CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE WEEKEND PASSED glacially.

I went home and attempted to do homework, to not much good effect.

I tried to read a gothic novel - a really good one, by Victoria Holt - but my mind kept straying.

I managed to get some dinner down me, and then watched a black and white movie on our pathetic black and white television set. Saturday Night at the Movies. On NBC. It was an old Paul Newman movie, Rally Round the Flag, Boys. I had a very hard time paying attention.

All the while, I kept hoping the phone would ring.

Hoping it would be Emory.

On Sunday, I begged off church, with a supposed headache. Somehow church didn't seem to be the thing to do at the moment.

I went over to Harold and managed to get some homework done. Then we played some Scrabble and for the first time he beat me. I just couldn't concentrate.

I was in love with Emory Clarke.

The phrase kept going through my head, but it wasn't a phrase going through my body. I felt gripped by some force. I simply couldn't stop thinking about him. Previous crushes I'd had paled in comparison. It felt like I had all the swelling oceans in the world in me, and Emory was pulling me around like the moon pulls the tides.

Sunday night I dreamed of him. He wasn't wearing his usual black clothes. He wasn't wearing a Dracula cape. He was wearing jeans, and a tea shirt. He had his hair swept back, like James Dean. He just stared at me through dreamy half-closed eyes, thumbs in his jeans pockets - full of danger, mystery, challenge - And absolute beauty.

I woke up all sweaty, hugging my pillow.

My neck hurt again. I went to the mirror.

No bite marks. In fact, there was no bruise mark, no discoloration at all.

I went back to bed and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

WHEN I AWOKE the next morning, I felt wonderful.

I felt absolutely great.

"Emory!" I said.

Then I hopped out of bed and got into the shower.

It was early. So I took a long soothing shower. Then I used my Mom's blow dryer longer than usual, and brushed my hair longer than usual, until my usual rat's nest fairly glowed, straight and long. Then I dug deep into my closet and got out a light gray skirt and a bright blue blouse with a pretty pattern on it. I got out a nice sweater that hadn't fit me last month. I tried it on, and realized to my joy that I'd lost some weight. It fit!

I put the sweater on.

Then I found my faithful penny loafers, the brown ones. My lucky shoes, I called them. My ruby slippers, my Oz-wear, my Off-to-See-the-wizard shoes.

There's a line in William Shakespeare'sThe Tempest that the heroine says when she sees her first gorgeous man.

"Oh brave new world, that hast such creatures in it."

That's exactly the way I felt.

That's precisely the way I felt about Emory. Whether he was a vampire, or a Senator's son, or just a shy, sweet, tender guy trying to get through life like everyone else - suddenly Emory was making me see everything in a new way.

I had a different point of view on life.

Whether it was dark or dreary and gothic, or thrilling and romantic, life was a mysterious adventure. I was the star, and I couldn't wait to find out what happened.

It was a typical Monday morning breakfast I walked down to in the Williams household.

Mopey.

Mom was frying bacon and eggs. Little brother was playing with some oatmeal. Dad was tilting some coffee down his mouth. He was wearing his colonel's outfit. He looked up blearily from his day-dreamy motion - and then did a double take.

"Whoa! My goodness. What's the occasion!"

My brother looked up at me and his eyes got wider.

"Wow. Must be some guy!"

Mom looked at me, and she smiled.

"You're wearing the clothes I bought for you!"

"No dark princess of the gloom anymore?" asked my father.

"I'm not stuck on one way of dressing, but I'm still me."

"Like a Hershey's M and M.," quipped Donald. "Bright and brittle on the outside. Dark and gooey in the middle!"

"What is this, a sitcom?" said my mother. "Don't make fun of her. She looks very nice!"

"Nice? She looks fabulous!" said my father. He smiled. "You look really nice, Rebecca. Pay no attention to your brother."

I felt very pleased to get my father's positive attention. He had an odd look to his face, a kind of pride, I think, and I absolutely basked in it.

I ate my breakfast and then hurried to the bus stop.

It was a Monday morning, so Harold had stayed with his Uncle the night before and so was on the bus. He was sitting on the aisle as usual holding a seat for me, but he wasn't reading a science fiction paperback of digest fiction magazine. He was just dully staring at the back seat ahead of him.

He brightened when he saw me.

"Oh. Hi there."

"Hi to you. Scoot over."

"Oh. Sure."

He made room for me. As I looked at him, I realized he was a bit paler than usual.

"So why the long face, Seabiscuit?" I said.

"Oh, just didn't sleep to well last night, I guess."

"You're not commenting on my attire," I said.

"Yeah. You look really nice. Is there an occasion?"

"I don't know. I just woke up this morning and felt like it."

"That's nice."

"Sheesh, you're the gloomy one today!"

"Taking up the slack for you, I guess."

"Touche."

"So. You've got a date with Emory or something?"

"No. Like I said, no special occasion. I just got up and these clothes were there and I felt like putting them on."

Silence.

We picked up some more people and then the bus ground onward. For some reason the driver was having problems with the gearshift today which made the ride very noisy.

I broke the unusual silence between Harold and I.

"So. Whatcha been reading?"

He looked at me. "What have you been reading?"

"Actually, I just did homework last night. Haven't been reading anything." Usually, I informed him in explicit detail about the latest gothic that had crossed my path.

"Me neither."

"What about that Keith Laumer book?"

"It was okay, but it wasn't half as good as Retief's War."

Retief was Jame Retief, a fictional diplomat in a far future when mankind has gone to the stars and discovered alien races to parlay with. He'd made me read a few of the novelettes and I had to admit, although I wasn't a science fiction fan, I found them rather clever.

I said, "You know, I really should read that."

"I gave you a copy. You mean, you really are gonna read it? I mean, you've always got some gothic you've got to read first."

"I'm not so sure I should just read gothics," I said. "Maybe that's just a phase, anyway. I probably should branch out a bit in my reading, shouldn't I?"

"Oh. Sure. Why not?"

The idea of me reading some science fiction stirred him a bit, but didn't seem to get him entirely out of his funk. So I just took up the slack in the conversation, as is my wont, until the bus pulled up to the boarding apron at Crossland Senior High. We students disgorged. There was a good fifteen minutes left until first bell, and the doors to the multi-purpose waiting room were open. So, naturally, almost automatically, we all filed that way.

As usual, the tables set up by the proscenium and curtain weren't the popular ones. Again, almost automatically, Harold and I moved that way. It was nice to feel the wax-smell and warmth of the auditorium after the dismal blast of cold from outside and the fumes of the buses. We settled down to our table. Usually, this was time to yawn and finish up last minute bits and chunks of homework, but we didn't.

We just sat down.

I looked up at the stage and said, continuing the monologue.

"Wow. It's hard to believe that in just a couple of weeks, I'm going to be playing Lucy in Dracula in front of a big audience."

"Getting stage fright?"

"Yeah. Kinda. Sure, maybe I am."

"Not surprising."

"Why?"

"Why?" said Harold. "I mean, everyone get's stage fright sometimes. It's natural. I know I sure wouldn't like to put on a blonde wig and get out there and try to remember my lines in front of a bunch of goggling people."

"You kinda get into it, I think. It's really rather thrilling."

"I'm sure it is. But from my point-of-view, I get rattled just standing up in front of class and reading something, let alone trying to remember stuff I memorized."

"You get used to it, I think."

"You're not scared?"

"A little. But I'm not thinking about it much. I guess there are just other things to think about."

"Oh. Like about Emory, you mean."

I shrugged. "I suppose."

"You're very blase."

"That's a good word, Harold."

"Readers learn good words."

"Oh yes, I suppose about Emory. But you know, Harold he's just a boy! I really do have to think about more than boys, now, don't I?"

"There certainly is plenty to think about, that's for certain!" said Harold. He had a hopeless quality in his voice.

"You know maybe we just think too much, Harold. We should think less and live more. Shall we make a pact on that?"