school’s carillon, the tower bells that chimed out a silvery melody at the hour change. For some weird reason, it was playing Christmas music. Maybe somebody had forgotten to change over—or just really liked “O Holy Night.” “Where are you—never mind, I see you. Stay right there.”
Monica hung up. Claire looked around and saw that Kim was filming her—and Monica was charging down the steps of the English Building, heading her way and trailed by an entourage like a comet’s tail. It wasn’t just Gina and Jennifer this time; she’d picked up two strange girls wearing designer spring dresses and cute shoes, and a couple of big football-type guys—bland and handsome and not too smart, just the way Monica liked them.
Claire considered running, but not if Kim was planning on gleefully filming the whole thing. She could live with the shame. She just didn’t think she could live with the reruns on YouTube.
Monica had gone with a floral pattern minidress, and it looked great on her; she hadn’t let her tan go during the winter, and her skin looked healthy and glowy and toned. She strode up to Claire and came to a halt a couple of feet away, surrounded by her fashion army.
It was like being menaced by a gang of Barbie and Ken dolls.
“You,” Monica said, and leveled an accusatory, perfectly manicured finger at her. Claire focused on the hot pink nail, then past it to Monica’s face.
“Yes?”
“Come here.”
And before Claire could even think about protesting, Monica had her wrapped up in a hug.
A hug.
With Monica.
Claire got control of herself, at least enough to grab Monica by the arms and push her back to a safe distance. “What the hell?”
“Bitch, you are the best. Seriously, I cannot believe it!”
Monica was . . . excited. Happy. Not about to beat her up.
Wow. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but what are you on?”
Monica laughed, reached into her messenger bag, and pulled out a stapled two-page paper. It was an economics test.
And it had, written in the corner in red, A.
“That’s what I’m on,” she said. “Do you know how long it’s been since I got an A? Like, ever? My brother is going to fall over.”
Claire handed the paper back. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Monica’s good mood faded, replaced by her more-normal bitch face. “I guess I got my money’s worth, anyway.”
For some reason, Claire thought about Shane paying Eve to clean his room. “There’s a lot of that going around, trust me. Okay then. We’re good?”
“For now,” Monica said. “Stay available. I’ve got other classes I suck at.”
Claire bit her tongue before she could say, I don’t doubt it, and watched Monica and her swirl of hangers-on sweep away, laughing and talking as if they were in their own private shampoo commercial.
She’d almost forgotten about Kim, and when she caught sight of the cold gleam of the camera lens out of the corner of her eye she turned and said, “Cut it out, will you?”
“Not a chance,” Kim said cheerfully, camera still running. “Not until I run out of tape.”
“It’s digital!”
“That’s the point. Hey, so, tell me about you and Monica. Secret love affair? Mortal enemies? Are you each other’s evil twins? Come on, you can tell me; I won’t tell anybody!”
“Except everybody on Facebook?”
“Well, obviously, yeah. Come on, you’re wasting my minutes. Talk!”
“I have two words for you,” Claire said, “and the second one is off. Fill in the blank.”
Kim lowered the camera and switched it off, shaking her dark hair out of her face. “Wow. Who got up on the grumpy side of breakfast?”
“I don’t like being on camera.”
“Nobody does. That’s the whole point. I want to catch people as they really are. That guy, for instance, Mr. Football Dude? He’s a douche. I got him to talk long enough that you could actually see he was a douche. It’s fun. You should try it.”
“No thanks.” Claire didn’t think the powers that be in Morganville would take especially well to guerrilla film-making, and she wondered if anybody had told Oliver. He didn’t seem to like Kim’s little projects much.
Maybe it was time for a mocha.
“Hey,” Kim said, as Claire started to walk on. “About Shane.”
That pulled her to a full stop. “What about him?”
“I just wanted to know—so, are you guys serious or something?”
“Yeah, we’re serious.” Claire said it flatly, trying not to imagine what Shane might say to the same question. He didn’t like to commit. He was committed; he just didn’t like to go on the record. “You been filming anywhere else?”
“Sure, all over,” Kim said. “Why, you want to see?”
“No. Just curious. What are you planning to do with it?”
“You’ve seen Borat? Yeah, kind of like that—sort of a mockumentary.” Kim gave a one-shoulder shrug, focused on whatever was playing on the tiny screen of her camcorder. “Only with vampires.”
“You’re filming the vampires.”
“Well, not officially. It’s a hobby.”
It was a dangerous hobby, but Claire guessed Kim knew that. “Just don’t film me, okay?”
“Seriously? I’ll make you a star!”
“I don’t want to be a star.”
As she walked away, Kim said plaintively, “But everybody wants to be a star!”
8
The rest of the day passed quietly enough. Claire dropped in to see Eve at the coffee shop, but all Eve could talk about was the play, how cool it all was, how she was so going to rock as Blanche DuBois, and how she had this plan to wear a black skull-patterned slip instead of the white one that the costume people wanted . . . and when she wasn’t enthusing about the play, she was all about Kim. Kim, Kim, Kim.
“Cool necklace,” Claire said, out of desperation, and pointed at the one around Eve’s neck. It was cool—kind of a tribal dragon thing, full of angles and sinister curves. Eve touched it with her fingertips and smiled.
“Yeah,” she said. “Michael got it for me. Not bad, right?”
“Not bad at all. Hey, did you clean Shane’s room?”
“Actually? I just vacuumed and dusted. He picked it up himself. Why, did he tell you it was all me? Boys lie.”
“About cleaning?”
Eve ate a bite of blueberry muffin and swallowed some coffee. “Why not? They think cleaning makes them look non-manly. Eek, sorry Claire Bear, gotta motor. Boss-man, he no like breaks. See you later?”
“Sure.” Claire slid out of her seat and picked up her book bag. “See you at home.”
“Oh, you should totally swing by rehearsal! Three o’clock at the auditorium. You know where it is?”
Claire knew, although she’d never been there—it was kind of a town civic center, and it was off Founder’s Square—aka, Vamptown. Like most humans in Morganville, she’d never been really interested in traveling there at night.
Three in the afternoon, though . . . that sounded reasonable. “I’ll try,” Claire said. “So—I know you were worried about Oliver. Is that going okay, having him in the play?”
“Oh, actually, yeah. He’s not bad! I almost believe he isn’t a controlling jerk. Most of the time.” Eve looked over her shoulder, made a scared face when the boss beckoned her, and waved good-bye.
Claire decided she couldn’t put it off any longer, and pulled out her cell phone. She’d written and uploaded a program that allowed her phone to track and display available portals; according to the theory she’d been reading up on in Myrnin’s lab recently, it wasn’t such a good thing for humans to force a portal open, the way vampires could without too much effort. Over time, things happened—to the human. And Claire decided she liked her normal arrangement of eyes, ears, and nose—she liked Picasso okay, but she didn’t want to become one of his paintings.