"Also I think Doug is a vampire."
"Um." Ophelia frowned. "You mean, like, a metaphorical vampire?"
"No, the regular kind."
Silence.
"So, watch out for that," said Sejal. "I’m going to go," she added, and waited for Ophelia to let her out of the laundry room.
Cat tried to talk her into staying, or at least accepting a ride home, but Sejal told her she’d prefer to walk. It wasn’t even a kilometer, and the streets were sort of familiar. Jay lived nearby.
She supposed Ophelia would tell everyone that she had the Google. And maybe that she thought Doug was a vampire. Well, good, she thought as she pulled her coat closer and started down the hill. Fine. What better way to kick-start this new, improved Sejal — this strong girl who’s good and who knows her own mind and doesn’t care what other people think? She shuddered and pulled her coat closer still.
These neighborhoods looked fake at night. In the dim lamplight one could see only a scant spill of stars, and the colors and details of the lawns and houses flattened out and gave the impression of huge miniatures. And now there was a thickening fog at the bottom of the hill. It reminded Sejal of the fogging of distant objects in some video games. There was not enough processing power to render the bottom of the hill. The bottom of the hill would not exist until she got there.
There was a rustling behind her, and then a rustling to one side as she turned to look, and then it was down the hill and gone. Sejal considered suddenly the wisdom of declaring someone a vampire and then taking a walk, alone, at night. Had she never seen a movie? Did she not understand how these things worked? She comforted herself, however, with the insight that the movie would not kill off the well-meaning foreign exchange student with the comical internet addiction. Sejal wouldn’t be the main character, the hero — not in an American movie — but she might be the best friend or the comic relief or the one you think is dead but turns out to be all right in the end. She wondered who the main character in her life was.
When she finally saw the person standing at the bottom of the hill, she was almost on top of him. Given more warning she might have nonchalantly crossed the street, but now she could do nothing but pass him by. Or else stop, turn, walk or run, risk embarrassment and offense against what was probably just a man walking his dog. A short man, about Doug’s height. No dog. A man staring right at her.
Not Doug. This man was a little leaner and older. Just a man. Who seemed to be trying to hoist his careworn features into an unpracticed smile.
"Hello," said the man.
"Hello." Sejal smiled briefly, then dipped her head as she passed.
"A quiet night," the man replied, and kept pace with her, though whether he was now following her or merely continuing on his way, she couldn’t tell.
"Mmm."
"You know, when I was your age, one didn’t often see a girl walking alone at night. You would be tempted to draw conclusions about such a girl. You would say she was no better than she should be."
This seemed like an insult, something that begged for an answer, though maybe it was just harmless chitchat. Times have changed — what a world. She stole a glance at the little man out of the corner of her eye: a dark, long-sleeved shirt over a white tee. Gray wool pants. That was all, despite the chill. Sejal suddenly wondered if this man was in need. Perhaps he only meant to ask for spare change.
"I do not think they have the sort of girls you’re talking about in a neighborhood such as this," she said. "Is your…house nearby?"
"No. I have two homes, but one is in the country, and one is in the city."
"Like the mice," said Sejal, "in the fable." It was a puerile thing to say, but she always felt more at ease when she pretended to be at ease.
"Yes," said the man. "Very good. I hadn’t thought of that in ages. I’m like a mouse that flies from city to country, country to city. But I have no houses in the rarified half life that is the suburb. I’ve only been spending some time here, observing. We’re both far from home, I think."
"No, my home is close. Very close," she added, though it was still many blocks away.
"Then you’ll permit me to escort a young lady just a little bit farther. To her home, or to the place that serves as home for now. Am I right?" His sleeve brushed her coat, and she sensed if not felt it through three layers of clothes — a cold sting. "I think we have this in common: we’d both like to go home but we have now only houses. I have a house in the Poconos, but it’s not my home. I have a house in West Philadelphia, next to Clark Park — do you know it? — but it is not my home either."
Sejal was surprised to find that Clark Park did spark some glimmer of recognition in her. A name like that, once heard, could never be entirely forgotten. Had Cat mentioned it?
They turned a corner. The Browns’ house grew closer, but was still achingly far away.
"I think I’ve heard of the Clark Park," Sejal said. "I cannot remember why. Is it nice?"
"It’s perfectly nice. You should visit. I expect you will."
"Well, this is me," said Sejal, stopping in front of a well-lit flagstone house with THE HOLSTEINS painted on the mailbox.
The man stopped a few feet off and watched her. Could body language be mistranslated? What was expressed on his face as a smile clearly meant something different where he came from.
"You have nothing to fear from me, young lady. Not directly. You’re not my type."
Sejal tried to tell him that she just really needed to get inside and was dimly surprised to find she slurred her speech. She was so tired, in a moment, and the fog was thicker than ever.
"Do you know something?" said the man, and it was like the hum of a voice that you hear a moment before waking. "I’m going to tell you everything. I’m going to explain it all. And you won’t remember a bit of it until it’s much too late."
THIS WAS HOW Doug’s dates with Abby went: they’d rent a movie or go see one. Doug had half watched the first fifteen minutes of a number of movies from the back rows of theaters or from the tweed cushions of his great accomplice, the Lee basement sofa. He’d initiate some kissing, and Abby would respond willingly at first, but eventually return to the movie, as if anyone could possibly care what Matthew McConaughey was doing. He’d have to keep restarting things, keeping both of them on track. Then he’d feel a breast, and she’d guide his hand away, and he’d wait what seemed like the requisite amount of time before he could do it again. She’d let his hands be on the second try, sometimes the third, but get squeamish when he went under her shirt, so he’d go back to just kissing, as if they both didn’t know what was going to happen. Once he was under her shirt he’d hike it up a bit, maybe feel her ass, and if the movie wasn’t too short he’d finally get to the business of biting her neck and sucking out a half pint of blood before the closing credits.
At her front door, or his, they’d have a kind of coded conversation about how Doug always rushed every evening to sex. He didn’t know how to tell her they’d hardly had any. If he was leaving Abby’s house she might wonder aloud why she always gave him what he wanted, they should be more careful, she couldn’t vouch for his safety if her parents ever caught them. Doug wondered how her parents would react if they ever caught him doing what he was really doing to her. In monster movies there were usually torches.
She was a little overweight. He reminded himself constantly that extra weight meant extra blood, that this was a good thing. Swimsuit girls would be like light snacks. They’d be small Diet Cokes. He’d hear himself noisily sucking air after the third date.
It was confusing to see Abby at school, or after school rehearsing the fall musical. Her proper context was now in basements and back rows and humid media rooms. What was she doing here, so fully inflated and out in the world? Why did she sit in the theater seat next to his in this school auditorium, so far from the back row and so near these prying eyes? What was she doing talking to that other guy?
Onstage, Sejal sang with Tony Petucco. Cat stopped them and reminded Tony of a crucial bit of blocking he’d missed, and they began again from "Somewhere, We’ll find a new way of living, We’ll find a way of forgiving." Tony Petucco had certainly not been cast because he could sing or act or dance in any fashion that did not give the impression he was plagued by invisible insects. He more than once even failed to respond when another actor called him by his character’s name. Which was also Tony. He did look good in a T-shirt. It was much discussed.
In scenes like this, when facing the audience, Sejal’s eyes sought out Cat. Cat was her anchor. When Maria closed her eyes, it was Cat’s face in bright negative on the insides of Sejal’s eyelids.
There had been no fallout from her conversation with Ophelia that night. Ophelia was being discreet or hadn’t found the details worth sharing or she was holding them in reserve, waiting until they could be used to greatest purpose.
Now Sejal and Ophelia were onstage together, rehearsing their big scene, their big song. Cat rose from her seat at the behest of the director and left the room on some errand. Most of the rest of the cast was scattered around the theater, in the aisles, lobby, or backstage. Talking quietly to each other, flirting, consoling one another at the end of a long school day with electrically charged rounds of truth or dare and surprisingly smutty neck rubs. Sejal sought out a new face, an anchor in the audience, and she stammered through a line as her eyes fell on the only person who was at that moment staring straight back at her.
She had a beautiful voice, Sejal. Doug remembered Abby having a good voice, too, but lately it was scratchy. Hoarse. She wasn’t taking good enough care of herself. If you didn’t take care of yourself, who would?
He was still mad at Sejal for leading him on, then rejecting him, but he sort of admired her for it as well. You couldn’t just give it away like Abby did. Not if you had any morals. Not if you had any self-respect.
"God, take a picture," said Abby as she slid back into the seat next to Doug’s. "It’ll last longer."
"Take a picture of what?"
"You know what."
"No, I really don’t — that’s why I asked. You see how that works?"
"If you had a picture, you could spank off to her later. That’s the best you’ll ever do, you know — her picture and your right hand. She’s not interested."
"If you’re talking about Sejal," said Doug, "I think you’ll find you don’t know her any better than I do."
"I know what she really thinks about you."