Before I could protest, her brown eyes silenced me. As she spoke, the scent of her breath- far more subtle than the rancid perfume had been- wafted toward me, temporarily stifling my senses.
“You want to meet me at Harvey’s Drug at four-thirty for a milkshake, Alan Rand. Don’t disappoint me.”
As she flitted off, I all but forgot about marching band try-outs and found myself greatly anticipating our upcoming rendezvous. I wondered at my own lack of propriety. A girl that forward with a boy? Mother would never approve.
The power of vampire pheromones would never cease to amaze me. Even after almost ninety years of their usage, the sheer fact that men would just cave in completely lifted both my confidence and my ego. Even vampires have feelings.
I looked at my quarry, shaking his head, wondering what had struck him. Amos had been clear with his instructions. He wanted Alan delivered subservient, but not turned. For some reason beyond my comprehension, Amos Blanche, my boss, wanted to do the act himself. And that made me question the whole deal.
In Amos’s empire, ‘turning’ usually got associated with sex, and I knew that Amos wasn’t that type of guy. To try and get inside Alan’s head, I’d thought of a date at the soda parlor. Neutral ground. Knowledge meant power, and if you fell behind, you got left behind. Below Amos, I sat as number one girl, and had been for almost eighty years. I looked eighteen, the perfect bait for high school urchins like Alan Rand.
I lit a cigarette and crossed the road outside the school. Alan’s date gave me almost an hour and a half free, and I fancied a bite to eat. Even though my body no longer actually needed the nutrients, the act reminded me of the old days. And it helped me blend in.
The newspaper vendor on the corner shouted about the Dodgers owner, Walt O’Malley, taking the team from Brooklyn to Los Angeles. How they’d be ready for the 1958 season, how New York would be bereft of good baseball. Oh, the humans loved their sport. It seemed all so tedious; I could recall when there wasn’t any kind of sport.
Now, I stood in the middle of a new century, I had waltzed past two world wars, and I could still turn heads like I did back in the day.
Valérie Lidowitz felt a force to be reckoned with. Talk about an old head on young shoulders.
“Keep at it, my boy,” Mr. Schuster said, “Maybe next year…”
Once again the marching band director determined I wasn’t quite up to snuff. Next year? I graduated in June. Slamming my clarinet case shut, I stomped away from the auditorium. I, Alan Rand, had officially run out of ‘next years’.
I noted the time as I dialed the combination to my bike lock: twenty minutes past four. Mother would have supper on table precisely at five-ten. Even at top speed my Trent Tourist couldn’t get me across town in less than twenty minutes. Harvey’s Drug lay five minutes out of my way; considering the time it would take to order and then consume our confections, I couldn’t hope to get home before five-twenty. It seemed all quite unacceptable- mother would be ill-at-ease with such a deviation from the routine.
My mind made up, I decided to forego my meeting with Valérie and set off directly for home. Yet, as I coasted down through the park, heading due north, my bike seemed to steer itself east. Before I knew it, I stood astride the bar of my Tourist, staring at the large glass window looking into Harvey’s Drug.
Valérie sat at the counter, waggling her fingers my direction. I thought to leave, but- through no will of my own- dropped my bike haphazardly on its side and went in.
“Glad you made it.” She gushed.
“I cannot stay.” I answered, rigidly, “I’m expected home.”
Valérie leaned up to me, “You can stay for a little while, Alan Rand.”
To my own amazement, I took the stool next to hers and repeated the words back, “I can stay for a little while…”
“How did try-outs go?”
“Not well, I’m afraid. Apparently my fingering leaves something to be desired.”
Of all the inappropriate gestures- Valérie placed her hand right on my knee, “I think your fingering is extremely desirable.”
I nearly fell from my stool, “Miss! Please refrain from physical contact!”
Valérie only proceeded to inch up to my thigh, “Relax, Alan. There’s no need to be uptight.”
Uptight? How dare she? “You have misinterpreted my intentions for coming here if you believe such behavior is acceptable,” I said harshly, picking up her hand and carefully depositing it back into her own lap.
Her smile, I will admit, looked beguiling, “Then why are you here, Alan Rand?”
The question threw me aback for I had no viable answer. Oddly enough, I began to feel as if I’d been brought there against my own free will.
Avoiding Valérie’s provocative leer, I slid free of her roving hand and got to my feet.
“I made a mistake,” I told her, looking at my watch, “And now I’m overdue.”
Valérie stood, uncaring of any stirs her action would cause among the other patrons, coming in to stand offensively close. She slid her hands round to my bottom, and pulled us tightly together.
“Yes, Alan Rand- I’d say you’re long overdue.” Smiling, she let me go.
With no way of hiding my disgrace, I stalked to the door, heads turning to glare as I passed. I felt I’d come to the bottom of this little game; Valérie Libidowitz, drawing me into a meeting only to falsely, and publically, seduce me.
I could not get away from the vile girl fast enough.
Oh Mister Prim-and-proper.
I watched him get on his dark green bike and, standing on the pedals for traction, take off down the high street. His bum winked at me, bobbing from side to side. He did have a delightful ass.
I finished my milkshake in my own time, despite the recriminatory stares from some of the drug-store clientele.
As usual, I reported my progress to Amos, and felt surprised that he paid so much attention. “Why Alan Rand?”
He looked at me, and I seemed to remember every time he’d touched me, all at once. My skin crawled uncontrollably. “He’s the new face.”
I shook my head. “I don’t get it.”
“Valérie, my dear, you’re a hundred years old. Of course you don’t get it. It’s a young girl’s thing. Ask any of the other kids at school who the school ‘looker’ is.” He advanced on me. “Young movie goers don’t flock to see Clark Gable anymore, he’s old news. The girls liked James Dean, they’re changing their tastes. This new Elvis Presley is the same. For us to keep the girls interested, we have to change our new face too.”
“But he’s a complete prig!”
“And we have a lifetime to knock that out of him. Alan is perfect, trust me.”
“But Amos, he’s a wimp.”
“Oh, he’ll be fine. I’ll find a cruel streak inside him, if I have to put it there myself.”
Then and there, in the deep gleam of Amos’ eyes, I saw the plan. In Alan Rand, Amos had his lure, vampirism the medium, and a whole new batch of fresh bedfellows for Amos surely the goal; young ones, lured by the new ‘pied piper’.
I pitied the girls, yet felt glad that my age now put me beyond such punishments.
“Get him interested, Valérie. That’s all you have to do. Get him sniffing between your legs, and leave the rest to me.”
As I headed for my house, I realized that proved easier said than done, because for some reason Alan had ignored all my usual opening moves. So I set to the indirect, choosing the oblique pathway. I set out to glean his interests, his goals.
Turns out he didn’t have any. On the surface Alan Rand seemed a very private person; no real friends, a true loner. No girls either; not one girl in the school could claim that he paid them any attention at all.
My investigation had lasted all of two hours, using a bit of speed between interviews.
I determined to get closer, and that meant peeking through the keyhole, so to speak. I ran over to his house, and found a nice bush to hide behind, whilst I
ear-wigged on the conversation inside.
As suspected, dinner lay set by the time I made it home at five-twenty-six. I had gravely miscalculated the extra time my detour would cost; pumping pedals while sporting an engorged penis made for slow progress- uncomfortable at that, I might add. Fortunately, the physical exertion had alleviated that issue. Yet the slow pace had created another.
Mother sat perched at the head of the table, empty plate before her, hands folded pristinely in her lap. As always, she’d prepared three place settings: one for herself, one for me and the third for my deceased father. As I approached the dining room, Mother’s eyes were as vacant and perplexing as the empty chair Father had once occupied.
The sight of roast beef, surrounded by new potatoes and baby carrots roused my hunger. Yet, I knew there lay little chance I would be partaking of any of it tonight.
“Would you care to explain yourself, Alan?” Mother’s words jabbed at me like a fork.
“I had try-outs today, Mother,” I held up my clarinet case as proof of testimony.
“Yes. I recall. Try-outs were to end at four-thirty, Alan. Did they go long?”
The lie bobbled in my throat, but I choked it down like a hunk of dry bread. It would have been a useless gesture; certainly Mother would be calling Mr. Schuster to confirm my alibi had I resorted to one.
“They ended on time.” I stated flatly.
“Then I see no reason why you should be sixteen minutes late for supper, Alan.”
“I was careless, Mother. It won’t happen again.”
Mother rose from the table, a motion so graceful not even the chair got disturbed by it. The light from the overhead chandelier glinted off the smooth surface of her favorite strand of pearls- the ones Father had given on her birthday the year of his death. Mother never failed to wear them at our evening meal.
Her coral-pink dress fluttered as she seemed to float over to me, expressionless. Though she came only to my shoulders, Mother’s presence filled the room from wall to wall. I felt but a flat shadow in her midst.
“Careless?” she replied, a million accusations wrapped in two syllables, “How so?”
I tried to be both as honest and vague as possible, “I stopped to talk to somebody and lost track of time.”
“Who were you talking to?”
My tongue swelled in my mouth. Each of my acquaintances had been boys handpicked for me early on; mother knew each of them, their families and phone numbers. Any accomplice to my tardiness I could name would be verified, my falsehood exposed immediately. I had to take that chance; for, in this instance, the truth would carry a far greater punishment than the lie.
“Trent Coombs.” I had to force the name passed my lips, knowing once it hit the air there would be no taking it back.
Mother turned on her heel, toward the kitchen telephone. Dutifully, I followed. Each spin of the dial seemed to take an eternity. Like a chameleon changing color, the pitch of her voice lifted and peeled with a charm reserved only for strangers.
“Lorraine? This is Sophia Rand.”
A deep chill set in her eyes as Mrs. Coombs confirmed her worst suspicions. I felt the familiar shiver on my neck as she set the receive loudly back on its cradle, sounding all the world like a gavel pounding on my sentencing.
“Trent came down with the measles two days ago, Alan; he’s been restricted in his room ever since.”
A flash of something malicious tugged at the corners of Mother’s mouth; she seldom smiled and it when she did, it never boded well for me. Reflexively, I took a step backward.
Stupidly, I fumbled for another lie if only to delay the inevitable, “I didn’t mean Trent; it was Ralph…”
“Who is she?” Mother’s eyes sparkled, I stood caught in them like a deer on the highway.
I spoke the name robotically, “Valérie. Valérie Lidowitz.”
I never even saw her flinch, let alone reach for the phone. Mother swung the receiver into my cheek, connecting with my jaw in a resounding crack.
Smoothly she turned as the stars cleared from my vision, collecting the plates in a tidy stack and setting them on the counter. The platter, roast and all, cleared into the trash can unceremoniously.
“I am never to hear of this girl’s name in my house again; you are not to go sneaking around with common whores behind my back. You will not bring shame or scandal down on this household.”
I took Mother’s berating without retort, no declaration of innocence. In her mind, my guilt lay absolute, no defense would be permitted.
“You are dismissed, Alan.”
My face still burning from the blow, I turned toward the dining room, passing by the now-empty table.
“Mind your manners, young man.” Mother called behind me.
I halted at the chair that used to belong to my father, “Goodnight, Sir.”
I got an ear-full at the window. Mrs. Rand ran a tight ship; seemed she wore the pants in the family, too. For all her ranting, Mr. Rand hadn’t made a peep. Okay. So, I had a bit of a mama’s boy on my hand, but nothing that couldn’t be cured by the intervention of another strong female influence. So Alan responded to assertive women. I could do that.
Next day, I made sure that I paired up with him in Physics. Just boring Newtonian stuff, but we were all given different assignments, and set off to different parts of the school to ‘experiment’. With our clipboards in our hands, Alan and I went off to clap at walls and measure the sound of the echo with a stopwatch.
Well, to say that Alan played the evasive card would have been an understatement. Each time I tried to insinuate myself into the experiment, he would wiggle out of reach, and still take readings. We were finished our experiment with half the period left, and he led the way back to the science department ‘to write up his results’. What a twat.
I decided to up the ante. I excused myself to the restroom, where I took off my bra, and stuffed it behind a stall. I unfastened a few choice buttons, then I strutted back to the empty class, and went for him.
Grabbing his wrists, I put his hands directly on my thin blouse.
“What do you think of these, Alan?” I asked, moving his hands around. I knew he could feel my nipples; they were as hard as erasers. He pulled at my hands, but I kept his palms on my tits, then I slipped one of them inside. Once actually on my flesh, he seemed to stop his objections and just kept them there. “Do you like these, Alan? All women have them; some big, some small.”
I fished at his zipper and he backed away from me. Luckily the long laboratory desk stopped his retreat, but he still didn’t take his hands out of my blouse.
Just then four of the class came storming into the classroom, and we got caught, not that I minded. Alan did though, but he made such a fuss of retrieving his sweaty hands, it made the situation worse, emphasizing rather than hiding what he’d been doing. The two girls made coo-ing noises, and the two guys just watched us extricate ourselves, hoping for a glimpse of my tits.
“They’re a bit like your mom’s, aren’t they?” I whispered in his ear as he went back to his paperwork. The look he gave me could have turned milk sour.
Home room on Thursday proved insufferable. News of my earlier encounter with Valérie in physics class had spread throughout the school; a fact Valérie seemed all-too pleased with. She’d made a show of smiling flirtatiously, even winking in my direction all through class. Many of our classmates took notice; it never ceased to amaze me how quickly senior girls could be reduced to giggling seven-year-olds, especially when it lay at my expense.
I made haste after bell to get to my next class, but Valérie’s freakish speed paid off for her again. She touched my sleeve as I pressed through the hallway.
“Aren’t you even going to talk to me, Alan?” her seductive tone teased.
I kept my eyes forward, toward the sanctuary of Mr. Steam’s biology lab. If I could make it there, unscathed, the rest of the day should pass smoothly; dearest Valérie then only became a problem contained to o
nly two periods of the day. I planned to keep it that way.
“It’s time to get to class, Valérie,” I clipped, no inflection in my tone.
To everyone’s apparent awe and my fervent humiliation, she proceeded to thread her arm through the hook of my elbow, smiling broadly. More than a few spectators, jaws gaping, craned their heads to watch the popular cheer-leader on the arm of the school whipping boy. For some of my acquaintances, Trent Coombs for one, this would have been a dream-come-true moment. For me, it felt like my worst nightmare.
Valérie brushed the knuckles of her hand down the purple blotch on the side of my face, “What’d you do, sweetie?”
“It’s not your concern.” I said.
“Of course it’s my concern; whatever happens to my Alan is my concern.” Her voice held the coo of a woman engaging an infant. I found it reprehensible to say the least.
Trying not to let my admonishment carry to the ears of our onlookers, I spoke in a near whisper, which Valérie seemed to have no trouble hearing.
“I am NOT ‘your’ Alan and would appreciate it if you would cease with this petty prank, Valérie.”
She more lifted and carried me rather than pushed me into the wall of lockers. Her lips brushed my ear as she spoke, her sweet-mint breath curled up my nostrils, dizzying me.
“This is no prank, Alan Rand. If I say you’re mine; then you are mine.”
Then she kissed me. Although her lips were sour and dry, her tongue darted into my mouth like an invading snake. Despite my initial reaction to flee, she intoxicated my senses like some cheap, distilled whisky. A gathering of students formed a horseshoe around us, some making whooping noises, others gasping in horror.
Leaving me breathless, Valérie released me from her kiss but lingered close to my ear, “So, don’t fuck with me; just accept it.”
I felt myself dropped to my feet as the bell rang and the students scattered like mice. Like the rest of them, Valérie, as well, vanished- nearly in the blink of an eye. Left alone in my disgrace, I stumbled toward biology class, hoping only to make it through the day without another such encounter.