Vampire High Sophomore Year

7



There was no little black car sitting in front of the house when I got home.

“Where’s Turk?” Mom said as I came in the door.

“She took off by herself after school,” I said. “For all I know, she’s on her way back to Mexico.”

“Did she have a bad day at school?” Mom asked.

“She gave about as good as she got,” I said.

“What does that mean, exactly?” Mom asked. She wasn’t happy.

“It means she insulted everyone she could, sneered at everything except lunch, and felt sorry for herself all day,” I said. “You know. She was Turk.”

“Cody, I really wish you’d be more supportive right now,” Mom snapped. “This is very difficult for all of us. I know Turk isn’t the easiest person in the world to be around, but she needs help.”

“She doesn’t want help,” I said. “If she’d been on the Titanic, she’d have jumped into the water and bragged about how cool she was.”

“That’s not helpful,” Mom said.

“It’s not supposed to be,” I said. “Look, can we fight about how mean I am some other time? I have a lot of homework.”

Mom waved me away.

I went up the stairs, stomping on every one. Turk. Damn Turk. Even when she wasn’t around, she caused trouble. Mom and I never fought. That was a Dad and me thing.

I slammed the door to my room, threw my backpack on the floor, and talked to the ceiling until it was time to eat.

Turk didn’t come home for dinner. The long sunset left the sky, and a few stars came out. Still no Turk. Dad tried calling her cell phone, but no answer.

Finally, long after midnight, her little car grumbled up in front of the house and she slammed through the front door and up the stairs to her attic.

By the time the three of us got up and into the hall, the ladder was up.

“Turk, come down now. We need to talk,” Dad shouted.

Then we watched as the little rope that pulled down the ladder disappeared up through its hole.

“Turk!” Dad said.

Then Mom put her hand on his arm.

“That’s just what she wants you to do,” she said. “Let’s go back to bed. We’ll deal with this tomorrow when we’re all rested. And when she can’t turn it into a drama.”

“Good thinking,” Dad said. “Cody, back to bed.”

“Right, Dad,” I said. “No drama.”

Saying “No drama” and “Turk” in the same sentence was like saying “No homework” and “Vlad.” But I knew Dad would like the sound of it.

I went to bed. Down the hall, I heard my mom and dad doing the same thing. A few low whispers. Lights out.

Then I lay there wondering what Turk had been up to.

For the first time, I wondered how someone who wanted to knock on Turk’s door would do it.

And would Turk answer? She had to be enjoying a good mad right now. Ignoring me would give her extra pleasure.

I stared up at the ceiling for a couple of minutes. Then I had an idea that I thought would work.

I tiptoed into the hall carrying the chair from my desk like it would explode if I dropped it. I stood on it and scratched my nails slowly over the trapdoor. Slowly. Quietly. For a long time.

Finally, the hatch cracked open.

“You’re doing that wrong,” Turk said in a whisper.

“Of course,” I agreed.

“You’re only supposed to use your little finger. Using your whole hand is rude,” Turk said.

“I’ll never do it again,” I said.

“Anyway, what do you want?” Turk said.

“Just wanted to talk,” I said. “Let down the ladder.”

“I can’t,” Turk said. “Your parents will wake up.”

“It’s okay. They aren’t going to kill you tonight,” I said.

Slowly, Turk pushed down the ladder. The springs skreaked, but the door to Mom and Dad’s room stayed closed.

“Come on up,” Turk said.

The attic looked like it was forty fathoms underwater. The only light came from the ten-gallon fish tank that Justin had given her. Two black angelfish darted back and forth in it, expecting to be fed. Pale green light and black shadows shimmered on the walls. The Snake of Life over our heads was like some half-seen monster, and The Scream standing in the corner looked like a drowning victim. Turk had really made the place her own.

“What do you know about Crossfield?” she asked me.

“Crossfield? What were you doing in Crossfield?” I asked.

“Just looking around,” Turk said.

“That’s not a good place for looking around,” I said. “Especially after dark.”

I had been to Crossfield once. Dad had made a wrong turn shortly after we’d moved to New Sodom, and we’d ended up there. From what I had seen then, and from what I had learned about the place since, I hadn’t seen any reason to go back. Apart from the factories and a few other buildings that might have been houses once, the place was mostly empty lots full of concrete and rusted iron, strange-looking weeds, abandoned cars stripped of their wheels and engines. And under it all you could still see little cobble-stoned roads lacing back and forth, running at right angles.

“It’s a great place for looking around,” Turk said. “So ugly it’s beautiful.”

“So ugly it’s ugly,” I said.

“The moon drowning in that dirty river,” Turk said. “Buildings like skulls everywhere, staring at you.”

“By which I assume you mean the abandoned mills,” I said.

“Is that what they are?” Turk said. “Really abandoned?”

“Mills and factories,” I said.

“I want one,” Turk said.

“No problem,” I said. “Would you like fries with that?”

“I need space,” Turk said. “I need a real studio. In real towns, places like that would have been converted years ago. Hey, in some places, they give artists tax breaks to move in. Those things are just sitting there. Waiting. Waiting for me. Your dad’s got to help me find out who owns those places and how I can get into one.”

“So you want Dad to buy you an abandoned mill so you can have a place to paint?” I said.

“And sculpt,” Turk said.

“Great idea,” I said. “At last you’d have enough space for your whole ego.”

“Listen, jerk,” Turk said. “Do you know why cities turn buildings like that over to artists? Money. Money follows art around like a lost puppy. Even Uncle Jack can understand that. I’ll cut him in.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Dad’s always wanted to be part-owner of an abandoned building with a wannabe painter in it.”

“I am not a damn wannabe,” Turk snarled. “I produce. I sell.”

“Good night, Turk,” I said. “Good luck with Dad.”

I went back down the ladder.

I heard it thump up behind me.

I had to admit, I was glad Turk was home safe. But what kind of nut job cousin did I have?

“Buy me a mill, Uncle Jack. I want to paint my pictures there.” It was like she was still making spaceships out of cardboard.

But as I got into bed, I thought that maybe Crossfield could be the topic of my impossible research paper for Gibbon’s history class. It wasn’t a blinding flash of inspiration. I wasn’t even very interested in it. But Turk was sort of right about the place. It hadn’t been beautiful, but it had been intriguing in a twisted kind of way. Like a car wreck. There might be a story there.