Adam Rex - Fat Vampire - A Never Coming of Age Story

It was always exactly the opposite for Doug. When the Frisbee was in play, time only seemed to speed up. His vision went blurry around the edges. It was like his body was trying to kill him. He could think of only one circumstance in his life when this hadn’t been the case, and he wasn’t hunting coyotes now. But that wet, visceral memory reminded him that it was night, and he was stronger than these guys. Maybe not stronger than both of them together, but…Little by little he turned to face them.

Ophelia did him one better by reeling to her feet. A torrent of screaming fiery hatred scorched the boys’ faces. That they weren’t allowed to talk about Sejal that way was the basic gist of it. That their dicks were small and embarrassing formed a sort of secondary thesis, but the whole message was illuminated with such a floral rococo of virtuoso cursing that it hardly mattered.

"…and if you ass clowns say another word about her, I’ll whittle your fuck sticks with my car keys !" she finished, and even the film actors’ voices seemed for a moment to be reverently hushed.

"Well…" said one of the boys, "well…she should control her boyfriend more, that’s all."

"Why?" said Cat. "Because he’s making his own jokes? Because you asswipes need a script to be funny?"

A few moments passed. From the front of the auditorium an actor said, "Settle it or take it outside, guys."

In another story, in a Western perhaps, the audience would have erupted into a theaterwide brawl. But these were mostly drama kids, so the girls were more prone to histrionics, and the boys were more likely to throw parties than punches.

"C’mon," one of the boys said. " Rocky’ s been getting lame for a long time. Let’s go to the band party."

"Yeah, go to your band party," Ophelia began, but with a touch on the arm from Sejal she fell silent. Then, surprisingly, Ophelia’s friend rose and left without a word. "Chrissy!" Ophelia hissed, and followed.

"Hey, the show’s down here," the live-actor Janet called to the crowd. "Leave the drama to the professionals."

The show resumed, and Doug burned happily in his seat. This was shaping up to be the best night of his teenage life. He tried to share a glance with Sejal, but Sejal’s eyes were fixed on the screen, her face reflecting its blue glow. Her moon face shone in the dark theater, unknowable and suddenly very far away.

DOUG PEDALED through the bustling, trolley-tracked streets of West Philadelphia while the events of Friday played over and over in his head. He knew he should stop thinking about it and concentrate — he was biking to the home of his vampire mentor, Stephin David. This was arguably more important than a date. Why didn’t it feel more important?

Cat had defended him. Called him funny. And in the parking lot after the show everyone seemed to be on his side — Abby, Sophie, even Adam. Abby said it was proper for Rocky watchers to invent new lines to shout. The routine was always changing. She was certain someone would use Doug’s "gay cow" line at the next show.

There was an "Us" and a "Them," and Doug was on the right side for a change.

"How about that Ophelia?" said Doug as he, Jay, Cat, and Sejal piled back into the car. "I’ve never seen her like that."

"I have." Cat laughed. "She was drunk is all. Did you smell her breath?"

"What’s up with that girl she was with? Her hair, and her clothes…she was like a really pretty boy."

"Her jacket was rad," said Cat.

Doug had no opinion about the girl’s jacket. "Ophelia said before that she had a date tonight. Is she…?"

"Gay?" asked Cat. "I’ve sort of thought so for a while. Gay or bi. She doesn’t date anyone at our school anymore."

Doug realized he should have something to say about this, something worldly, but nothing came. He was at sea. He was drifting in unfamiliar waters, and he felt the passing seconds break against him.

"Are you okay, Sejal?" Jay asked. "You’re really quiet."

"I’m only tired, thank you," she said. She looked stiff, her small fingers interlaced and tense and pinned to her breast-bone. She lacked only a white lily to hold and a plush box to lie down in.

Doug realized now, on his bike, that she’d probably been offended by all the gay talk. India was different. He would have to let her know everything was cool, that he was on her side, whatever side that was. He had to stay on top of this.

After they’d dropped off Sejal and Cat, Doug had explained the situation to Jay. "Adam’s after Sejal," he said. "I don’t think he cares about Sophie."

"Really?"

"It’s obvious. Did you see how long he hugged her good night? And all his we’re married now, when’s the honeymoon jokes… "

"You said he only dates girls who’re at least two years younger," Jay reminded him. "And not smart. Sejal’s our age and smart."

"Yeah, but she’s foreign."

"I don’t understand your math," Jay had answered.

"I don’t understand your math," Doug shouted, now, as he hurtled through the stale bus-and-curry-scented streets. He swerved to avoid a mother with stroller who’d just stepped into the bike lane to watch for larger traffic. Then, with quick reflexes (vampire reflexes!), he hopped the bike onto the sidewalk, his poncho blowing heroically behind him.

Stephin David owned an old row house near a park in West Philadelphia. Doug scanned the porches and steps for house numbers and nearly missed the pink and blue balloons and poster-board sign that said VAMPIRE attached to Stephin’s mailbox. Doug hastily tore down the sign and stuffed it in his backpack. In a disoriented rush he also popped the balloons and threw them inside the mailbox. Then he locked his bike to it and started up the path past a small, dry lawn. The door opened as he stepped onto the porch.

"Douglas?" said a man.

"Doug. Yes. Hi."

"Hello, Doug. I’m Stephin. Come in."

He was short, too, only a touch taller than Doug, but with a sonorous voice that seemed to creak up through the floor. And he was not what you would call classically good-looking. Maybe this was the rationale behind that "perfect match" Cassiopeia had mentioned.

Doug glanced around as Stephin led him through the foyer. If there had been a fourth Little Pig who’d elected to build his house out of cigarette butts it might have looked and smelled something like this place. The walls were as brown as a dead plant, the corners bruised with mold. Here and there the ghostly rectangles of missing picture frames haunted the hall. Books were stacked everywhere, clogging the already narrow artery into the house.

"Are you moving out?" asked Doug.

"It’s possible I am. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been moving out my whole life."

Okay , thought Doug. They passed a frame that hadn’t yet been removed but was covered with a languid drape of cloth. It was a Jewish tradition to cover mirrors after someone died. Was Stephin Jewish? But, no, when Doug was sure he wouldn’t be seen, he lifted a corner of the drape. It was only an old portrait of a Civil War soldier.

Stephin led Doug into a sort of study or den, and invited him to sit in a worn leather chair. He fell into it, suddenly tired. He had been pushing himself a bit out there, actually. All that biking in the daytime. His back was sticking to his shirt, and now his shirt was sticking to the chair. He tried to steady his breathing as he looked around.

Small book stacks ringed his chair like a cul-de-sac. Suburbs. The chair Stephin chose was more like downtown Bookville — literary high-rises, thirty stories tall. In the amber glow of two small lamps the whole room took on the sepia blur of an old photograph. It was steeped in the musty but unaccountably pleasant smell of old paper.