Fifty Percent Vampire, #1, page 17
“Hello, tree,” I said, running my hands lovingly up and down the smooth trunk. “Aren’t you the beautiful one?” I stood with hands spread wide and let the soft petals fall onto my hair and shoulders and between my fingers like confetti. It was an exquisite moment. Now I knew how ecstatic William Wordsworth must have felt when he spotted all those dancing daffodils.
No way was I going to give this up. No way.
Sprawled on the sweet-scented grass in the shade of this tree of life, I watched the myriad bees buzz about above me, picked dandelions and wove the little suns into a garland, a golden crown for my head like the ones Mom used to make me. Someone should have been here to see how pretty I looked.
I sighed. Face it, Astrid, Mike’s never going to call you, so isn’t it about time you put him out of your mind? Having a boyfriend is not the be-all and end-all. That was not your objective when you decided to come to live here. Mikeless days good, whispered a little voice from deep inside my head. Mikeless days good.
The Artist
By the end of March my strategy to get over Mike appeared to be working (what more did he have than awesome abs, a cleft chin and a smart uniform anyway?), and it helped that I was now seeing Daniel Millwalk on a regular basis, at the Friday lunchtime art lectures presented by Mr. McKenzie.
I always rushed to the auditorium early, to have the pick of the seats in the front row and to save the one next to me. Daniel seemed pleased he and I could at last spend time together, although we focused more on the lectures than on each other, quiet in our companionship.
Halfway through the introductory talk on Leonardo da Vinci, I happened to glance at the pad Daniel had open on his desk. He’d been doodling, and a famous face smiled up from the page.
“You drew the Mona Lisa from memory?” I whispered in surprise. “That’s awesome.”
“It’s what I do,” he whispered back. “I’m glad you like it.”
As we left the auditorium after the lecture we got talking. “I’ve seen your website,” I said. “You paint really well.”
“Would you like to see the originals?”
Some pickup line.
“You mean you haven’t sold them to some museum?”
He laughed. “Not yet. They’re adorning the walls of my studio.”
“You have a studio?” I pictured Daniel daubing away at an easel in a tiny garret not dissimilar to my attic room in Vampville.
“My parents gave me some space in our basement. Seriously, I’d love it if you stopped by someday. Any time you like.”
“I’ll have to check my diary,” I said primly, recalling the harsh lesson I’d learned from the Jonah affair. It didn’t pay to be too eager to agree to a date. And this wasn’t even a date, was it? Well, maybe it was, and maybe it wasn’t.
What came next took me totally by surprise. “You know what, Astrid?” he said. “I’d really like to paint you in oils. I’ve never tried a portrait before and I think you’d be a perfect study.”
Me? Perfect? Who was he trying to kid? I ran my fingers nervously through my hair. Did he want me to be his model for another green-skinned water monster, like the one I’d seen on his website?
“I’ll consider it,” I said. “This is so sudden.”
I left for my next class, of which I don’t remember much, as my mind was full of thoughts of what had just happened. Should I accept Daniel’s offer? Wasn’t this just what I wanted, a closer relationship with him? I’d been smitten by his smile on my first Sunday morning in town and all these months later he was finally offering me a chance to get to know him better. I decided to discuss his intriguing proposal with Rachel and the girls.
Predictably, my friends encouraged me to go for it. Daniel was eleventh grade’s mystery man, and if he’d decided to reach out to me I’d be a fool not to grasp the nettle with both hands and strike while the iron was hot, so to speak.
“He’s hardly going to mess with you after what you did to The Whale,” remarked Brady.
The vote was unanimous. So I kept Daniel waiting for my answer until after next Friday’s art lecture and then told him yes. We agreed I’d visit him at home the next day, on Saturday morning at ten o’clock.
At one minute after ten on Saturday morning I propped Aunt Jean’s bicycle in Daniel’s front yard and he opened the front door to welcome me. From the outside the house looked similar to ours, but inside it was very different. The living room, into which I was shown first, was a vast space of light and air, each wall hung with paintings, some of which I recognized from their adventurous style as Daniel’s. French windows led out to a balcony overlooking a spectacular view: the treetops and beyond towards distant Lookout Point.
Daniel’s parents stood waiting for us on the scrubbed board floor, barefoot like their son. “Mom, Dad, this is my friend Astrid Sonnschein. She’s come all the way from Romania to study with us.”
Daniel’s mom smiled as she stepped forward with arm extended. “And how do you like Rosenberg High, Astrid?” she asked.
“Very much,” I replied, shaking her hand. “I wish I’d come here sooner. It seems to be a good school.”
“Glad you think so,” said Mr. Millwalk. “Dan likes it too, don’t you, son?”
“I do,” said Daniel. “And I like it even more now that I have Astrid’s company. She lives with the Powers in Wicket Lane.”
“Jean and James Power? Why, that’s practically next door. And how long have you lived there?”
Wow, Mr. and Mrs. Millwalk must have been the only two people in town who didn’t know who I was.
“Since the beginning of the school year,” I blurted. “Jean’s my mom’s elder sister.”
“I can see the family resemblance,” smiled Mrs. Millwalk. She reached forward and stroked my hair.
“Let’s go, Astrid,” said Daniel, grabbing my hand. “I want to show you my studio.”
He led me to the top of a spiral staircase at the far left corner of the room and we descended to what was ground level at the back of the house. When we reached a closed door he paused and smiled. “Welcome to my world.”
He swung the door open and allowed me first inside. I gasped. Similarly to the room above our heads the whole back wall was of glass. The yard beyond was a Japanese garden, all rounded pebbles and miniature shrubs around a small pool into which water trickled from the rocks, the backdrop the straight tree trunks of the forest, much closer here than at our house, with no fence to block them out. As I stood entranced by the magical scene a small bird—a marsh wren, I think it was—flitted down to the edge of the pool and drank from the clear water.
“Daniel, it’s beautiful,” I gushed. “Did you design this?”
He nodded. “Mom and Dad helped a little.”
I turned my attention to his paintings. There were so many of them, from tiny miniatures to canvases taller than I was, crowding the wall to our left. The red-eyed water sprite was there and so was the painting of the dark treetops. I was pleased to see he had a Yin-Yang poster, the same as the one in my bedroom, pinned to the door. A work in progress, a splash of oils I thought might turn out to be a human form, was leaning on his easel. The wall on the right was empty. “Why don’t you have any paintings over there?” I asked.
“I need the light,” he explained.
I nodded, but I hadn’t really understood.
“You’ll be sitting here,” he explained, whipping a white sheet from a high stool. “The sunlight will bounce off the wall onto your body and burn out the shadows. Although I might need these lamps too.”
He flicked a switch and the intensity of the light in the room about doubled, forcing me to raise my arm to shield my eyes. I thought my retinas would catch fire.
“Take a seat,” he said. “I want to take some photographs. Can you let your hair down?”
I perched on the stool and shook my hair from its ponytail while Daniel danced around me taking photos from all angles. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was wasting his time.
“Smile,” he coaxed.
I did so, nervously, keeping my lips firmly shut, still concerned about the brightness of the light to which I was being exposed by those powerful lamps, one on either side of me.
“How long is this going to take?” I inquired.
“The portrait? A few weeks, a month at most. But if you sit real still I should have time to sketch you in pencil before Mom calls us for lunch.” He took hold of my shoulders and gently maneuvered me into the pose he wanted, then stepped behind the easel and started to draw.
We sat without speaking for half an hour, the only sound in the room the soft scratching of Daniel’s pencils on paper. But then I began to get fidgety and was ready to call a halt.
He beat me to it. “Thanks,” he said. “You can relax for a while. I’ve got the tough job now. How on earth am I going to paint all those freckles? I bet you’ve got more freckles than there are stars in the Milky Way.”
No doubt he meant this as a compliment, but the way it came out it sounded as though he was scolding me.
Daniel, I thought, that’s your problem. I cannot help producing larger than normal quantities of melanin any more than I can help the existence of my oversized canines. And please don’t make matters worse for yourself by asking me to say cheeeeeese.
I spent as much time as I could spare during that weekend and the next two with my art-loving friend in his studio while he dabbed away at his canvas. He refused to let me see the picture as it progressed. “I want it to be a surprise,” he teased.
I managed to sneak a peek at his palette now and again, to see how much green paint he had there, and was relieved to find hardly any. Not enough for water-monster skin at least.
“I’ll need a special green for your eyes,” he said. “But not today.”
While we worked we listened to classical music on his expensive-sounding hi-fi. “That’s a composition by Josquin des Prez,” he replied to my question about a choral piece I found so relaxing it was closing my eyelids. “L’homme armé Mass. Maybe I should play something else. In case you relax so much you fall off your stool and hurt yourself.”
I nearly leaped off my stool and punched him in the chest. Just kidding. I wouldn’t have done that.
Mostly we saved talking for after the sessions. Daniel absorbed himself in his work, his face a picture itself, a picture of complete calm. Our eyes met several times, sometimes for longer than was absolutely necessary, but it was usually his that broke away first, as he turned his attention to mixing more paint or to adding a new splash of color to the canvas. My eyes, which he complimented often, apparently had less hypnotic power than those of my mom or my stepfather.
Whenever I needed a break to stretch my arms and legs and unnumbify my butt we would chat about art works we both liked: the Mona Lisa, Van Gogh’s various sunflowers and starry nights, Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring, Warhol’s can of tomato soup. And all the time I was wondering when he was going to ask me out on a real date. Somewhere romantic instead of atop an uncomfortable stool in his parents’ basement.
After two weeks of my busy artist not broaching the subject, I decided to take the bull by the horn (Rachel’s words, not mine). “Daniel,” I asked. “You do like me, don’t you?”
He looked up from his canvas in surprise. “Hey, where’s that come from? Of course I like you. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“What I’m trying to say is—where are we going with this relationship? I want to know how much you like me.”
That hint of a smile reappeared. “Come here and I’ll show you.”
I jumped down from the stool and went to him. He took my hand and drew me behind the easel. “This is how much I like you,” he said gently.
Oh my, the portrait was stunning. For the first time in my life I beheld my likeness, my cascading red hair and my own green eyes and all those freckles and a shyly smiling mouth, and I wondered if in real life I looked so pretty.
“Is that me?” I whispered in awe.
“Yes, that’s you,” he said, and kissed me on the cheek.
Now that was more like it. Taking the hint, I aimed for his lips, but he somehow managed to avoid me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, drawing back. He had such a pained look on his face.
“I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he muttered. “Astrid, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what? You’ve no need to worry. I’m a reformed character.”
“It’s not that. I only kissed you because I’m excited and overjoyed you like my work. Please don’t think I meant anything else.”
I couldn’t work it out. He wasn’t making any sense.
“You’re a beautiful girl and that’s why I wanted to paint you.” His voice sounded oddly flat.
“That’s it?” I asked. “I’m just a model? I sacrifice my weekends to sit for you for hours and now I find you only wanted me for my body?”
“Astrid, that’s not true. We’re friends.”
“I guess I was hoping we would be more than just friends.”
“But I thought you were interested in Mike Hanson,” he said. “That’s what I heard.”
I sighed. “Every girl I know at Rosenberg High is interested in Mike Hanson. So’s his partner, that Tafani woman. I don’t stand a chance, so I’ve kind of given up.” I bit my tongue, realizing I’d just told Daniel he was my second choice. Or third, if I included Jonah. “Hey, I’m sorry.”
“You’ve no need to be. I can sympathize with you about Mike. I like him too, but I’m pretty sure I stand far less of a chance than you do.”
“What?” My jaw dropped.
Daniel hesitated. “I’ve always been a sucker for uniforms. With men in them.”
I laughed nervously as I got his meaning. “You ... you’re gay?”
Daniel nodded.
My heart tripped on a stray paint pot and fell overboard with the biggest splash ever. I’d picked the wrong guy to help me get over unattainable Mike. What were the girls going to say? Oops, Astrid does it again.
I thanked Daniel politely for painting my portrait—which I still consider his masterpiece, by the way, and I’ll be forever glad I provided him such inspiration—gave him a swift peck on the cheek and made my excuses. As I hurried upstairs to the front door, he begged me in a loud whisper not to out him. I was the only person in town he’d told his secret: not even his parents knew.
I promised him faithfully that my lips were sealed and he’d no need to worry. I would just tell the girls it hadn’t worked out between us and we’d agreed to remain friends. And it went without saying I would continue to reserve him a seat at the lunchtime art lectures.
But as he closed the door behind me and I began my walk home through the darkness, I kicked at the ground in frustration. The last thing I’d needed was to learn Daniel was yet another rival for Mike’s affections, though as the poor guy had said, I doubted he’d much of a chance.
Dammit though. Why was life so insistent on making things difficult for me? It was like I was taking part in an insane reality show with Mike as the star prize and every week more and more people showed up to compete. I glared at the full amber moon, growled menacingly from the depths of my throat, and smashed my fist so hard into my open palm it hurt.
Hope for Years to Come
Easter break was soon upon us and the stores were full of chocolate eggs and Easter bunnies. Rachel and Brady flew off to Cancún for a week in the sun. I would have liked to have gone with them, but as I was technically an illegal immigrant it was out of the question. Aunt Jean wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. “Easter time is for contemplating the message of love that God sent us,” she said sternly. “Not for lying hungover on some tropical beach.”
After Mass on Good Friday, she took Emma and me to visit our grandmother’s grave. While we cousins replaced the wilted flowers with fresh carnations, and pulled the few weeds that had encroached on the plot since our previous visit, our revered elder stood under her umbrella and lectured us on the mystery of Christ’s death and resurrection and the hope they gave us for the future. “When this world ends ...” she explained, with a tear in her eye, “... we shall see all our loved ones again.”
“Is that before or after the sun goes supernova and incinerates all the planets?” asked Emma.
“Either way, it seems an awfully long time to wait,” I added, brushing mud from both knees of my pants.
“You won’t notice the passage of time,” replied Aunt Jean. “Because you’ll be dead.”
I had a happy thought. “So maybe I should kill myself right now. Then I’ll get to meet my dad sooner.”
“Astrid, what an awful thing to say!” Aunt Jean stared at me, horrified. “That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”
“Why? I have to die one day, don’t I?” I countered. “If it’s as you say, in the blink of an eye we’ll all be back.”
Aunt Jean sighed. “You’re just like your mother,” she said sadly. “Don’t you want to live? Come with me, Emma, you don’t need to hear any more of this.”
Emma shot me a look that clearly said “now see what you did,” and the pair of them hurried away before I had a chance to respond.
I stood alone in the middle of the cemetery, unsure what I’d said to upset them so much, and wondering what my aunt had meant by her remark about my mom. Picking up the bunch of dead flowers, I bade farewell to my grandma’s mortal remains, and set off with crunching footsteps along the wet gravel path that led back to the parking lot. I just didn’t get it. On occasion humans could be sooooo incomprehensible.
A Funny Thing Happened
I had a dream. I was swimming in the pond, the one you can see from Lookout Point through the trees. I swim there almost every Saturday when the weather’s fine. On this particular day nobody else was around so I decided it was safe to go skinny. I dived in and swam ten laps freestyle, after which I stopped to catch my breath and trod water in the deep part, underneath the shady willow tree, surrounded by a billion drowning pollen grains. In a beam of sunlight to my right a swarm of midges danced. Frogs were croaking, a soothing chorus.
