Heather Brewer - Tenth Grade Bleeds

But there was no time to think of a witty retort, because soon the porch was full of people and Vlad was busy greeting them all and taking their coats. At one point, he couldn’t even see the people he was greeting anymore, and the coats were stacked so high that he resembled a walking pile of laundry. Henry took over and Vlad stumbled his way up the stairs to lay the coats on Nelly’s bed. Afterward, he raced back down the stairs and stared in awe at the gifts that were piled in towers on the coffee table, looking like a city in miniature. He moved through the crowd, searching for the one gift he really, really wanted for his birthday, but he couldn’t see Otis anywhere. Finally, he located Nelly in the kitchen and asked, “Have you seen Otis yet, Nelly? I thought maybe…”

But the expression on her face was all the answer he needed. Otis hadn’t come, wasn’t coming. Vlad’s heart sank down to his stomach. He wasn’t angry, just disappointed. He put on a fake smile. “That’s okay. I’m sure we’ll see him over winter break.”

Nelly smiled too-hers looked just as doubtful as Vlad’s felt. “I’m sure we will, Vladimir. Why don’t we cut the cake and you can open your presents?”

That did cheer him up, because any sentence that has “cake” and “presents” in it is worthy of a smile. Nelly gathered as many people as she could into the kitchen, including Meredith and Henry, who sat on either side of Vlad at the long plank table, and they all sang “Happy Birthday” off-key until Vlad’s ears had blushed so deeply they turned purple. Then Nelly cut the cake and started serving. Vlad and Henry and Meredith talked and laughed and devoured three slices each of Nelly’s fluffy, sweet cake until finally, Meredith said the magic words. “You should open your presents, Vlad.”

Vlad grabbed Meredith’s hand and led her back into the living room, through balloons and streamers and a crowd that looked like much more than forty people, stopping now and again to say hello to people he knew. By the time they reached the coffee table, the towering city of gifts had doubled in size. Vlad gawked. “I don’t know where to start.”

Meredith smiled sweetly and plucked a thin blue box from the bottom of the stack. The tower wavered, but remained standing. “This one’s from me.”

Vlad squeezed her hand once before letting go and ripping through the paper. He lifted the lid and gasped. Inside was a lovely leather journal. On the cover was inscribed The Chronicles of Vladimir Tod. Vlad met her eyes. “It’s perfect. How did you know?”

Her cheeks flushed. “Well, I noticed that composition notebook you’re always scribbling in is looking pretty ratty. So I thought you could use a new one. It’s refillable.”

If Nelly hadn’t been standing a few feet away, Vlad would have kissed Meredith on the spot. Instead, he blushed and said, “ Thank you.”

Nelly slid a large box out from beneath the coffee table, and Vlad knew he must be dreaming. He tore open the wrapping, and sure enough, Nelly had gotten him an Xbox 360. “Nelly! This is so cool! Thank you!”

Henry grinned and shoved a box into his hand. It looked like it had been wrapped in a grocery sack and tied with twine. “Open this one. It’s from me.”

Vlad beamed at him and tore off the paper, revealing something that made his jaw drop. There were two Xbox games. One was Race to Armageddon 3: The Final Lap and the other was a game called When Vampires Attack! A quick glimpse of the back of the box revealed that players assumed vampire roles, and whoever attacked the most victims won. Vlad laughed loudly, and Henry joined him. Nelly chuckled. Along with the rest of the crowd, Meredith simply smiled, not understanding just how hysterical it was that Vlad would be playing a game as a vampire.

For the next two hours, Vlad opened gifts and thanked guests and ate food and laughed. And finally, once he’d said good night to Henry and Meredith and the other guests and closed the door behind them, Nelly approached him with one final present. It was a thick parchment envelope. On the front in Otis’s scratchy handwriting was For Vladimir on his fifteenth birthday.

Nelly smiled a sad smile. “Otis left this with me at the end of the summer. He said he’d try to be here in person to give it to you, but if he couldn’t, he still wanted to make sure you got it.”

Vlad didn’t open the letter right away. In fact, he tucked it into his back pocket. As he and Nelly cleaned up the aftereffects of the party, he took it out every few minutes to look at Otis’s handwriting and wonder where his uncle was and if he was thinking about the party that he had missed. More so, if he was thinking about his nephew, who missed him more than he could say.

Finally, after Nelly went to bed-not before reminding Vlad that it was okay to stay up late on his birthday, but to remember that he did have school to face in the morning- Vlad slipped on his jacket and stole out into the night, clutching Otis’s letter to his chest.

He zipped by trees and houses, casting careful, scrutinizing glances all around him, trying to make certain Eddie and his new camera were nowhere to be found. And once he reached the belfry, he floated effortlessly up to the ledge and stepped inside, staring at the envelope as he plopped down in his dad’s comfy leather chair.

The envelope was wrinkled in several places, and torn slightly on one end. Vlad read Otis’s handwriting once more before opening it slowly and withdrawing the letter inside. With the moonlight acting as his candle, he read.

Dearest Vladimir,

It is with great regret that you are reading this letter, because it means that I was unable to return to Bathory for one of the most important days in a young man’s life-your birthday. Please accept my deepest apologies and know that I am thinking of you always. If my tone reads as a troubled one, it is because, at the moment I am writing this, you are upstairs, fast asleep, and in but a day I shall leave you yet again. It pains me, you see, as I have grown accustomed to our time together. But D’Ablo will not stop until he finds and performs this insane ritual that he spoke of last year, and so it is up to me to stop him by finding it first.

I won’t lie to you. It may be a long search. Very long, indeed, as I haven’t the slightest inkling where to start.

It has been years-if I am honest, it has been centuries-since I celebrated a birthday. Such celebrations are largely human in nature, you see. And it has been even longer since I celebrated a teen age, so I was lost on what gift I could give to you that you would truly enjoy. Initially, I had decided to purchase you something thrilling, like a dirt bike or perhaps a car, though your driver’s license is yet a year away. But upon Nelly’s input, I have decided to gift you with the one thing your life is truly lacking.

I shall gift you with the story of how your father and I met… and how we became vampires.

Vlad tore his eyes from the page long enough to release an anxious breath. At first, he was disappointed that Nelly had talked Otis out of that car-not that he could drive it yet-but this present was much, much better. He grabbed the lighter from the bookshelf and lit the candle next to the chair, illuminating the belfry with a soft glow. Then he sank deep into the chair and continued reading.

Your father was born in a small shire just outside of London in 1709. I was born in a small French village just a year later. Our friendship began in the Bastille prison in Paris, France, in 1743.

Now, if you’ve managed to stay awake during history class, you probably realize that only prisoners of stature were held in the Bastille. No, your father and I were not notable in any way, really. He was the only surviving son of a wealthy English aristocrat, and I was a French horse farmer. But upon being accused of a crime-and to this day, I know not which crimes we were accused of-we were brought to France, to the Bastille, to await death. We lived there for three years and spoke every day, though we could not look each other in the eye. Our cells were side by side. But when Tomas stretched his hand between the bars I could glimpse the signet ring on his little finger. It was made from black onyx. When I asked him about it, he said that the ring was a symbol of his heritage and all that he was. It was all that he had, and though our imprisoners might take our freedom and our dignity-and eventually, our lives-they could never take that from him.