“Or creaking floors,” my dad added.
“We do have those upstairs,” my mom corrected.
“That’s true.”
“Are you through?” I asked, disgusted with my parents’ teasing. “This has to be done immediately. Where are all your catalogs?”
“Why all of a sudden do you want to do this makeover?” my mom asked.
“Alexander is going to have an interview.”
“How exciting,” she replied.
But I wasn’t as thrilled. “Once the reporter sees what the Mansion looks like, Alexander will be the laughingstock of this town.”
“I hardly think that will happen.”
“You just did it yourself. You both were making fun of it. How will he feel…with some reporter’s comments published throughout town?”
For once I had silenced my parents.
“See our problem?” I asked.
“Your father and I were just kidding. You’re right—we really shouldn’t have said those things.”
“But the town—they won’t be fooling around. They’ll mean it. You see how I’ve been treated for years.”
“That’s what I don’t understand,” my dad said. “I thought you were all about being yourself—no matter what.”
“I am.”
“Then I figured Alexander would be, too.”
“Of course he is,” I said emphatically.
“There is no reason, then,” my mom said, “that Alexander should change who he is—or where he lives.”
She had a point.
“So where is our nonconforming daughter?” my dad asked. “What has happened to you?”
We don’t want the whole town to know my boyfriend’s a vampire. That he sleeps in a coffin and has a cellar filled with bottles of blood, okay? I wanted to say.
I was on trial in front of my parents. They waited for the accused to speak—to declare if I was guilty of trading in my own belief system. I was asking them to understand why I was changing my whole character in order to impress the very town from which I’d been an outcast my entire life.
They were correct. Under normal circumstances, I’d never go along with Alexander trying to change who he was. But if the town knew he was a vampire, he’d be the one in danger.
“Maybe Alexander doesn’t want the town to see his real image,” I began.
“Why?” my mom asked.
“It’s an invasion of his space.”
“How do you figure that?”
“The Mansion is his studio, his home, his family. He’s already shared his soul in his paintings—does he have to share it in a newspaper, too?”
My parents agreed. I was beginning to get through to them.
“Besides, it’s not my decision,” I said. “It’s Alexander’s. And he wants the Mansion to appear like any other home in Dullsville.”
My mother’s bewilderment turned to joy. “Then I guess I’m forced to help you shop.”
“Jameson and I are going to pick up the furniture after school. I just don’t know where to begin, and I thought you’d be great in giving me some ideas.”
“Come into my private stash.” I followed my mom into her bedroom.
Where a man might have stashed Playboys, my mom had hidden her Pottery Barns. She reached underneath her bed and pulled out a large plastic container.
“I have every issue from every home store.”
We hunkered down on her bed like two girls at a sleepover. We spread out the catalogs and pored over the slick pages.
“Rugs are a great accent. Framed pictures can make a statement. Clocks can really be striking.” She noted pages with Post-its, and with a thick black marker I circled items that reminded me of Trevor’s home.
“I was hoping for a day like this since you were a little girl,” she said, “for decorating your room—but I’ll settle for decorating Alexander’s.”
Jameson and I were armed with catalogs and a credit card. We had to go to the one place I’d never imagined the
Creepy Man would ever escort me to—the mall.
It was an understatement to say that we were an odd pair. Elderly mall walkers, tweens with cell phones and
Vera Bradley backpacks, kissing couples, and families filled the food court. There was only one bald butler and morbidly dressed girl.
We entered a home store I’d only been in when I was being dragged by my mother and the mall benches were already occupied.
We were immediately confronted by a friendly woman with a rock star headset. “Do you need help?” she asked sincerely.
“You could say that,” I said. “We’d like to purchase a few things for the home.”
Her forehead wrinkled as she tried to assess the couple who stood before her. Uncle and niece? Father and daughter? Boyfriend and young girlfriend?
By the expression on her face, I think she settled for Creepy Man and Monster Girl.
“It’s not for my home,” I reassured her. “It’s for his home.”