“Oh, I have,” Michael shot back. “I’m getting the hell out of this place as soon as I can. I already talked to Mom and Dad about it. They’re planning to move—didn’t you know? They’ve already applied and gotten exit papers to go to the East Coast so Mom can get her surgery next year. And once I’m eighteen, I’m gone.”
“I know about your parents,” Sam said. “I support their decision. Yours, I’m not so sure. Morganville is all you know, Michael. You have no idea how hard the world outside can be for a kid on his own.”
“I’m not a kid,” Michael said. “Stop calling me one, Grandpa.”
He pushed off and walked away into the school, leaving Sam standing there. Eve felt weirdly awkward, and she reached out to pat the man’s arm just a little. “Sorry,” she said. “He, ah, probably didn’t mean that. He’s just upset.”
“I know,” Sam said. “It’s not easy for him, with a sick mom; losing his best friend only makes it that much worse. I’m glad he still has you.”
“Has me? Uh . . . I’m just . . .” Eve scrambled for some kind of definition for what she was. “A friend.”
“He needs friends,” Sam said. There was a distant, sad look in those blue eyes now, but he still smiled at her. “We all do. What I said to him goes for you, too, Eve. Leave Monica Morrell alone.”
“The question is, how do I get her to leave me alone?”
He shook his head, put on his hat and sunglasses, and went out into the sun, walking fast.
Eve winced at the bright stab of sunlight, and went into the school. Michael was nowhere to be found . . . but later, she found a note stuffed into her locker. She opened it carefully; Monica and her buds were always writing hate mail. But this just read simply THANKS, and had a little guitar drawn at the bottom . . . and she knew it was from him.
“Love notes?” Monica’s voice came from right over her shoulder, and Eve almost tore the paper in half as she convulsively shivered. She turned, banging into the lockers hard enough to leave a bruise, and shoved the note back into the depths of her book stash. “Who’s it from, Stinky George? Has to be somebody from the bottom of the loser pile.”
Leave Monica alone. She almost heard Sam’s voice in her ear, but what did he know, really, about being a girl trapped in a high school hallway with someone who ate the weak alive?
Eve turned, looked Monica full in the face, and said, “George might be bath-challenged, but he’s smarter than you, and he can always take a shower. You’ll always be as dumb as a supersized bag of stupid.”
Monica threw a punch. Eve bent her knees, dropping fast, and the punch went high and smacked hard into the metal of the locker door. Something snapped with a muffled sound, and Monica let out a choked, disbelieving cry of pain as she reeled backward. It was only then that Eve realized neither of her normal backup singers was with her. Just Monica Morrell. Alone.
Eve took a step in as Monica cradled her broken hand to her chest, big eyes filling with tears of pain. She did feel a stab of empathy—just a little. She did remember how it felt, getting hurt. She’d been hurt plenty.
“Word of advice,” Eve said. She suddenly realized that she was taller than Monica, and she felt stronger than her, too, as Monica flinched. “Stay away from Michael Glass. You hurt his friend. He’s not going to forget.”
Eve slammed her locker, whirled the combo lock, and walked away. Monica yelled something at her, but Eve just responded with a quick middle finger and no look back.
This time, she understood the yell plenty. “I’m going to make you sorry!” Monica said. “You pervy skank! Brandon’s my Protector, too! Just wait till you turn eighteen, bitch—he’s going to make you pay!”
Well, crap, Eve thought as she stiff-armed the exit, adjusted the backpack on her arm, and started the walk home. I guess I should have thought of that.
She was never going to let Brandon get a fang into her. Never.
Not even if she had to tear up his contract and throw it in his face and run for her life.
She was imagining what that might be like when Michael Glass fell in beside her. He was carrying his guitar in a soft case strapped to his back, and had a distinct lack of books. Then again, he was a smart guy; he probably didn’t need to study nearly as hard as she did.
Her heart did that guilty flutter thing again when he joined her.
“Sorry about bugging out like that,” he said. “I’ve got a gig at Common Grounds. Want to drop in?”
“Sure,” she said, as casually as if it didn’t mean everything in the world to her. “Why not?”
She could worry about the future later.
THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF YOUR LIFE
This was my very first Morganville short story, published in Charlaine Harris and Toni L. P. Kelner’s fantastic collection Many Bloody Returns. Because when Charlaine Harris asks you whether you’d like to contribute a story to an anthology that has the theme of “vampires and birthdays,” you definitely say yes to that.