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“Dude, how do you know that stuff?”
I shook my abused noggin. “I’ve read books, several of them. So, to sum up, me jumping off the roof—not your best idea.”
“Yeah.” Zeb made a noncommittal face. “But you survived, and it looked really cool…Hey, let’s get the chainsaw.”
“Children, this is becoming disturbing,” Jettie said, materializing on the porch.
“It’s OK,” I told her. “We’re just trying out all of my new tricks.”
“Yeah, I know. Are you sure you’re OK?” Zeb asked.
“Um, yeah, I was talking to—” I gestured to the porch. I sighed, rubbing my palms over my newly repaired forehead. “Zeb, I was just talking to my Aunt Jettie.”
“Of course you were.” Zeb laughed. Clearly, he thought the head wound had knocked something loose. “It’s only natural. Of course, you’re completely nuts, but that’s natural, too.”
“I’m nuts because I talk to ghosts?”
“Because I’ve met your mama.” He grinned.
“I’m serious, Zeb, my Aunt Jettie is standing right there on the porch. She’s wearing her favorite UK T-shirt and rolling her eyes at our stupid attempts to kill me. Aunt Jettie, could you move the rocking chair or give Zeb goosebumps or something?”
“He’s not going to be able to see me or hear me,” Jettie said.
“Be creative.”
Zeb’s eyes darted around as if I’d told him there was a spider in his hair. “Jane, this is kind of creepy.”
“Oh, come on, vampires you can handle but not septuagenarian phantoms?” I sneered. “No offense, Aunt Jettie.”
“None taken,” Aunt Jettie said as she made her way over to Zeb’s car. She motioned for me to bring Zeb closer.
In the dust coating the dented red paint, she wrote “Hi Zeb” with her fingertip. Zeb gasped. “What the—” He watched as the words “WASH ME” formed under her greeting.
“Oh, very funny!” Zeb grumbled. Jettie cackled.
“She’s laughing at you,” I told him. “At least you can’t hear it.”
6
New vampires are discouraged from trying to return to their normal human routines. Especially if those routines include tanning or working as a fireman. Your day will not end well.
—From The Guide for the Newly Undead
Unless wrapped up in a good book, I was usually in bed at ten-thirty. I know, even I have a hard time separating my life from Paris Hilton’s.
So, imagine my shock after a very busy vampire day when I was still raring to go at two A.M. and bored out of my ever-loving skull. I hadn’t been unemployed since I started working at the Dairy Freeze when I was sixteen.
I’d always seen my week as a long hallway, a door opening on every new day. Doors leading to work, doctor ’s appointments, housework, errands. Now that hallway seemed empty and dark. And since I would probably never die, it was stretching out forever.
In a rather manic effort to prove that I could entertain myself through eternity, I filled that first night by reorganizing the books in my collection, beating Zeb in three Scrabble games, bleaching every surface in my home, and rearranging my furniture. (Moving a couch is much easier when you can lift it with one arm.)
I spent about an hour carefully painting my toenails a glossy candy-apple red. I kept my fingernails short and naked for typing and shelving, but my toes were treated to an ever-changing rainbow of polishes. A woman puts on a new dress, eyeliner, lip gloss to please others. A woman paints her toes to please herself. And if there was one thing I was familiar with, it was pleasing …
There’s no way to finish that sentence without embarrassing myself.
Zeb went home at around one A.M., when he nodded off and I threatened to paint his toes, too. He hates it when I do that.
He reminded me that he still had to work in the morning but immediately realized that was a pretty insensitive thing to say. Zeb was a kindergarten teacher—a good one. I always thought it was because he was the same emotional age as his students. Plus, he had always loved working with construction paper and paste.
