Paulette’s face reddens.
Our teacher lets out a high-pitched giggle. “Don’t worry, you silly little fool. You just illustrated my point about your people being a lower form of life.” Miss Thing launches into a ‘lecture’ that’s basically a quasi-hating version of Armageddon’s war. The way she teaches history, the class should be entitled ‘Why Quasis Suck Through the Ages.’
Sighing, I pull out my textbook and try to focus. I’ve been reading the same sentence six times when someone clears his throat. Barf. I know the sound of that particular someone anywhere. Bit by bit, I turn my head and glance across the row.
That’s when I realize the awful truth: I’ve made the worst seating decision in the history of the universe. I’m parked right beside Zeke Ryder, Cissy’s mega-crush and my personal stalker.
Zeke’s power is all lust. He’s tall, pale, and handsome, every inch packed with muscles and pheromones. His caramel eyes, chiseled features, and messy blonde hair are perfectly matched with a monkey tail. Every girl’s knees turn to Jell-O before him, except for me, making me a challenge-slash-target since the third grade.
“Hello, kitten.” Zeke waves in my direction. He’s wearing standard issue sweats, a black t-shirt, and his trademark come-hither stare.
Pointing to the teacher, I make my ‘shh’ face.
Zeke arches his eyebrow. “You coming to my party Friday night?”
“No.” His last ‘party’ consisted of two cans of beer and the back seat of his limo. The black eye I gave him lasted for weeks. What a bust for my first attempted kiss. At least, I had fun punching him.
My back teeth lock as I glance around the room. Every girl within pheromone-smelling distance aims goo-goo eyes at Zeke. Why am I the only one who thinks his Mister Romance routine is annoying? I’m probably the only senior at school who’s never had a crush, never been kissed. What’s up with that?
I straighten my shoulders and angle my body away from Zeke. I’ve got more important things to worry about than boys, THAT’S what’s up with that. I pretend to be very interested in my textbook. Hopefully, he’ll get the hint.
“Not so fast, babe.” He points to the envelope half-hanging out of my backpack. “It’s not that kind of party. Take a look.”
“This was from you?” Pulling out the letter, I turn it over in my fingers. “I was going to read this today anyway.” I pause. My tail tries to shred the rest of the envelope. I smack the arrowhead end and reset the letter into my backpack.
Zeke flashes me a white-toothed smile. “Why don’t you read it right now?”
Miss Thing stares out the window, monologue-ing on how quasis sent too many souls into Heaven, which was super-unfair to the poor demons. I could samba down the aisle right now and she probably wouldn’t notice me.
Zeke has the same idea. “Miss Thing won’t see you. Go ahead. Take a look.”
I pull the envelope out of my backpack and set it on my lap.
Zeke arches another eyebrow. “I can’t believe this. Is the fearless Arena fighter too scared to open one ittle-wittle envelope?”
That did it. I tear open the letter with a vengeance. Inside I find an embossed invitation that reads: You and a guest are cordially invited to attend a diplomatic gala in honor of our ghoul overlords and their noble allies, the demons. Friday, the 13th, The Ryder Mansion, Upper Purgatory. Formal dress only. Doors open at 8 PM.
I run one finger over the embossed letters. “Is this for real?”
“Absolutely. You can bring a friend too, if you want.” Cissy’s crush on Zeke is nothing less than monstrous; she’ll never forgive me if I pass this up. Maybe he’s not as dumb as he looks.
After the last ‘party’ Zeke invited me to, I should be skeptical. But there are four good reasons to attend this one. First, Zeke’s dad really is a wealthy diplomat known for hosting delegations of ghouls and demons. Second, the party’s at his parent’s mansion where he’s less likely to get nasty. Third, I’ll bring Cissy (with her crush she’s better protection than parents). And fourth, the single fact I know about my own father is that he was a diplomatic something-or-other. I can’t miss the chance to learn more.
“I’ll think about it.”
Zeke’s mouth arcs into a satisfied smile. “That’s all I ask.”
I forget about the invitation until the end of the school day. Cissy and I sit in the back row of Lessons in Servitude class. It’s taught by OT-42–we call him the Old Timer–who’s known for his huge handlebar moustache, broken teeth, and blazing hatred of talking in class. His receding head of gray hair is tied back into a teensy ponytail at the base of his neck. Other than that, he’s pretty standard ghoul material: tall, dark, and gruesome.