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“Oh, ha ha, Zeb. Halloween’s not for a few more weeks.” I laughed, mugging spookily. “Ooh, Jolene’s a werewolf. You brought me to a vampire-support-group meeting to introduce me to a werewolf. I guess that explains the long teeth and the flashing green eyes and the nuzzling…Oh, crap, you’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yep.” Zeb nodded. “Her whole family is made up of hereditary werewolves. It’s not a curse or anything. She was born like this. I was sort of surprised you didn ’t guess, to be honest. I thought you creatures of the night could sense each other or something.”
“How would I possibly guess werewolf? Swimsuit model, maybe. But it makes sense. If vampires are real, then I guess werewolves, the Mummy, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, and the rest of the Universal horror-movie standards must be real, too. Wait, does that mean she already knows I’m a vampire?” I whispered.
Jolene came up behind me, tapping my back and making me jump. “Zeb told me on our first date.”
It took me a few seconds to register the different emotions I was experiencing: hurt, a little betrayal, the sting of being excluded. I finally landed on the ability to produce sarcasm, which was far more useful.
“Well, thanks for telling me,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’ve faked eating hummus all night for nothing!”
Jolene squeezed my shoulder. Ouch. She had some very strong hands. “I wasn’t lying when I said my family is antivampire.
But it’s because they’re werewolves, not rednecks. Actually, they’re a little bit of both.
“I came to the FFOTU meetings to try to get a better grip on how to deal with Tessie ’s being a vampire. I wanted to stay friends with her, and I knew my family, my clan, wouldn’t be happy about it. And after she died, the group members were the only people I knew who were nice about it, who could understand why I was so upset. So I kept comin ’ because I wanted to help other people who were going through the same thing.”
“And then I met Zeb, and—I’m in love with your friend,” Jolene blurted out. “I know y’all have been close forever, and I want us to get along. I really do.”
“OK,” I said, at a loss to drum up any other response.
“You’re not upset?” Zeb asked, sounding suspicious.
“Why would I be upset?” I asked. “I mean, I haven’t had much time to process the information, but it’s not as if Jolene can help being what she is, any more than I can help being a vampire. In fact, you were born this way, right? You had even less of a choice than I did. It would be hypocritical of me to go all crazy just because my friend is dating a—”
“Werewolf,” Jolene said for me.
“Right.” Of course, that probably wouldn’t keep me from going all crazy later, but I had to give myself some credit for being able to string that many words together through the shock.
“I’m so glad you feel that way!” Jolene squealed, throwing her arms around me. “We’re going to be really good friends, I can just tell.”
As Jolene gave me a neck-cracking hug, I narrowed my eyes at Zeb, who smiled and shrugged. Great. My best friend was dating a werewolf, who also happened to be a hugger.
13
Vampirism can lead to a wealth of new and exciting career opportunities, including overnight-delivery driver, stunt person, and custom perfume blender.
—From The Guide for the Newly Undead
I may be the only person in history to have a telemarketing career lasting a total of three hours. Apparently, vampire powers do not translate to phone sales.
I’d reviewed the promotional material on Greenfield Studios. Despite its claims that the company brought quality family photography to the people without the high overhead or “high-pressure sales tactics” of in-store studios, I was just as uncomfortable with the prospect of shilling for them. But I’d filled out an application and given my word. And if my Anglo-Saxon Protestant heritage had blessed me with anything, it was a profound guilt-based work ethic.
Since I wasn’t going to be seen by the public, I abstained from my gal Friday look and wore jeans and my lucky blue sweater. (“Lucky” in that it was my one sweater that had never been stained.) Now sporting a lemon-yellow track suit, Sandy met me at the front entrance and led me through the lobby to a shiny pine door. It was a lot like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, only instead of a magical room where everything is made of chocolate, I got a backroom filled with headset -wearing chain-smokers. The clamor of desperately pleasant conversation was deafening. The room was as dingy and chaotic as the lobby had been spotless. Green contest entry slips exploded out from in-boxes in each cubicle. Poster-size performance charts were layered on top of each other on the wall, listing who’d made sales that night and who hadn’t. The stained floor was littered with old entry slips, crumbs, and cigarette butts. And casting an evil eye over it all was a banner that read in huge red letters, “If you don’t sell, you go home.”
Inspiring.
“Greenfield Studios is a national operation with call centers across the country,” Sandy chirped. “Half-Moon Hollow is our latest branch to open. Our field representatives pass out these entry slips at community events, school fairs, fundraisers. And if people are interested, they fill out their personal information. The slip clearly states that even if they don’t win the cruise, we reserve the right to contact them for future promotions.” Sandy handed me a neon green slip that screamed, “Win a cruise for two to the Bahamas from Greenfield Studios!” where some poor sap named Aaron Miller had traded his phone number and an evening ’s worth of peace for a shot at a vacation.
“Each shift, you receive seventy five slips. You call the numbers, remind the customers that they willingly gave us their entry information, and let them know that our traveling studio is coming to their hometown.”
“Traveling studio?” I said, my heart sinking just a degree further.
“Yes, our photographers travel to mid-price hotels, where they set up a portrait studio in a conference room or suite and take family pictures by appointment. Your job is to arrange the appointments and persuade the customer to preorder one of these.”
Sandy rifled through a pile of papers on a nearby desk and found what looked like a normal wall clock until she turned it so that I saw the face. Some poor family with stiff, uncomfortable smiles was frozen in time there, forever pinned beneath a minute hand that seemed to be sprouting from the mother’s chest like a grotesquely ornate spear.
“Wow.” At least I knew what the exciting new product was: the scariest freaking clock I had ever seen.
