"Say, did you make an appointment with Dr. Canthorpe."

I nodded.

"When is it?"

"Tomorrow at 10:30 AM. I missed part of biology. Got a permission slip and everything."

"Better you than me. That kind of guy scares the crap out of me."

I shrugged.

"What am going to do? What's he going to do."

"Intimidate you."

"Well he's not my father and he can't cut my allowance, so there's a worry gone. Now lets concentrate on this play, huh?"

The playwrights had cut out a few roles in the novels and made some changes in this and that, but the basic characters were the same. And the word around the school a and from the boy himself - was that Peter Harrigan was going to play Count Dracula. When Count Dracula comes to England, his first victim is the blonde daughter of Doctor John Seward, who runs a mental institute in the English countryside. Her name is Lucy.

This is not a sudden victimization. Oh no, Lucy gets visited plenty of times at night, and there's plenty of neck-sucking before she finally dramatically dies a and becomes a vampire herself.

Yes, and there's plenty interaction between Lucy and Count Dracula.

Intimate action, covered by a dark cloak, that would have to be rehearsed over and over and over again, the Count leaning over the helpless Lucy, his arms wrapped around her, his mouth buried into her neck...

I shivered there in my seat with anticipation.

"Okay, yes, yes, you're right. I've just got to concentrate now. I've got to get into character. Give me the bag."

Harry handed it over.

I took a deep breath.

I closed my eyes.

I took another deep breath, reached in and pulled out the blonde wig.

CHAPTER SIX.

THE CLOCK ON the wall of Principal Canthorpe's office said 10:36 AM.

I sat on a wooden chair in a row of wooden chairs facing the long, imposing front desk of the administrative office. It looked like some kind of bunker from which defenders could peer over, armed with rifles. The assembled secretaries clattered away at electric typewriters. The place smelled of the coffee machine and the over-waxed floors. The only attempt at color to the bland bureaucracy of the place were the American and Maryland flags, which seemed to be the main theme of the decor.

I sat, unable to read my gothic novel. Instead, I watched the big second hand of the big standard issue school clock swing from number to number to number.

I wasn't feeling well.

I'd had a very hard time sleeping the previous night. The cold day had dawned with a rawness that I still felt inside of me. I felt empty and frightened, with a familiar sinking feeling sinking lower than I'd thought possible.

I wasn't sure why, which was the most frightening part. It was that fabled sensation, I think, of someone walking over your grave.

In fact, the auditions had gone well. Very well indeed.

The mood struck by Mr. Crawley had immediately infected the students. Everyone seemed to enjoy reading the dated lines from the playbook. Moreover, as there was always plenty of work to be done on a play and there no vocational students involved with the drama department, every student attending knew that even if they didn't get a role in Dracula, they could be a part of the production in some way. And it wasn't as though a role in Dracula was like a role, say, in The Glass Menagerie. Melodramatic acting was fun. Scenery was actually rather tasty.

And Peter Harrigan! Peter had been fabulous!

Mr. Crawley had specifically requested that guys reading the Count Dracula lines tone down any tendency to perform them with the famous Bela Lugosi Hungarian accent. In fact, he'd especially asked that if possible, they might do a more stately Christopher Lee version a upper-class British.

Peter wasn't that good at either of those, and his upper classness was more Bostonian than anything from across the Atlantic. But gosh, he was tall and majestic! He had a perfect stage presence, tall with perfect posture. Totally self-possessed, he read the lines in an interesting way, but also with extreme animal magnetism.

"I don't drink....wine."

The words, and that sly smile echoed in my mind even now.

I got shivers thinking about it.

No question about it, I thought. We have our Dracula.

And my try-out?

Perhaps if it was a more professional, or even more experienced group, it wouldn't have gone well. I'd been an angel in a church production. That was it.

But I had a trump card and I played it.

I'd lived in Britain, and I could jolly well do a bloody proper English accent. I could do it because I'd worked at it over there while we were stationed in England.

I'd donned my wig and I'd read my lines, and I could see that everyone was wowed. Mr. Crawley had insisted that the attempt was part of the fun a perfection wasn't necessary. But by time I'd finished I could see that he was quite impressed.

"Where did you get that accent?" he said.

"Public school, if you please, sir," I said. "Indeed, I should have you know, I'm quite the fan of R.A.D.A."

His eyes had opened wide at that name drop. (Royal Academy for the Dramatic Arts, of course, the acting school of Britain).

So, I felt fairly certain I had the role of Lucy.

I'd gone to sleep last night, cozily clutching my pillow, thinking about that cape again closing over me, those glaring eyes taking me in, that mouth descending upon me, those strong arms around me, holding me in their clutches.....and then our laughter afterwards. Oh that was so much fun, Rebecca, he'd say. You have such a soul, girl. Say, we really should see more of each other. A movie this weekend?

But I'd woken up in the middle of the night, cold and frightened, and I slept fitfully all night.

Something seemed wrong.

Was it just simple stage fright? Had I actually started thinking of what it would be like standing in front of a large audience in nightclothes, my bloomers hanging out, and emoting those stiff Victorian sentences?

Now, in the principal's office, I felt vulnerable and alone.

Perhaps that was because I was vulnerable and alone.

A buzzer buzzed, startling me. A secretary picked up a phone, listened briefly, spoke briefly, and then set it back into its cradle.

"Dr. Canthorpe will see you now," she said glacially.

"Should I just go in?" I said.

"Correct."

I got up, feeling a little dizzy. I walked down the corridor of closed offices. Each office was clearly labeled with metal plates. At the end of the hall was the door with the largest plate, this one with black letters.

DOCTOR CROYDON CANTHORPE.

PRINCIPAL.

I had expected Dr. Canthorpe to come out and escort me back. Somehow it seemed like the courteous thing to do. The notion of walking back alone was frightening. It wasn't as though the hall was dark and gloomy, or that skeletal arms might reach out from the doors and grab me. No, the hallway was well-lighted. But the coldness, the sterility, the efficiency felt quite inhuman.

My stomach churned.

I got up, shivered a bit, and began my march.

At the end of the hall, I tentatively put my hand on the door knob. It was cold, cold as ice. I drew my hand away, had a second thought a and knocked instead.

"Come in," barked a gruff voice.

I used both hands this time, twisting the knob. The latch clicked, the door opened with no squeak of hinges and I stepped cautiously into the office.

It was a large office, bigger than the vice principals, and certainly much bigger than the cubbyholes occupied by the guidance councilors. Much of the spartan linoleum floor was covered with a beautiful Persian rug. Behind the standard issue wood and metal desk were walnut book cases stuffed with old leather volumes that perfumed the air with a sense of college, rather than high school. I had expected a big Maryland flag and a bigger American flag to dominate the disciplinarian's den. No such items. I had expected a portrait of Maryland governor Spiro T. Agnew or at the very least President Lyndon Baines Johnson. Instead, besides bookshelves, he had the usual array of certificates and awards, clustered around an old large old fashioned landscape painting of a what seemed to be a castle amidst a dense forest.

Dr. Canthorpe himself was sitting at his desk, working on some forms.

"Just a moment," he said, peering down at the forms through wire spectacles. "Have a seat."

In front of the imposing desk was a solitary wooden chair. There was a winged armchair and a small couch and a coffee table to fill out the comfort aspect of the office, but that chair... That chair was clearly not designed for any comfort, nor for faculty or staff behinds. It was the hot seat, situated like a meager creaky platform for the accused, above which towered the judge's bench - the desk.

I sat down.

The chair was hard and awkward.

Thus Principal Canthorpe kept me waiting another two minutes while he filled in the forms. His breathing was heavy and harsh sounding. As I sat, I became aware that the room was filled with a peculiar odor, a not unpleasant male muskiness that lurked beneath hints of pipe tobacco and Old Spice.

Principal Canthorpe scratched out his last letter, and then peered up at me through his spectacles.

"You," he said, as though he knew me.

"Pardon me."

He nodded. "You. I know you."

"You know me? I just moved here last year."

He smiled but I would not call it a friendly smile. "I've been looking at your grades and some of your tests. I'm very impressed. I hope that this will be a launching point for you to a good college and a fulfilling career.

You've done work with debating and rhetoric. High, high marks in oral presentations and written compositions. Hmm. And all As in civics and history."

He sniffed.

"The ability to speak and persuade is important, Rebecca. Now of course a good college and fulfilling career can be whatever you choose, as idyosyncratic, as wild and wilful as you please. But that is not now, Rebecca Williams." He spoke my name as though he were chewing it before letting it go. "Now, you are in high school. Now you are at my school."

I was shocked and cowed, of course, but also had enough sense of self to get through my basic fear to speak up for myself.

"Uh - sir... uh... Have I killed anyone?"

His eyes got cold. "What's your point," he snapped.

"I haven't broken any rules or laws, have I? I mean, I guess, with all due ...and considerable... respect, sir... I'm here to get your point, not the other way around."

He smiled again, craftily. "Hmm. Perhaps we can put you to use during your stint here. You might join the Debate Team."

"I'll certainly consider that."

"Good. But you'll have to dress much differently and have a different attitude if you're going to represent this school, my school in any kind of forum beyond the antics of the Drama Club."

I sat back in my chair and took a breath.

Oh, so that was it.

I got it. I looked down and realized I'd pretty much worn what I'd worn yesterday, not the cheerful prep school garb of a happy healthy American teen, but the dour "Paint it Black" bohemian coffee house garments with my old tilt toward the Gothic.

"Oh, I see. But sir.. I've read the dress code. And things have gotten more liberal over the years in high school. Culturally speaking."

"Liberal," he said, snapping at the word. "Yes. Liberal."

He leaned back and steepled his fingers.

"Yes, yes, and liberal is good!" he said sardonically. "This is a free country, after all, and everyone is entitled to their own religion and their own opinions."

The steeple collapsed.

"However, this is not a free high school." His eyes blazed. "And liberal dress code or no liberal dress code, I'd like you to consider the situation.

"This world works this way. There are leaders and there are followers. Everyone is happier when leaders lead and followers follow. However, sometimes the born followers forget that. They must be brought back into line.

"This school is a mirror of the world in some ways. A microcosm to the macrocosm. And, in this school, for everyone's good, there must be order. There must be those who lead and those who follow. I am the king here. I am president. I'm in charge. Under me are my staff and the faculty. Beyond are the social forces inherent in a high school. This is a unique high school with its vocational program, but you get the idea, I hope. What we have is a kind a natural order here - the leaders and the followers. Everyone has their place, and everyone is happy.