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

"W-what?" said Ophelia. She covered her mouth with her hands.

"When I found out I just…I broke it off with the real world. Entirely. It could not touch me. When my mother came home that night, she found me sitting in front of my own video blog, watching myself watching myself. Like I was trying to fold right up into one single electron. My parents got me help. When Chitra’s parents found out my part in the whole thing, they tried to bring me up on charges, but I hadn’t done anything against the law. But I got help. I got better. That was the best I could do for them, for Chitra. I’m lucky in that way — I had this horrid event to tell me I was not the sort of girl I thought I was, and now I have made the decision to be good. I don’t believe most people think to make this decision, you know?"

"Uh-huh."

Silence.

"I thought I saw something familiar in Doug, but…I’m trying to be good, and I don’t need any more friends who are not also trying."

"Yeah."

Silence.

"Also I think Doug is a vampire."

"Um." Ophelia frowned. "You mean, like, a metaphorical vampire?"

"No, the regular kind."

Silence.

"So, watch out for that," said Sejal. "I’m going to go," she added, and waited for Ophelia to let her out of the laundry room.

Cat tried to talk her into staying, or at least accepting a ride home, but Sejal told her she’d prefer to walk. It wasn’t even a kilometer, and the streets were sort of familiar. Jay lived nearby.

She supposed Ophelia would tell everyone that she had the Google. And maybe that she thought Doug was a vampire. Well, good, she thought as she pulled her coat closer and started down the hill. Fine. What better way to kick-start this new, improved Sejal — this strong girl who’s good and who knows her own mind and doesn’t care what other people think? She shuddered and pulled her coat closer still.

These neighborhoods looked fake at night. In the dim lamplight one could see only a scant spill of stars, and the colors and details of the lawns and houses flattened out and gave the impression of huge miniatures. And now there was a thickening fog at the bottom of the hill. It reminded Sejal of the fogging of distant objects in some video games. There was not enough processing power to render the bottom of the hill. The bottom of the hill would not exist until she got there.

There was a rustling behind her, and then a rustling to one side as she turned to look, and then it was down the hill and gone. Sejal considered suddenly the wisdom of declaring someone a vampire and then taking a walk, alone, at night. Had she never seen a movie? Did she not understand how these things worked? She comforted herself, however, with the insight that the movie would not kill off the well-meaning foreign exchange student with the comical internet addiction. Sejal wouldn’t be the main character, the hero — not in an American movie — but she might be the best friend or the comic relief or the one you think is dead but turns out to be all right in the end. She wondered who the main character in her life was.

When she finally saw the person standing at the bottom of the hill, she was almost on top of him. Given more warning she might have nonchalantly crossed the street, but now she could do nothing but pass him by. Or else stop, turn, walk or run, risk embarrassment and offense against what was probably just a man walking his dog. A short man, about Doug’s height. No dog. A man staring right at her.

Not Doug. This man was a little leaner and older. Just a man. Who seemed to be trying to hoist his careworn features into an unpracticed smile.

"Hello," said the man.

"Hello." Sejal smiled briefly, then dipped her head as she passed.

"A quiet night," the man replied, and kept pace with her, though whether he was now following her or merely continuing on his way, she couldn’t tell.

"Mmm."

"You know, when I was your age, one didn’t often see a girl walking alone at night. You would be tempted to draw conclusions about such a girl. You would say she was no better than she should be."

This seemed like an insult, something that begged for an answer, though maybe it was just harmless chitchat. Times have changed — what a world. She stole a glance at the little man out of the corner of her eye: a dark, long-sleeved shirt over a white tee. Gray wool pants. That was all, despite the chill. Sejal suddenly wondered if this man was in need. Perhaps he only meant to ask for spare change.

"I do not think they have the sort of girls you’re talking about in a neighborhood such as this," she said. "Is your…house nearby?"

"No. I have two homes, but one is in the country, and one is in the city."

"Like the mice," said Sejal, "in the fable." It was a puerile thing to say, but she always felt more at ease when she pretended to be at ease.

"Yes," said the man. "Very good. I hadn’t thought of that in ages. I’m like a mouse that flies from city to country, country to city. But I have no houses in the rarified half life that is the suburb. I’ve only been spending some time here, observing. We’re both far from home, I think."

"No, my home is close. Very close," she added, though it was still many blocks away.

"Then you’ll permit me to escort a young lady just a little bit farther. To her home, or to the place that serves as home for now. Am I right?" His sleeve brushed her coat, and she sensed if not felt it through three layers of clothes — a cold sting. "I think we have this in common: we’d both like to go home but we have now only houses. I have a house in the Poconos, but it’s not my home. I have a house in West Philadelphia, next to Clark Park — do you know it? — but it is not my home either."

Sejal was surprised to find that Clark Park did spark some glimmer of recognition in her. A name like that, once heard, could never be entirely forgotten. Had Cat mentioned it?

They turned a corner. The Browns’ house grew closer, but was still achingly far away.

"I think I’ve heard of the Clark Park," Sejal said. "I cannot remember why. Is it nice?"

"It’s perfectly nice. You should visit. I expect you will."

"Well, this is me," said Sejal, stopping in front of a well-lit flagstone house with THE HOLSTEINS painted on the mailbox.

The man stopped a few feet off and watched her. Could body language be mistranslated? What was expressed on his face as a smile clearly meant something different where he came from.

"You have nothing to fear from me, young lady. Not directly. You’re not my type."

Sejal tried to tell him that she just really needed to get inside and was dimly surprised to find she slurred her speech. She was so tired, in a moment, and the fog was thicker than ever.

"Do you know something?" said the man, and it was like the hum of a voice that you hear a moment before waking. "I’m going to tell you everything. I’m going to explain it all. And you won’t remember a bit of it until it’s much too late."

THIS WAS HOW Doug’s dates with Abby went: they’d rent a movie or go see one. Doug had half watched the first fifteen minutes of a number of movies from the back rows of theaters or from the tweed cushions of his great accomplice, the Lee basement sofa. He’d initiate some kissing, and Abby would respond willingly at first, but eventually return to the movie, as if anyone could possibly care what Matthew McConaughey was doing. He’d have to keep restarting things, keeping both of them on track. Then he’d feel a breast, and she’d guide his hand away, and he’d wait what seemed like the requisite amount of time before he could do it again. She’d let his hands be on the second try, sometimes the third, but get squeamish when he went under her shirt, so he’d go back to just kissing, as if they both didn’t know what was going to happen. Once he was under her shirt he’d hike it up a bit, maybe feel her ass, and if the movie wasn’t too short he’d finally get to the business of biting her neck and sucking out a half pint of blood before the closing credits.