Fat Vampire (11 page)

As if
, thought Doug.

“You're never going to grow any taller, hiding under that poncho all the time. Here, I'll water you.”

She tipped the can over his ponchoed head. His ears filled with the spatter of water on plastic. It didn't get him very wet, but in his haste to escape he fell backward over the rubber swing.

“Gah—dammit!”

Pamela howled. Beside them, Jay said quietly, “Pam, Doug is my guest.”

“Yeah!” said Doug once he was back on his feet. His eyes burned. He hoped Pam could feel the intensity of his stare, the conviction behind his hatred. “Jay's guest! So why don't you show a little hospitality, huh?”

Pamela wore an odd look.

“Just…fuckin'…fix me a lemonade and leave us alone,” he told her.

She held his gaze for a moment, then walked off without a word.

“Well…good. Whatever,” said Doug as he watched Pam climb back onto the deck. The swing set creaked as he settled again in the seat next to Jay.

Jay said, “Sorry.”

“Forget about it,” Doug answered. “So what are you doing for the rest of today?”

“I dunno. I thought Cat might call about changing her operating system.”

“Yeah. Like
that's
really gonna happen.”

The kitchen door opened again. Pamela stepped through it, crossed the deck, came down the stairs, and handed Doug a glass of lemonade. She looked pained. Then she walked off again and reentered the house.

Doug frowned at his lemonade. Jay frowned at Doug.

“Did you just hypnotize my sister?”

“H
ELLO?”

“Hi, is this…Mike Storch?”

“Speaking.”

“Oh, hi. My name's Chris Spears, I'm a marketing assistant with Warner Brothers. I work with DC Comics, mostly, and I—”

“Oh! Great, thank you for calling me. Did you…”

“Yeah, I had a look at that police sketch of the kid you faxed to our offices. Someone put it up in the break room.”

“I should stop you right there, Chris, and say that it's not actually a police sketch. It was done by a police sketch artist, but I am not with any law enforcement organization.”

“Oh. Well, is this kid in trouble or something?”

“No, probably not. Some people are looking for him, is all. Did you see him at the San Diego Con?”

“Yeah, I'm certain of it. I moderated this DC editors panel, and we gave away a couple prizes before the show. The kid tried to win the prizes, made a real ass of himself, if you ask me.”

“Okay. That's something. You're sure it was him?”

“Pretty sure. He looked like the sketch, and the height and clothes are right, and…you say something here about strange behavior? Aversion to sunlight?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, this kid had a pretty bad sunburn.”

“I don't suppose you talked to him much.”

“Well, that's the thing—our prizes went to the people who'd traveled the farthest to be there. And this kid said he'd come from Philadelphia.

“…Hello? You still there, Mike?”

“I'm here. This is outstanding news. You're sure it was Philadelphia?”

“I'm sure. He shouted it twice, and then he tried to convince everyone that it was farther away than Maine, and…I don't think I'd remember all this normally, but, like I said, he was a pain in the ass.”

“A pain in the neck, if we're lucky.”

“What's that?”

“Nothing, Chris. Thanks for your help.”

C
AT DID HOLD JAY
to his promise to reformat her laptop. Doug barely found out about it in time.

He and Jay were IM'ing while Doug web crawled his way through Labor Day afternoon. He didn't care for chatting or texting much, but he liked talking on the phone even less.

Doug responded that he knew what it meant, though he had in fact been searching for the abbreviation in an online glossary.

Doug watched the minutes tick by on his computer. He might get distracted from time to time while Jay was waiting for a response, but Jay was usually pretty attentive. He killed time watching clips on YouTube, but nothing moved him. Where he'd once considered it his duty to tell people who posted stupid videos that their videos were stupid, it felt less important now in the grand scheme of things.

Another long pause. Doug thought,
screw this
and flopped down on his bed with a comic book. The computer pinged.

Doug felt a twist in his stomach then, a vinegary taste in his mouth. He couldn't be the bad guy here. In a world of ass-holes, how could Jay think this of him?

A quick bike ride and poncho refolding later, and Doug was at Jay's front door. He thought he'd better make it a front door sort of day. He rang the bell and listened as Chewbacca came barking, listened to his tiny terrier nails claw for traction on the hardwood floors, listened as he threw himself again and again against the inside of the door. Usually someone was right on
his heels shouting, “Chewbacca! Shut up! Sit!
Sit!
Stay,” and then the door would open. Chewbacca continued to bark and scratch at the door, but even his actions began to sound confused, a little lost, like a man in a bar fight who's expected his friends to hold him back before he embarrassed himself.

Doug was considering ringing the bell again when the door opened to Pamela's wary face.

“You can get your own drinks today,” she said.

Chewbacca leaped toward Doug, licking and jumping and just hoping to catch a little bare flesh or get a good sniff of groin. After becoming a vampire Doug had braced himself for a lot of growling and biting from previously friendly pets, but if anything dogs seemed to find him mind-blowingly awesome now.

“Jesus,” said Pam. Chewbacca had stopped leaping but was teetering like a trick dog on his hind legs, nose aquiver at Doug's crotch. “You hiding a hot dog in there?”

“Wouldn't you like to know.”

“Probably one of those little cocktail wieners.”

He wasn't going to let her get to him today. Today he would stay cool, cool as a tall glass of lemonade.

“What are you wearing?” she asked him.

It was the same shirt he'd worn at that party in San Diego. Long sleeved, lots of tiny pockets. It was a little snug, but the salesgirl had said it was supposed to fit snug.

“Oh, and you're qualified to give me fashion advice,” he said, “because your swim team T-shirt is so incredibly awesome. Look! It has autographs all over it! Autographs of the
other members of the swim team! Are you gonna let me in?”

Pamela took a languid half-step to the right. “Jay gave me three dollars to get the door for him. You two have a spat?”

“How much would he have had to pay you not to tell me he paid you?”

“I don't know. Seven? But he probably didn't think he had to. He's so morally upright.”

Doug followed her into the house, feeling carbonated and shivery. He would see Sejal soon. He and Jay would go to her house, Cat's house, and they would sit and stay awhile. Gentlemen callers.

“Where do you think you're going?” Pamela said suddenly. Doug had absentmindedly followed her all the way to the door of her bedroom.

“Uh, sorry. I just spaced out.”

“Were you looking at my ass?”

“No,” said Doug, who at the mere mention of the word “ass” had almost looked at her ass again. “I wouldn't look at your ass if it had a
Playboy
stapled to it.”

“Nice.”

Doug spun around and walked, pink cheeked, back to Jay's room.

“Okay,” he said as he crossed the threshold. “I'm ready to go.” Chewbacca stretched up Doug's leg, paws on his knee.

Jay didn't look up from his computer. “Cat's bringing her laptop over here now. Cat and Sejal. She said something like, ‘No way with my mom on the rag' and said she didn't want anyone at her house.”

Doug could tell he was trying to be standoffish, but Jay
still couldn't keep a straight face while saying “on the rag.” “They're coming here? Shouldn't you clean up a little?”

Jay looked around his room, which was spotless as always.

“Clean up what?”

“I dunno. At least take down the Darth Maul poster, right?”

Jay shook his head. “You're just like Adam.”

“Okay,” said Doug, “I'm sorry you're upset. I thought, you know, we've been friends a long time, and friends kid each other. I didn't know I'd been hurting your feelings.”

It sounded reasonable to Doug as he said it, as if it could even be the truth. There was a flimsy nobility to it, like a paper crown. Just then the doorbell rang.

Doug nearly collided with Pamela in the hallway. Chewbacca rushed past to bark at the door.

“No!” Doug said. “This time we
want
to answer it.”

Pamela held out her hand. “Three bucks,” she said.

Doug stared at her, hard. “You will let me answer the door,” he told her.

“Yeah. For three bucks. Stop looking at me like that.”

“I thought,” Doug said, fishing his Velcro wallet from his back pocket, “that trolls…were supposed to ask you a riddle”—the wallet was free now, and he paid Pamela—“not demand cash.”

“You're thinking of sphinxes.”

Doug ran to the entryway, then skidded to a halt and took a couple of leisurely steps to the door.

The door wouldn't open, so he turned the deadbolt, found
that he'd just locked it rather than unlocked it, turned the small handle lock instead, and soon he was looking out onto the stoop, and yard, and Sejal.

Jay's house faced the south, and that dazzling midday light made the neighborhood incandescent and traced a hot red edge around Sejal's small body. Cat was there, too.

“Cat, Sejal, come in,” he told the girls. Chewbacca seized with happiness at having so many visitors.

Cat had her computer under one arm and a backpack over her shoulder. Sejal was wearing a long-sleeved red shirt that you could see through to a black tank top beneath.

“Hey, Meatball.”

“Hi, Doug,” said Sejal.

Doug led them down the hall and said, “Jay mentioned you might be coming by, but I thought I'd have to miss you. I have an appointment later.”

“He paid me three dollars to let him open the door!” Pamela shouted from her room. “Which one of you does he have the crush on?”

“Sejal!” Cat shouted back, and entered Jay's room.

Doug winced at Sejal. “You look nice,” he said.

She looked beautiful. Each time he saw her now, she was more lovely. It hurt a little to look at her, hurt in a part of Doug's body that he couldn't immediately define.

“Thank you, Doug. I didn't know you were going to be here,” she said, as though explaining something, though Doug couldn't imagine what. “This dog is very taken with your pants.”

“Yeah…well,” Doug said. There didn't seem to be a
great way to spin a comment like that.

In the bedroom, Cat and Jay were talking like they were friends.

“Well, I hope you don't mind that I brought a bunch of music over,” Cat was saying as she dumped a pile of CDs onto the floor. “I don't know what you're into. Where are your CDs?”

“I don't really buy them anymore,” said Jay. “I have everything on a networked hard drive. I like They Might Be Giants, Jonathan Coulton, MC Frontalot…”

“Awesome! Nerdcore!”

“What?”

“That last guy was nerdcore. Are you nerdcore? I think that stuff's hilarious. Oh, my effing God! Is that a theremin?”

Cat jumped up from the floor and over to a long black box on a microphone stand in the corner. Dials and knobs studded one side of the box, and fat antennas trimmed the ends.

“He's really good at it,” said Doug. “He can play anything. Play something, Jay.”

“Maybe later,” said Jay, his ears blushing as red as brake lights.

“Oh, you
have
to! That is so rad,” said Cat. “A theremin's this electronic instrument you play without touching, Sejal. You just wave your hands around. You should totally start your own nerdcore band, Jay!”

“So what kind of music is all this?” asked Doug as he sifted through the CDs on the floor. “Goth?”

Cat made a face. “That word doesn't even mean anything anymore. There's a bunch of different styles in there:
darkwave, batcave, deathrock, death metal, queercore, slowcore, nocore, shoegaze, postindustrial—”

“Jesus. How many different kinds of music are there?”

“I don't know. Four hundred and twenty-seven. Lots.”

“At Booktopia there's only, like, five,” said Doug.

“Booktopia doesn't know dick,” said Cat, and she turned to Jay. “So what do we do to get me using Linux?”

“Well,” said Jay, “do you have all your files backed up?”

“Hell, no.”

“We should back them up first.”

“I don't know anything about computers,” offered Sejal to no one in particular. Doug nonetheless treated it as an opening.

“I don't know anything about music, apparently,” he said to her. “It's like…it's like how many different kinds of musical labels do you need? There's almost as many as there are bands. Like in the future we'll reach some singularity and the ratio will be exactly one to one. ‘Hey, you like the Rolling Stones?' ‘What kind of music do they play?' ‘Oh, you know—mid to late Rolling Stones.'”

Sejal smiled. Barely. If there had been a smile-o-meter on her face, the needle would have stopped at “Polite.” Doug retreated and sat next to Cat on the bed.

“You're in good hands—Jay really knows computers,” he said. Jay gave him kind of a weird look but he pressed on. “Way more than I do. He grew up learning a lot of stuff we didn't 'cause he was homeschooled.”

“No way,” said Cat.

“Up until sixth grade,” Jay admitted.

His father had sent away for curricula and textbooks and
Cricket
magazine and acted as Jay's one and only teacher until he was ten. He had play dates with other homeschooled kids, and of course with Doug. Then Jay's mother came home one day with a child development study that concluded that homeschooled kids did worse in college interviews than their traditionally schooled peers. His parents panicked and rushed him into Doug's junior high. It didn't matter that another study refuted the first one just six months later—the damage was done.

It was as if he'd been raised in captivity, at Sea World maybe, and was used to popping his head above water every hour and showing off what he knew. But now out of a misguided concern for his welfare, he was being released into the worst kind of ocean. Middle school was shark-infested water, and even the other dolphins couldn't understand why Jay was so eager to jump through hoops.

This had been an uncomfortable time for Doug. Jay had never met School Doug before, and School Doug didn't want to be thought of as the sort of person who'd be friends with a boy like Jay. He hadn't been so complimentary then.