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17
Love is about facing fear. The fear of rejection, the fear of intimacy, the fear of being hurt. With vampire relationships, the fear quotient tends to be a little higher.
—Love Bites: A Female Vampire’s Guide to Less
Destructive Relationships
W hen Gabriel helped me out of his car, I fussed with his tie, straightening the blue-gray silk before giving his bottom lip a nipping kiss.
“What was that for?” he asked.
I kissed him again and adjusted the straps of my own blood-red silk party dress. “For guaranteeing that I will no longer be remembered as ‘Planed Jane’ by my classmates.”
“Why do I get the feeling that I’m being used for my pretty face?” he asked as we passed under a white and blue balloon arch and a banner that read, “Welcome Back, Howlers! Class of 1998!”
“Hush up, arm candy,” I muttered.
Half-Moon Hollow High School’s gym smelled exactly the same, like BO and anxiety. The reunion committee had tried valiantly to transform the gym into an Enchanted Paradise using the same props they used at our prom ten years before. Let’s see, transparent plastic palm trees lined with twinkle lights? Check. Giant papier-mâché volcano with fake flame streamers blowing out? Check. Giant parachute billowing artfully from the ceiling to give the impression that we were extremely well-dressed castaways under an impromptu shelter? Check. Ignoring the fact that said parachute’s storage closet was rumored to be the conception site of Coach Kelly’s love child with Mindy Noonan? Check.
“This is a rite of passage?” Gabriel asked, eyeing the faux volcano. “What exactly does this signify?”
“Nothing, let’s go,” I said, turning on my heel and making what would have been a brilliant dash for the door if Gabriel hadn’t caught my arm.
“We agreed this was an important part of your emotional development.”
“When did we agree to that?” I demanded as he dragged me toward the registration table.
“You said it, I agreed to it. It’s similar to a verbal contract.”
“You’re not a nice man,” I told him.
“I think we’ve established that,” he said as he planted me firmly in front of the table, where a brunette in a cantaloupe-colored suit turned to me with pasted-on smile. I searched her face. Huh. I was expecting to be confronted with someone who’d tortured me in the cafeteria or mocked me in math. But I had no idea who this person was.
“Jane!” she cried. “It’s so good to see you!”
“Hey …” I zeroed in on her name tag. I didn’t even recognize the little senior photo that was laminated next to her name. Like so many of us who graduated from HHHS in the 1990s, she suffered from poufy bangs combined with the horrid plaid flannel of the grunge period. (Pop-culture influence had only so much sway over Hollow girls. We could not be persuaded to put away our curling irons.) I scanned the name. “Mary Beth. How are you?”
“Oh, you know me.” She chuckled as she handed me my name tag. I winced, because, no, I didn’t. “I’m always busy. I’m just so glad to see you here. You look great. And who is this?”
“This is my boyfriend, Gabriel,” I said as she scribbled out a guest name tag with a Sharpie.
Mary Beth winked broadly at him. “Well, you better watch her, Gabriel. She was always one of the sassiest girls in the class.”
“Not much has changed,” Gabriel informed her.
“I can’t wait to find the two of you later so we can catch up,” she cooed.
“See? That woman seemed very happy that you’re here,” he said as we walked away. “She said you were sassy and seemed to think it was a good thing.”
“I have no idea who that woman is,” I told him.
“It still counts. So, that’s what you looked like in high school?” he asked, staring at the tiny yearbook photo embossed on my name tag.
I pinched his arm. “I went through an unfortunate-hair era. Don’t judge me. You used to wear stockings.”
“They were in fashion at the time,” he protested.
“So were the permed bangs. Thank God for cruel college girls and a roommate who read Cosmo .”
