Молли Харпер - Nice Girls Don't Have Fangs

Her voice rose to a Vincent Price octave. “Yes, I’m wandering the earth, seeking revenge on Ben and Jerry for giving me the fat ass and massive coronary. And I give out love advice to the tragically lonely.”

“Is that an ironic eternal punishment for the lady who died an eighty-one-year-old spinster?” I grinned.

“Single by choice, you twerp.”

“Banshee,” I shot back.

“Bloodsucker.”

I leaned my head against her insubstantial shoulder. “I missed you, a lot. Did I mention that?”

“A time or two,” she said. “I missed you like crazy, too. Even though I saw you every day, not being able to talk to you was just horrible. That’s part of the reason I just couldn’t let go. I wanted to keep an eye on you.”

“Well, good job, Aunt Jettie.” I rolled my eyes. “I lost my car keys three times last week, and I got turned into a vampire.”

“I know, as a guardian angel I leave much to be desired,” she said. “But if it makes you feel any better, the car keys were my doing.”

“You hid my car keys?”

“Had to amuse myself somehow,” Jettie said, her eyes twinkling with ghostly mischief. “I may be dead, but I’m still me.”

“Remind me to have that stitched on a sampler,” I muttered. “Though this certainly explains the vaguely obscene limericks composed with my refrigerator poetry magnets.”

Jettie shrugged but seemed pleased to have been noticed. I looked out the window and saw the pink streaks of dawn curling into the clouds. I felt my strength leeching from my bones. I was so tired even yawning seemed like a heroic effort. I couldn’t think about how I was going to explain my three-day disappearance to my parents or that I may have started a badly fated relationship with a guy who regularly bites people. I couldn’t think about the fact that I couldn’t die or get a tan anymore. All I wanted was sleep.

I climbed the stairs, drew the shades tight, and then threw a thick quilt over the curtain rod. I dropped into bed and felt Jettie’s clammy hands brush my face as she pulled the quilts up to my chin. In a few minutes, I was, to use a bad pun, dead to the world.

Loved ones may be upset by your unexplained three-day absence. If you’re not comfortable talking about your newly risen condition, try plausible explanations like a severe stomach flu, emergency dental surgery, or temporary amnesia. (From The Guide for the Newly Undead).

When the phone started ringing at around seven A.M., I realized the wisdom of sleeping in a soundproof coffin.

“It’s jealousy, sweetheart, nothing but pure jealousy,” Mama was saying when I pressed the receiver to my ear. Mama had dispensed with phone greetings years ago, when I started giving her reasons I couldn’t stay on the phone as soon as she said hello.

“Mavis Stubblefield has had it in for me ever since I beat her in the Miss Half-Moon Hollow Pageant in 1967. She’s been waiting for years to get back at me, and now she’s gone and fired you. Jealousy.”

“Yeah, Mama, I’m sure that’s what it’s all about,” I said, straining to see the clock.

Wait, why wasn’t Mama screaming at me for disappearing? Why wasn’t she reliving the twenty-six hours of labor she suffered only to birth a child who didn’t call her every day? Why wasn’t she reminding me that it was seven A.M. and I was still unmarried? In my head, I cobbled together an explanation, which was impressive considering the whopping two hours of sleep.

“Mama, did you get a phone call this morning?” I asked, burrowing under the quilts. “A really early phone call?”

“Oh, yes, honey, from your Gabriel,” she chirped, as if she and the sexiest man not-quite-alive were exchanging recipes before dawn. And when did he become “my” Gabriel?

“He explained…well, I can’t remember what he said exactly, but I understood that you needed some time to yourself after you were so unfairly let go. I’m just happy that you found someone so charming to spend your time with.”

“Mmm-kay,” I murmured, deeply sorry that I’d cast aspersions on the ethics of mind wiping. I owed Gabriel a fruit basket and a membership in the Blood Type of the Month Club.

“Since you’re free today, why don’t you meet Jenny and me for lunch?” Mama asked.

“I don’t think I’ll be getting out much today, Mama.”

Mama gasped. “Why, honey, are you sick? Broke? Hurt?”

“Mama!” I shouted over the din of loving maternal intrusion. “Just come over, after dinner, and we’ll talk.”

Mama’s (s) mothering instinct could not be denied. “Do you want me to bring anything? I could make a pot pie.”

“No food. After dinner. Bring Daddy.” I hung up before she could answer.

How was I going to explain this to my parents? I foresaw a good deal of blaming and wailing in my immediate future. I pulled the pillow over my face in a lame attempt to suffocate myself. And then I remembered I didn’t need to breathe. Dang it.

“Don’t worry, pumpkin, I locked the doors. No one, meaning your mama, is going to barge in,” Jettie said, materializing at the foot of my bed. I shrieked, launching the pillow through her.

“Can you knock or put a bell around your neck or something?” I grumped. “Maybe rattle some chains before you walk into a room?”

“It’s good to see you’re still a morning person,” Jettie teased, tossing the pillow back at me. “Don’t worry, honey, if your Mama comes over, I’ll just give her the usual.

Cold chills, goose bumps, a vague feeling of unease, as if she’s left the iron on. Nobody sticks around with that stuff going on.”

“Thanks, Aunt Jettie,” I said, falling asleep before the blankets settled over me.

As the sun set, my eyes snapped open. I felt great. Energized. Refreshed. All of the things those fancy mattresses are supposed to do for you. I bounded out of bed and threw the curtains back to bring in the moonlight. I wondered where I could get some of those fancy blackout shades that hotels use. I made a mental note to look up vampire redecorating Web sites.

I heard a knock at my front door, and my good mood dissipated. Mama was early.

Knowing there was no time to get dressed, I trotted down the stairs and prepared for the parental pajama critique.

“Yoo-hoo?”

I skidded to a stop. Mama never said “yoo-hoo.”

I opened the front door. There was a pair of shapely legs sticking out from under a ridiculously large pink-wrapped gift basket. My world just kept getting weirder and weirder.

“Hello?”

“Hi!” the legs said. “I’m Missy Houston of the Newly Undead Welcoming Committee, Kentucky division.”

My uneasiness at letting a strange vampire into my home battled the manners Mama had pounded into my marrow. Manners, marrow, and Mama won out. “Would you like to put that down?”

“Thanks. Inhuman strength or not, this thang’s heavy,” she huffed, putting the mega-basket on my foyer table. Missy was wearing a perky petal-pink Chanel knockoff suit with a matching faux-Coach purse and heels. Even the headband in her perfectly flipped champagne-colored hair was pink. It was comforting to know that I didn’t have to give up pastels in my afterlife. I looked washed-out in black.

“It’s so nice to meet a newcomer,” Missy trilled in her melted-sugar twang, more Texas than Kentucky. (We tend to abuse our long I sounds as opposed to…all the sounds.) Missy shook my hand in a digit-crushing grip. Unsure of whether this was some sort of test, I resisted wincing and squeezed right back.

“Jane Jameson,” I said, keeping a bland smile plastered across my face. “How did you know I’ve been…”

“Turned? Vayamped out? Recruited to the legion of soulless bloodsuckers?” She trilled again at my perplexed expression. “Oh, shug, you’ve got to keep your sense of humor about being undead. Otherwise, you’ll just go toppling over the abyss into madness.”