And I, I realize suddenly, am totally and utterly alone. I can put on a brave front, ridicule them, whatever, but at the end of the day I’m the one who’s the joke. Because they’re happy and I’m not. They’re free and I’ve got the weight of the world on my shoulders. All this time I’ve thought myself superior to them, but really I’m more pathetic.
As I walk down the hall, I feel the stares of the other students burning into my backside. They’re laughing at me. They think I’m a weirdo. A loser. And I hate to say it, but maybe they’re right. I mean, my own father doesn’t even think I’m worthy of a birthday cake. And he was there at my conception.
Anger churns deep in my gut. I harden my face to match their stares, forcing myself not to cry. Screw them all. I don’t need them. I don’t need Dad. I don’t need anyone.
And then I run into Mike Stevens.
I hate Mike Stevens more than anyone at my school. If I’m the designated freak, he’s the designated golden boy. Captain of the varsity football team, even though he’s a junior. Student body president. Ash blond hair and sparkling green eyes. And a cocky smile that says he knows he’s worshipped by half the school and feels he deserves everything life’s dished him.
When we were in elementary school and everyone was like everyone else and there were no cliques, Mike Stevens and I used to play in the mud together at recess. When we were six, he kissed me.
That was a long time ago. We don’t bring that up much. Actually, ever. In fact, I’m not sure he even remembers, which is probably a good thing.
These days we’d rather hurl mud at each other than play in it. And today he had the perfect weapon. My hickey.
It’s not a hickey, of course. It’s a bite mark from a vampire. But that’s not something I can convince Mike of, obviously. Sigh. I thought the mark had faded enough to stop wearing a turtleneck, but evidently not.
“Hey, my little Goth princess,” Golden Boy says to me after first period, leaning against the row of lockers. I pull out my books and stuff them into my black book bag, trying to ignore him, even though he’s positioned himself directly in my line of sight. He’s all cargo pants and Patriots jerseyed out as usual. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Not you, that’s for sure.” I growl. I am so not in the mood for this today of all days. Not when I already feel so lousy about life, the universe, and everything.
He laughs. “Of course not. I don’t do freaks.”
“Good. Because I don’t do Muggles.”
At first I think he may miss the literary reference, but evidently even this illiterate fool has read Harry Potter. Those books are just way too popular. I may have to give them up for something more obscure.
“So, witch, which warlock gave you the hickey then?”
“It’s not a hickey.”
“Oh, really,” he says sarcastically. “What, did you burn yourself with a curling iron like Mary Markson seems to do every Monday morning?”
Mary Markson and her boyfriend, Nick, have been going out for eons. They’re totally most likely to get married. And she does have a tendency to show up to school with a lot of unsavory neck bruises. She insists she’s just clumsy with the curling iron, but since she never has any actual curls to back up the claim, we’re all a bit doubtful.
“No. Not a curling iron burn. I got bit by a vampire if you must know.”
He rolls his eyes. I knew I was safe to say that. He’d never believe me in a million years. “Ah. So that’s your type. I should have guessed.”
“No. You shouldn’t have guessed. You shouldn’t have even noticed. What, are you staring at me from across the halls now? Stalking me?” Ever since I humiliated him in seventh grade (don’t ask) he’s made it his life’s mission to make mine a living hell. Sunny thinks he secretly has a crush on me. Which is just . . . ew.
Mike frowns. Evidently I’ve struck a nerve. “Please. Your hickey is so big Blind Mr. Bannon the Biology teacher could see it.”
“Good. I want the whole world to see the bite of my dark lover.”
Jareth is not, of course, my dark lover. Or even my light one. Or any kind of lover, unfortunately. (As much as I might want him to be.) But I can’t exactly back down and let Mike win.
“So when do you turn into a vampire then?” the stupid jock queries.
“I’m not going to turn into a vampire, moron. I’ve just been bitten. I’d have to drink the blood of a vampire to turn into one. Duh. And they don’t just let anyone do that. There’s a waiting list.”
“A waiting list? There’s actually enough of you freaks out there for a waiting list?” He bends over, hands on knees, and laughs and laughs.
Grr. Did I mention I hate this guy? I notice a few students have stopped in the hallway, pretending to chat, but really wanting to take in the scene. The Goth girl against the jock boy. It’s good reality programming. But I’m just not in the mood.
“Dude, don’t you have some cheerleaders to seduce or beer to chug? Some nerd to copy off of? I know your life’s lame and all, but certainly you must be able to think of a better way to waste it than talking to me.”
He opens his mouth to reply, then I see him glance over at our audience. He seems to decide against what he was originally going to say and instead retorts, “Whatever skank,” extra loud, to make sure everyone hears him insult me.
Then he hacks up a loogie and spits on me—ACTUALLY SPITS ON ME—before turning to walk away.