19

SAt.u.r.dAY, JUNE 9, 7 A.M.

BIRTHDAY GRRL!!!!

Yay! Today is my birthday!!!! How exciting!!!! Yes, I know I'm exclamation-pointing too much, but you would be, too, if it were your birthday!!!!

First Mom's going to cook a birthday breakfast-and she's promised to make real pancakes without any tofu, barley, or carrots in them. Extra unhealthy with whipped cream and strawberries.

In the afternoon, Spider's coming over, as are various friends of Sunny's. Mom's going to order pizza and we Netflixed a bunch of DVDs. Of course, Sunny's selection will probably have all Matthew McConaughey stuff. But I rented some cla.s.sics. The original Dracula, starring Bela Lugosi for one. Can't wait!

But what I'm most excited about is Dad. I can't believe he's actually coming. I haven't seen him in so many years. I'm so proud of Sunny for getting up the courage to write to him and invite him. I would have never been able to do that.

I wonder what he'll look like. If he's started to gray at his temples. Will he look old? Or maybe just distinguished? I wonder what he'll bring us for presents. I don't even care if he does, actually. Just having him here is present enough.

Ooh, this is going to be the best day, ever! I sooo cannot wait for it to begin.

Oops, Mom's calling me to breakfast and I haven't even selected a b-day outfit yet. Gah! Better get a move on. . ..

POSTED BY RAYNE MCDONALD @ 7 P.M.

THREE COMMENTS:

b.u.t.terfliQT says . . .

Happy birthday, sweetie! Enjoy the time with your dad.

DarkGothBoy says . . .

Happy Birthday 2 u Happy Birthday 2 u U look like a vampire and U smell like one, too.

Spider says . . .

See you this afternoon. Can't wait to meet the dadster.

20

SAt.u.r.dAY, JUNE 9, 10 P.M.

NO CAKE

It's ten o'clock. He's still not here. Sunny and my mom have gone to bed. I'm sitting downstairs on the family computer, surrounded by leftover pizza, stupid presents I don't want or need, and NO CAKE.

I hate him.

I HATE HIM.

I HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE HIM!!!!!

POSTED BY RAYNE MCDONALD @ 10 P.M.

FOUR COMMENTS:

Anonymous says. . .

Oh, he didn't show up? What a surprise. Poor Raynie. Now she's really going to have daddy issues. Boo-hoo-hoo. The Goth freak suffers some more. Maybe you should go listen to Morrissey and slit your wrists.

Anonymous says. . .

Ha-ha! I could have predicted that.

Anonymous says. . .

Oh, the teenage angst. Makes me a little sick. Welcome to the real world, little one.

Anonymous says. . .

Maybe this will teach you to stop playing your little vampire games and face reality a bit, sweetheart.

21

SUNDAY, JUNE 10, 1 P.M.

My Dad's a Loser and I Think He Should Die

Dear Diary, I used to write a blog and post it on the Internet. But let me tell you, it's not fun posting about your life when bad things happen and then have anonymous people post nasty, hurtful comments about you. So screw that. I'm going to stick with a good old-fashioned lock-and-key diary from now on.

Anyway, it's Sunday afternoon. Not that it matters. I don't think I would have gotten out of bed even if I did have school. I'm such a moron. I actually stayed up waiting for the guy 'til one a.m. As if he'd suddenly come through the door at one a.m., arms full of presents and cake, mouth full of apologies for being late.

Obviously that didn't happen. Not that I really expected it would. Not really, anyway.

Did I mention I hate him?

Screw this. That was his last chance. I am never speaking to him again. Not in a thousand years. A million if I end up turning into a vamp and happen to live that long. He's already dead to me. If I came upon his grave somewhere in my vampirish travels I'd spit on it.

I hate him, I hate him, I HATE HIM!!!!

I'm such an idiot. Why did I buy Sunny's c.r.a.p about him definitely coming? About how it has to be real 'cause there's a plane ticket and a hotel? Last night I called the airport. The hotel. He just never showed up. Stood them up, just like he did us.

b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Effing b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

I wish I could just jump on a plane and head straight to his house and confront him in person. Tell him what a lousy father he is and how he doesn't deserve good daughters like Sunny and me. Or something. Anything. Just so I don't have to feel so freaking helpless and screwed up and alone.

Great. Now I'm crying again and I'm so not a crying type of girl. This whole thing sucks. I don't have time to be all de- pressed either. I've got Slayer Training scheduled at two, if you can believe it. Teifert called me this morning (Does the entire world know my cell number?), leaving a cryptic message about the time growing near. Which is fine by me, I suppose.

I'm more than ready to kick a little a.s.s.

22

SUNDAY, JUNE 10, 5 P.M.

Stake That!

Back from Slayer Training. Definitely a mind-blowing experience, let me tell you.

At first everything seems pretty normal. Mr. Teifert and I meet up in the school gymnasium, down by the weight room. The place is deserted, which is probably a good thing. A student and a teacher, alone in a half-lit gym-probably a bit sketchy-looking to your average outsider. And it's not like we can explain the whole slayer/instructor thing to the general public. They're bound to make up a much seedier scenario-one that will get Teifert fired and me expelled. Not so good.

Oh, but get this! Mr. Teifert forces me to change into a pair of Juicy Couture sweatpants and Nikes before starting my training. Says something about my beautiful black silk dress and combat boots combo not being appropriate workout attire. Puh- leeze. Oh, and if that wasn't bad enough-this pair of Juicy Couture sweatpants just so happens to be pink! If anyone evil and cruel were to walk by with a camera phone at this very moment, my entire high school image would be irreparably shattered.

After donning the Pepto-Bismol outfit, we start our training. He has me do some weight lifting first (five pounds is about my limit) and then jump rope (three jumps maybe before I get hopelessly tangled), then run laps around the gymnasium. (And when I say laps, I mean lap-singular- before I'm completely out of breath. I've so got to give up smoking.) He looks a little distraught at my physical condition, but simply motions to the punching bag and tells me to go at it. I smile.

Now we're talking.

"Hi-YAH!" I cry as I slam my fist into the punching bag and then follow it with a beautiful roundhouse kick. I lower my head and narrow my eyes and focus on the bag, making it my enemy. If I'm lucky, this Slayer Training will get some of my pent-up aggression out.

Dad. Is. A. Loser. Punch. Kick. Repeat.

"Rayne, focus. You're not in control," Teifert repeats for the ten-thousandth time. "A slayer must find her deep strength. Her inner power. She must become one with the universe."

I stop punching, reaching up to wipe the sweat from my forehead. "Can we cut the Zen c.r.a.p for a moment?" I ask. "I'm trying to beat this bag to a pulp."

"No we cannot cut the 'Zen c.r.a.p' as you say," Teifert says wearily. "Rayne, one cannot become a good slayer through sheer force and anger. You must find the power within your center. Within yourself."

"Maybe I don't have a center. And if so, maybe I should use what I got." I hold up my fists. "Here's where my power lies, Teifert. Look out, vamps, it's Raynie Power time."

Teifert shakes his head. "Where do they find these girls?" he mutters under his breath. "And why do they keep sending them to me?"

Oh, that's nice. "Hey, you chose me, dude," I remind him, lowering my fists. "I didn't ask for this gig." Great, now I'm a slayer reject, too. Go figure. I punch the bag a few more times. Might as well burn some calories while he's bemoaning my slayer suckiness. "Maybe you chose wrong. Ever think about that? Maybe I'm not really slayer material."

"We don't choose wrong. We have a very precise methodology for picking our slayers. You just don't see the power you have. You're stubborn and you refuse to learn. And therefore your power will remain dormant. Locked inside of you." He grabs the punching bag so it no longer sways with my hits. "Let's try you with your stake."