So real that the memory of it made him long for her.

Had she smelled that way, he wondered, when she was alive?

Would she smell that way if she came back to life?

She's not a vampire, Larry told himself. But just suppose she is. Just suppose I pull out the stake and she really is a vampire. Would she be just the same as the Bonnie who came to me this morning?

Would she smell the same? Look the same?

Would she act the same?

Would she love me?

Twenty-eight

With a minute to spare before the start of sixth period, Lane entered the classroom. About half the seats were still vacant. Including Benson's. Including Jessica's.

Walking toward her desk, Lane gazed at Jessica's empty seat.

The girl would never sit there again.

The idea of that seemed black and vast, and Lane felt a hot sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She sat down and slumped forward, elbows on her desktop, hands on her cheeks, eyes straightforward.

Mr. Kramer, she saw, had finished tacking the author pictures to the corkboard. She'd fallen while reaching out with Sandburg, whose calm and solemn face, white hair draping one eye, was now in place next to Frost. After Sandburg, Mr. Kramer had put up T.S. Eliot, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Thomas Wolfe.

I only had four to go, she thought.

The fall had seemed like such a major deal: her clumsiness in letting it happen, her embarrassment at the way so much of her body was revealed to Mr. Kramer, the thrill she felt when he touched her. Now none of that mattered very much. Jessica's death seemed to shrink the importance of everything.

She'd hardly known the girl. She hadn't even liked her.

But ever since hearing the news of the murder, Lane had felt small and insignificant-as if her own life were nothing more than a performance. She was acting in her own stupid little play. And while she dwelled on her petty problems and hopes and desires, safe on her tiny stage, real things were happening in a real world nearby. A frightful, alien place full of darkness and violent death.

She didn't like the feeling, not at all. It made everything she did seem so trivial. Even worse was the nagging worry that somehow, sometime, she might herself be dragged into the same real world where Jessica and so many other people-everyone, maybe, sooner or later-got crushed.

It scared the hell out of her.

All day, whenever she was reminded of Jessica, Lane had broken into a sweat. Stopping in the rest room on her way to sixth period, she'd sniffed her armpits. They'd smelled okay, thanks to her deodorant, but her blouse was damp under there. Right now it felt sodden. Perspiration was sliding down her sides, tickling slightly. With no bra to soak up the droplets, they kept going until they were absorbed by her blouse just above her belt.

She wished, again, that she'd worn her bra to school. Not because of the sweat. Because of Jessica. Because leaving it at home seemed like part of her own little drama, childish and coy in light of the real world's horrible intrusion.

Also, she would've liked the security of it. Earlier she'd savored the loose, free feelings. But after hearing about Jessica, she'd stopped feeling free. Just vulnerable.

The bell rang, startling her.

She sat up straight as Mr. Kramer entered the room. He put down his briefcase, took out a small brown book, then stepped to the front of the table. He sat on its edge, resting the book on his thigh. The room fell silent. He scanned the rows. His face looked grim, a little haggard.

"I'm sure you're all aware, by now, of the tragedy that occurred last night. Everyone's talking about it. I imagine some of your other teachers have spoken to you about the situation."

Pressing his lips together, he shook his head. He frowned at the empty desk.

"Jessica was my student. She was your classmate. Obviously, her death is a shock to all of us, and we'll miss her."

He looked up from her desk. His eyes briefly met Lane's, then turned away and roamed from face to face.

"I don't have any magic words," he said, "to ease the grief we share. But I'm a teacher, and there is a lesson to be learned from this.

The Bible tells us that, in the midst of life, we are in death. But the reverse is also true. 'In the midst of death, we are in life.' We need to keep that in mind. Life is a precious gift. We should never forget that, or take it for granted. We should savor every moment that is given to us."

Lane felt her throat tighten.

"We have the present, and that's all we can ever really be sure of.

So many of us and I'm as guilty as anyone- allow our present moments to pass us by unnoticed, unappreciated, while we occupy our minds with other thoughts. Certainly, we need to work and plan to help things turn out right in our futures. But we even lose our futures if we spend them worrying about what may come next. When the nature arrives for us, it comes as single moments, present moments.

"So if we're to learn anything from what happened to Jessica and her parents, it's this-we need to live life now. We need to notice each second, and fill ourselves with its wonders and mysteries... and its joys."

His final words brought tears to Lane's eyes. She blinked and wiped them away.

He's so right, she thought. Each moment is precious.

This moment is precious, sitting here, listening to Mr. Kramer. She realized that she had never felt closer to him, not even yesterday when he was touching her.

"I want to share a poem with you. Then we'll get on with class." He lifted the slim volume off his leg and opened it to a bookmark. "This is by Allan Edward DePrey. It's called, 'Grave Musings.' He lowered his eyes and began to read, his clear voice low and solemn: A few of the kids tittered. Mr. Kramer looked up from the page. "If you'd rather not hear the rest of this..."

"Go on," Lane urged him.

"Maybe I should skip over some of this," he said. "It gets pretty long." He took a few moments to search the poem, apparently trying to decide where he should resume reading. Then, he continued: Someone in the room said, "Yuck," and a few kids laughed.

"I admit the poem has its grim aspects, but I think DePrey's point is well taken-'I had my glorious days above.' We have to always keep ourselves aware of those glories." He shut the book and set it aside.

"Okay," he said, nodding. "Let's take out our textbooks and pick up where we left off yesterday."

If I should sleep, this moonless night, Nevermore to rise, I'll keep with me the shimmering light Of the love in my lady's eyes.

I'll keep the touch of dewy grass Wet on my feet at dawn, And how it smells, so sweet, alas!

After the rain is gone.

I'll keep the flavors I have known Of bread and meat and wine, And cherish them when I am bone Because they taste so fine.

Into the grave with me I'll take Each sight and smell and sound And pray that they will not forsake Me in my sleep beneath the ground-

If memory, in truth, survives, The reaper's savage knife I'll keep with me my golden prize Of what I loved in life.

But if an empty darkness waits Bereft of all I've known, I shall not curse the cruel Fates That cast me there alone.

For I was given years to taste, To smell, see, feel and love.

Though doomed, at last, to charnal waste, I had my glorious days above.

When the bell rang, Lane stayed in her seat. The other students filed out. She remembered how, yesterday, Jessica had stopped in the doorway and scowled at her.

The girl should've been enjoying the time she had left, Lane thought. Not giving me crap.

Hell, she didn't know.

None of us knows. Any one of us could die tonight.

Instead of striking fear into Lane, the thought reminded her again of Mr. Kramer's advice to savor every moment.

She watched him step behind the table and load his briefcase. He met her eyes. He smiled. "How are you feeling today?" he asked.

"A lot better, thanks."

"Bruised up?"

"Yeah, some."

"Well, you'll have to stay out of bikinis for a while."

Lane felt the warmth of a blush spread over her skin. "Good thing summer's over," she said.

"I promise not to make you stand on any more stools."

"Do you have some papers or something for me?"

"So happens, I do." He walked to his desk and began searching through stacks of file folders. "Ah, here we go. Spelling sentences." He came toward her with the folder and a red pen. "Make sure you check for everything: spelling, punctuation, grammar. Five points off for each mistake."

"Right."

Stopping in front of Lane, he set the folder and pen on her desktop.

"If you have any questions..."

"I really liked what you said at the start of class," Lane told him.

She felt daring and embarrassed. "About appreciating each moment. It was very..." She shrugged, and felt her blouse brush softly against her nipples. "I don't know. It made me feel a lot better about things."

He looked down at her, sorrow in his eyes. "I'm glad if it helped.

This was a terrible thing. I guess everyone's pretty shocked about it. I know I am, even though Jessica was a bit of a problem in class. Were you friends?"

A corner of Lane's mouth curled up. "Hardly. But even still... When something like that happens..."

"I know. It makes us aware of our mortality. If it can happen to her, why not to us?"

"Yeah. I was feeling... little. Like everything in my life is so petty and trivial compared to the big stuff."

"You shouldn't." His hand reached out and stroked Lane's hair. "You shouldn't feel that way at all." "I guess I know that now," she said, feeling slightly breathless as his hand slipped down to her shoulder. It moved from side to side, sliding the blouse against her skin. "Each moment is something... to be treasured."

"Exactly."

Did he notice there was no strap on her shoulder?

"Nothing is trivial," he said. "Everything counts."

"Yeah."

He rubbed the side of her neck. "You're one very tense young lady,"

he said. "Your neck muscles feel like rock."

"Yeah. Hasn't been exactly a banner day."

"Same here."

The gently kneading hand sent warmth flowing through her body.

"Does that feel better?"

She nodded. Her head felt heavy.

Mr. Kramer stepped behind her. She heard a desk squeak against the floor as it was pushed out of his way. Then both his hands were on her shoulders, rubbing, squeezing.

"How's that?"

"Wonderful," she murmured. His fingers moved up and down. The front of Lane's blouse moved with them, caressing her breasts. She took a shaky breath. She lowered her head.

He swept her hair out of the way so it hung past the side of her face. Then he rubbed her neck just below her ears. She felt drowsy, felt as if he were squeezing warm fluid into her head. She shut her eyes. She sighed.