Nice Girls Don't Live Forever (9 page)

“You’ve lived in the Hollow your whole life. You don’t know what it’s like to try to meet people here when you don’t know anybody.”

“I think you’ve been hanging around the wrong Half-Moon Hollow residents. See, I would imagine your husband probably outearns ninety-five percent of the people in this town. Frankly, I admire anyone who can operate heavy machinery without hurting innocent bystanders.”

She giggled. “See? I told you! You’re a hoot.”

“That you did. Pull up a seat.”

Courtney gave an exaggerated look around, her face open and pleasant as she climbed up onto the bar stool. “Your shop is, um, really interesting.”

“Thanks. Coffee?” I asked. I pushed a bunch of buttons and hoped a cappuccino would come out. Andrea came running at the rumble of the cappuccino machine, like a mama bear protecting her young. She shooed me away and finished making Courtney’s drink herself.

Courtney seemed almost shy as she handed me a little pink-wrapped box. “And I had a little gift made up for you.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said, opening the box. Inside was a little keychain attached to a silver disc inscribed with my initials. “That was really nice.”

Vampires are allergic to silver. Touching it feels like a combination of burning and being forced to watch
Glitter
over and over again. Your eyes burn, there’s an unpleasant squelching sound, and you’re left with dirty gray streaks that are very hard to wash off. I knew what I was in for when I politely held the little circle in my palm.

Andrea’s eyes widened as my hand began to sizzle like bacon. I mouthed, “I know!” Andrea started asking Courtney incredibly complicated questions about how she wanted her coffee. As soon as Courtney’s back was turned, I put the keychain on the counter and silently yowled, shaking my hand back and forth as the dirty gray stain faded from my skin.

“You OK, Jane?” Courtney asked, smiling sweetly.

“Fine.” I chuckled. Andrea rolled her eyes in my direction. “I’m just fine. I just have some allergies, a little eczema acting up … Wait, no, this is stupid. Courtney, you should probably know that I’m a vampire, have been for about a year now. If that’s going to get me banned from the Half-Moon Hollow Chamber of Commerce, so be it. I just don’t have the time or energy to try to fool you into thinking I’m normal.”

“Oh, I knew that,” Courtney said, patting my arm and turning over my burned hand to examine my palm. “The keychain was just a test to make sure. But it was obvious the other night what you are. You didn’t touch any of the food. Your teeth are a little sharper than they should be. You’re so pale and, well, sort of glowy. Your skin drove Head Courtney crazy, by the way. She kept trying to figure out what you use on it. I didn’t say a word.”

My forehead wrinkled. “So, what do you plan on doing with this information?”

“Nothing,” she said, smiling pleasantly and sipping her coffee.

“I’m confused,” I told Andrea, who shrugged.

“It’s just, you’re so much nicer than any of those so-called normal girls,” she said, patting my hand. “I figure, if you’re up front with me, you can’t be all bad. And personally, I want to see how long it takes the other girls to figure it out and how many different ways they manage to put their collective foot in their mouth.”

“You’ve got a bit of a dark streak in you,” Andrea told her. “My boyfriend’s going to love you. On second thought, maybe I should keep you two separate.”

Courtney giggled. “Besides, I experimented a little with vampires in college. Every girl does.”

I arched my brows at her. “You know I’m a completely straight vampire, right?”

Courtney threw her head back and laughed. She turned to Andrea. “Don’t you just love hanging out with her? You never know what she’s going to say!”

“Every day’s an adventure,” Andrea said dryly.

5

Remember to fight fair. No name-calling, no use of words like
always
and
never
, no bringing up old issues to avoid the topic at hand—and no dismembering.

—
Love Bites: A Female Vampire’s Guide to Less
Destructive Relationships

“Are you sure the whole pewter-figurine thing isn’t too kitschy?”

I repositioned the graceful fairy statues near our selection of amethyst geodes, which I’d moved because I wanted to make room for a display of
The Guide for the Newly Undead
next to the register. Now I was moving them around like my own personal nude pixie army. I bit my lip and bounced up and down on my heels as I considered their current formation.

“It’s too kitschy.”

“If you rearrange the fanciful bric-a-brac one more time, I’m going to stake you,” Andrea promised. “I thought we agreed that you would get a full day’s sleep before the opening.”

To say I was a nervous wreck on reopening day was a massive understatement. I must have changed my outfit ten times, which is almost painful for someone who doesn’t care that much about clothes. First, I put on an embroidered blue top and some jeans and decided it looked too casual. So, I changed into a red T-shirt and an Indian skirt—too hippie-dippy. The khaki slacks and polo shirt made me look as if I worked at Best Buy. Finally, I embraced the cliché: black slacks, black beaded top, tear-shaped carnelian earrings that looked like little drops of blood, and the black boots Andrea had practically forced me to buy at gunpoint. And then I got to the shop and immediately wanted to run home and change when I saw Andrea’s crisp white blouse and beautifully cut gray slacks.

Mr. Wainwright had come by and given his wholehearted support, then promptly disappeared, saying that he didn’t want to make me nervous on my first day. He promised to bring Aunt Jettie back at the close of business to celebrate my “entrepreneurial triumph.”

It was oddly lonely to have the shop open without my former employer’s spectral presence. But Dick and Andrea were there for me, running last-minute errands, cleaning up last-minute messes, holding a paper bag to my face when I did some last-minute hyperventilating—the irony of the latter compounded by the fact that I didn’t technically breathe.

“I tried to sleep, and then, despite my very specific and effective internal clock, I was lying there at noon today with a racing brain. I kept thinking I really jumped into this without thinking it through,” I said, putting the Spring Blooms fairy behind the Autumn Mystery fairy and then switching them back again. “I mean, I figured, I’ve already got a location, stock, and more capital than I needed. What else would I need for a successful business? What if I picked the wrong types of books? What if there were no bookstores specifically catering to vampires because most vampires are out living their unlives instead of reading? What if the coffee bar was a stupid idea?”

“Well, it was certainly a stupid idea to give you what amounted to three double espressos last night.” Andrea sighed, arranging pastries from Half-Moon Hollow Sweets onto a fancy doily.

“I knew it!” I hissed at her. “I knew you were slipping me extra caffeine.”

“I thought it would be much funnier than this.”

“I’m so sorry my wacky antics—which you caused—no longer amuse you,” I said flatly.

“Call it a misguided experiment,” she muttered, tossing the pink bakery box aside and wiping down the counter. An array of muffins, cookies, and lemon bars winked out at me from the glass case, mocking my inability to digest solids.

It may have seemed like a bad idea to give people sticky pastries and staining liquids, then invite them to peruse our books. But I wanted the shop to be the sort of place where you could sit for hours at a time and feel welcome—and therefore guilty enough to buy several expensive books. As an added precaution, we’d put the rarer volumes in a glassed-in special collections case, to which I carried the only key.

“We open in ten minutes, and nobody’s here yet,” I said, switching the fairies back to their original position. Andrea reached over and smacked my hand.

“Ow! No hitting!”

I shot a significant look at her boyfriend, who was conscientiously stacking midnight-blue shopping bags embossed with the new Specialty Books logo near the register. I considered it a supreme gesture of trust to allow Dick to stand that close to an unlocked cash drawer. At my indignant glare, he shrugged and slung an arm around his glaring girlfriend. “I’ve seen you fight. My money’s on her.”

“I’m not paying you, right?”

Dick shook his head.

I muttered, “Good.”

“Am I your first customer?” I looked up to see my father standing in the doorway.

“Daddy!” I cried, throwing my arms around him and nearly bowling him over. “Yes, you are.”

If there was anyone who could help with my “Improve relationships with family” goal, it was my father. I am an unabashed Daddy’s girl. Not like Carol Anne Mussler, whose home life took on a decidedly creepy aspect after she dedicated “Every Breath You Take” to her father at the high school’s annual talent show. But what more could I do than pledge my undying favoritism for the man who gave me my lifelong love of reading? The man who defended me from Mama and Grandma Ruthie’s repeated attempts to make me into a Jenny clone? The father who loved me unconditionally, despite my growing catalogue of flaws? If Daddy hadn’t decided to give me the unfortunate middle name of Enid, he would have been a parent without fault.

Daddy stroked my hair back from my eyes. “What’s the matter, Pumpkin, afraid no one will show up?”

I mulled that over for a millisecond. “Um, yes. That would be it.”

Daddy opened his wallet and handed me his Mastercard. “Well, point me to the coffee bar, and start a tab for me. And then bring me one of those books on how to be a better parent to an adult vampire.”

“Well, if you gave me a valid credit card, you’ve got my vote for Father of the Year.”

Dad took a long look at the ritual candle selection. “Does that mean you can give me a good deal on a magic wand and an owl?”

“I would respond, but we just established a storewide no-hitting policy,” I said, poking him in the ribs.

He tucked a hand under my chin. “It looks great, honey. Everything. I can tell how much work you girls put into it. I’m very proud of you.”

“Thanks, Daddy. Is Mama coming?”

Daddy cleared his throat. “Mama sends her support in spirit. But Jenny had some meeting tonight, and she needed Mama to babysit.”

“Hmm. Convenient.” I rolled my eyes.

Behind us, the bell tinkled, and the door opened. A goth teen with a pasty face, pierced nose, and lime-green-over-dirty-blond ringlets slumped into the store. She was a vampire, but she was so young. And she was obstinately avoiding eye contact. I took the direct approach, saying in my most pleasant tone, “Hi, welcome to Specialty Books. Can I help you find anything?”

She stopped and stared at me. I think she was willing me to disappear. OK, then.

“Are you looking for something in particular or just browsing?” I asked, dialing down the cheerful factor a few points.

The green-haired teen queen was now staring
through
me.

“I think she’s pretending to be invisible,” Andrea whispered from behind the counter.

I did not want to alienate my first non-blood-related customer, so I stepped out of her way. As she passed, I reached out to her, gently prying at the edges of her mind. Generally, I can’t read vampires, but she seemed so new, I guess would be the word, that I wanted to see if I could get a few impressions.

Instead, I was flooded with the chaos of adolescent thought bubbles. She was lonely and was afraid of what would happen if her mom found out she’d driven the family car into the worst part of town. She wished I would just leave her the hell alone so she could look for the latest
Buffy
Season 8 comic and read it in peace in one of those cool purple chairs. She wished she’d brought enough cash for the comic and a mocha latte, because the coffee smelled pretty good, and she loved,
looooved
chocolate and missed it like crazy. She even missed her mom telling her that chocolate gave her zits. Her mom didn’t talk to her much at all these days. Her whole stupid family seemed afraid of her, but they were even more afraid of kicking her out of the house. It was just
great
to be allowed to stay in your own room because your dad’s afraid to talk to you. She didn’t know why I was hassling her; it wasn’t as if she was going to steal or anything. Old people always followed her around in stores because of her hair. She wished she’d never dyed it green, but then her mom made such a big deal out of it that she felt she had to keep dyeing it over and over just to try to get a little attention—

I had to fight to pull myself out of the swirling vortex of her thoughts. I shook my head, trying to throw off the feelings of gloom and isolation.

God, I was glad I wasn’t a teenager anymore.

“You’ll find the
Buffy
comics over in our graphic-novels section, near the back,” I murmured quietly. She turned, eyeing me warily. “Andrea, could you get our first official customer a tall mocha latte with the ‘special’ syrup? On the house, of course.”