Mr. Amado collects our Welcome Back articles the next day. When it comes time for me to hand mine over, I experience a moment of panic. Last night I caved and looked over them again, after which I tried to do some final-hour touch-ups, but they are still hovering more toward the “suck” end of the spectrum than the “stellar.”

“Thank you, Sophie?” Mr. Amado says calmly, tugging a few times when my fingers continue to clutch the end. “I’m taking them now.”

Left with little other option, I let go, and he moves on to the rest of the students. I notice that Lindsay doesn’t hesitate at all when it’s her turn; she offers her handful of pages proudly and with a bright smile that Mr. Amado returns. Mind-wiping, and Other Keys to Better Journalism: An Exposé. Maybe I should have asked James to go ahead and wipe me as well.

I risk a peek at the back corner of the room, where James has stashed himself in the most isolated desk and is now propping his cheek up with his hand as he watches the proceedings with a bored eye. This has been his position of choice in all of my classes, with the exception of English where he finagled a seat directly between me and Vlad and sat up so straight in his seat that I couldn’t even see the tippy-top of Vlad’s head. We haven’t exchanged a single word since yesterday’s fight in the foyer, although once when he caught me looking at him, I thought I saw the ghost of a smile before he schooled his face back into impassivity.

Mr. Amado has finished his rounds. I force my attention back to the front of the room just as he sets the stack of articles on his desk and then sits on its corner. “This is great, guys,” he says. “On Thursday we’ll start using the computers to lay everything out—and remember, if you need to brush up on your InDesign skills, I’m holding refresher workshops after class for the rest of the week.” He claps, which I’ve learned is his way of drumrolling. “But right now I wanted to check in and see how you are all holding up after the first assignment and brainstorm ideas for the next few issues. Remember, this is a forum and I am just the steward here to help you.”

“What’s a steward?” Neal asks.

Mr. Amado’s mustache twitches. I also noticed during the assignment roundup that Neal turned in a handful of comics and not an article about the missing blood. That makes me happy, but it means that Mr. Amado’s Neal Frustration Level is high.

“A guide, Neal,” he says. “A guide.”

“I want to keep covering girls’ sports,” Mark Echolls says before anyone else can stake claim to his territory.

“I anticipated that, Mark,” Mr. Amado says. “I don’t see any reason why—” He stops when he notices that I’ve raised my hand. “Sophie?”

I was really hoping to suggest this in a one-on-one meeting, but it looks like I’m going to have to do it now since Mr. Amado turned into a Super Sophie Evader over the weekend. “I’ve been thinking that maybe we should shake things up this year,” I say. “I mean, Mark, you’re excellent at girls’ sports, but you’ve been doing it forever. And I’ve been doing the investigative stuff forever, and Emma has been doing the horoscopes forever. The paper might be fresher if we all brought a new perspective to the articles.”

I stop, realizing that most of my classmates are glaring at me. Well, except for Lindsay, who is doing her best to look encouraging, and James, who’s watching this with more interest than anything else that’s happened today.

“Also, it will make our clip files more diverse for when we’re applying for colleges and university newspapers,” I finish in a rush. “We’ll have so much more experience.”

“That seems like a fair point,” Mr. Amado says. He’s trying to act casual and facilitatorish, but I can tell that he likes the idea. “What do the rest of you think?”

“But I spent all summer reading Linda Goodman’s Love Signs,” Emma says, flipping her black, curly hair over her shoulder. “That’s not going to help me if I’m stuck watching the school play three thousand times.”

“And I’ve always covered girls’ sports,” Mark says. “They know me.”

There are some murmurings from the rest of the class. Mr. Amado is looking at me with a newfound admiration, and that gives me the needed boost to press forward. “But don’t you guys want to try something new?”

“No,” Mark says emphatically, pushing his glasses up his nose.

I should have waited until I caught Mr. Amado alone. He’s not against getting dictatorial with individuals, but he won’t support something that the class is clearly against. And if I don’t have the girls’ sports cover, then I have no idea how to even start looking—

“I think it’s a great idea,” Lindsay offers. “I mean, I cover almost all of the volunteer drives, and it’s wonderful and everything, but maybe I’m missing something because I’ve gotten so used to it. I don’t see why it would hurt us to try it for at least one or two issues.”

She smiles at me, and I’m overcome by a wave of gratitude, but also guilt, considering that she was robbed of the right to be angry. It feels like I’ve gotten away with something that I shouldn’t have.

“That’s one vote for yes,” Mr. Amado says, “and two votes for no.” He folds his plaid arms across his chest and leans backward. “Anyone else for yes?” he asks hopefully.

The bulk of the new sophomore staff members raise their hands along with me and Lindsay, clearly wanting to get on Mr. Amado’s good side right from the get-go, not to mention either one of the editor in chief hopefuls.

“That’s twelve yeses,” Mr. Amado says, and then blinks a little because the no’s have already raised their hands. “Okay. And that’s eleven no’s. Did anyone not vote?” he asks and then frowns. “Neal?”

Neal looks up from his binder and rubs his cheek, leaving a smudge of dark blue ink on his chin. “What are we talking about?”

“Whether we want to switch up assignments for the next issue.”

“I want to keep doing the comics. So . . . no?”

Mr. Amado sighs. “Of course. Twelve and twelve. Who’s our tie-breaker?” He scans the room until he finds James, who’s been doing nothing but idly rolling his pen back and forth throughout the whole thing. “What do you say, James?”

James is obviously frustrated to have been singled out. Please say yes, I think, even though I’m fairly sure that he’s too far away to hear me. I wonder if he realizes my ulterior motives for this switch. Even if he doesn’t, he might vote no just because we’re on the outs. I’m still holding my breath when he looks at the ceiling.

“Yes,” he says finally.

“Wonderful!” Mr. Amado says. “Why don’t you guys think over what you want to handle and come talk to me when you’re ready to pitch article ideas.”

I’m at his desk before he’s even halfway in his seat. When I tell him that I want to cover girls’ sports he does a double take. “Are you sure?” he asks.

“It will be a challenge,” I say, doing my best to put a Future-Journalist-of-America spin on it, “and I really want to try my hand at something new. Cross-country, soccer, and tennis all have their first official matches next week.”

“We usually do a full spread for the sports pages. Can you write enough to fill that or do you need a buddy?”

“I got it,” I say.

“Then it sounds good to me. Great idea, Sophie. Really,” he says, and for that moment, it feels like it might just be easy to fix everything after all.

One week later, when I’m about to be hit in the nose by a flying soccer ball, I realize that feeling was premature. “Watch out!” someone yells, and even though I duck soon enough to avoid being beaned, I drop my pen beneath the bleachers in the process. Seeing that the game is paused due to some infraction (note: find out what sort of penalties there are in soccer), I jump off the side and crawl beneath the risers, kicking aside stray cups and candy bar wrappers until I finally find it plopped in the center of a cheesy leftover nacho tray. By the time I’ve successfully de-cheesed it and made it back to my spot, the entire Thomas Jefferson girls’ soccer team is hugging one another and jumping up and down. I have a sneaking suspicion I’ve missed something important.

Sure enough, one of Caroline’s friends breaks away from the pack and jogs over, her blond ponytail swinging.

“Did you see it?” she asks, half out of breath.

“See what?”

“Um, my penalty kick. My game-winning penalty kick.”

“Oh, right. You kicked the ball and it went in that net,” I say, pointing to the goal at the far right end of the field.

“No,” she says, pointing in the other direction, “it went in that goal. Where’s Mark? He always covers our games.”

Mark is probably in an underground lair sticking pins in a Sophie voodoo doll, but I lie and say that he really wanted to cover the fall play this year. “Apparently he’s a big High School Musical fan,” I add, feeling the jab of another imaginary pin.

“Fine, whatever,” she says. “Just make sure that you list my name as ‘Marta’ and not ‘Martha.’ He always gets that wrong.”

“Noted,” I say, expecting her to run back to her teammates, but she continues to stand there. Thinking I’m supposed to offer some encouragement, I add, “Really great game by the way. You kicked the ball really far. Like, I didn’t think it could go that far, but then it did.”

“Thanks,” she says dryly. “Aren’t you going to interview me?”

“Oh, right. I was going to interview you all in the locker room.”

“Like when we’re getting dressed?”

“Yeah. I thought it would make for a better article that way,” I say. “You know, smell the sweat; feel the camaraderie. That sort of thing.”

She looks at me like I just said I wanted us all to hold hands and then play spin the bottle.

“Come on,” I say, trying for peppy obliviousness as I stand up and nudge her toward the locker room. “We can get started on the way.”

I ask Marta questions for as long as it takes to confirm that she’s not bearing any star birthmark, and then move on to the rest of the team as they trickle in to wrestle out of sports bras and wiggle into skinny jeans. After I exhaust my soccer questions, I recycle the icebreakers from the new-student profile. Finally, one of the sophomores slams her locker shut with a clang.

“I mean, my favorite color’s burnt orange, but seriously—what does any of this have to do with the game?”

The rest of the girls murmur in agreement and start to brush past me, some of them picking up their remaining clothes and walking out in their soccer uniforms. When the room is empty, I close my eyes and fall back against the wall. On the upside, I have another seven girls to cross off my list, which makes about thirty when you add in all the other locker rooms I’ve been lurking in. On the downside, at this rate I will get a name for myself as the creepy reporter who insists on interviewing subjects while they are half-naked.

I wait a few moments before pushing through the swinging door. Unfortunately, my delay tactics were for naught; a gaggle of them are huddled in the center of the gym around a bright blond head that I know all too well.

“Vlad, I thought you said you were going to come to our game,” pouts one of the team members that I’ve just crossed off my list.

He smiles. I’ve been doing my best to avoid him these past two weeks, but even I know that’s occurred less and less regularly since his kissy lips have failed to locate the girl among the cheerleaders. He’s been losing patience with teachers, and yesterday I even overheard him snap at Ms. Walpole for asking how his paper on Frankenstein is going (“It’s not, you harpy”). But now that he has an audience, he’s all sweetness and light. I watch as he clasps a hand to his heart.

“I know, and please accept my deepest apologies for missing it,” he says. “I hope that the upcoming party my friends and I will be throwing is enough to make up for my absence.”

“Party?” Marta says.

“Yes,” Vlad says. “And there is even a theme.”

She claps her hands. “Theme parties are my favorite. What is it? Twenties? Pimps and Hos?”

Vlad just raises his eyebrows mysteriously and puts a finger to his lips. “The invitation will say more. In fact,” he says, making an elaborate show of looking at his watch, “they should be in your lockers now.”

The girls look at one another and then head for the door—apparently I’m the only one who wants to vomit at the prospect of a Vlad-catered party. I can only imagine what the theme will be . . . “Show Off Your Birthmark Night”? As if I didn’t have enough to deal with already, Vlad has to learn how to multitask.

After verifying that the coast is clear, he pulls the small black journal from his back pocket. He’s been scribbling in it more than ever—in English, in the cafeteria, in the middle of the hallway—and I want to know what. I haven’t had the chance to try and squeeze more information out of the Sophie-friendly vampires. Marisabel has either been absent or too close to Vlad, and Violet seems to have taken a vow of silence; every time I try to speak to her in English, she just presses her lips together and whispers, “C’est une secrete.”

Suddenly, Vlad looks up, and before I can think of a suitable hiding spot, he’s heading my way. Since that day in the lobby, he’s looked at me several times with a suspicious glint in his eye. When he’s about twenty feet away, I panic and let my feet walk in whatever random direction they would like to go . . . which happens to be halfway up the bleacher stairs. My flight instinct needs a better sense of direction.

Realizing that I’m trapped, I turn around and try to pretend that’s what I was intending on doing all along. I take a seat, but keep to the edge just in case I have to move quickly.

“What are you doing here?” Vlad barks up at me from the bottom step.

I hold up my notebook and do my best to feign a natural indignation at being harassed by what is supposed to be a near stranger. “Um, reporting on the soccer game. I was just going to jot down some notes.”

“You were here yesterday outside the locker room as well. After the other meet concluded, the one where they run around in the forest for no reason.”

“Yeah, I cover cross-country, too,” I say, trying to keep my voice as even as possible. “What’s the big deal?”

Vlad continues to stare at me, lips pressed so thin that they are nothing more than a slash. The high lighting is hitting his cheekbones in a way that emphasizes the chalky quality of his skin. He’s not looking as debonair as usual—I wonder if he’s stretched himself too thin. But my observations are cut short when his face turns resolute and he takes the first two steps in one stride. My mind scrambles for something to concentrate on when a voice calls out from across the gym.

“Hold it right there, young man,” Mr. Hanfield says from the doorway. “You are not supposed to be up there when no game is in session. Bleachers are not toys.”

Vlad’s tenuous hold on his temper snaps. “How is standing on it treating it like a toy? And I am not a ‘young man.’”

Talking back only makes the small teacher puff up in indignation. “Come down right this instant,” he says, scuttling over to look up at us sternly.

“Unlikely.” Vlad stomps a few times, hard enough that the entire section rattles. “That is treating it like a toy.”

Mr. Hanfield pulls a small white pad out of his front pocket. “We’ll see how cocky you are when you have detention. Stay right there,” he orders and then turns to me. “What about you, young lady?”

“I’ve got no problem getting down,” I tell him, resisting the urge to pat him on his sweatered shoulder as I head down the stairs. When I reach the door, I risk a look back just in case Vlad has already mumbo-jumboed his way out of detention, but he’s just scowling as Mr. Hanfield continues to lecture. Another close call—time to declare quits for the day and go home, try to write an article about a game I still don’t quite understand, and then take a nice bubble bath. All I need to do is pick up my backpack and . . .

As soon as I turn the corner I stop dead in my tracks. James is leaning up against the wall of lockers, and Amanda is leaning toward him. She’s in full cheerleading regalia, but she’s hiked her skirt up a few inches to show more tanned leg. I start to feel a little nauseated; I tell myself that it’s just because I’m sickened that James is helping Vlad, never mind that Amanda is the only girl I’ve seen him talking to for the past week (and, if the rumor of an impromptu make-out session with Vlad in the janitor’s closet is to be believed, already off the list). We still haven’t spoken.

“Remember when we went to homecoming in eighth grade?” Amanda asks and then giggles annoyingly. Determined to prove how much this does not affect me, I walk toward my locker and start to twist in the combination.

“Yeah, it was fun,” I hear him say. “Danny got that limo and we kept throwing Coke cans out of it.”

Amanda giggles again. “That’s not what I remember.”

The door of my locker clangs as I slam it open. Oops. Out of the corner of my eye, I see James straighten up enough that Amanda has to step back or lose her balance. He says my name.

“Don’t mind me,” I say as I reach for my bag. I’m so intent on not looking directly at him that at first I don’t realize that there’s actually something in my locker that deserves attention. An envelope is wedged in the slats, and the giant black seal on its back is staring at me like an ominous eye. Dear God, I think as I wiggle it out and tear it open, do not let this be another one of Violet’s quizzes.

The good news is that it’s not a chance to reevaluate my flirting potential; the bad news is that now I know Vlad’s theme.

Mandatory bathing suits? In October? Vlad is evil.

A small piece of paper is folded inside. “Hope you can make it!” says Marisabel’s loopy handwriting, and beneath that she’s drawn several hearts and written “Wink,” which I assume is the fifty-year-old vampire version of an emoticon. At least this solves the problem of how to get into the party.

After I wedge it into my backpack, Amanda asks, “Are you going to that?”

I say yes at the same time that James says no. Amanda looks back and forth between us a few times before her eyes narrow.

“I mean, no one cool is going to be there. I wasn’t even invited.” She turns to James. “We should go to the movies or something instead.”

The wide-open hallway suddenly feels as spacious as a sardine tin. “Have fun,” I say, shutting my locker and leaving before I can hear his answer.

I ignore the bathing suit situation as long as I can. The last time I went swimming I was eleven, and it was only after being promised a juice box, animal crackers, and my turn with the inflatable raft shaped like a dolphin. I am no longer that stupid. Or that fond of floating toys.

Still, knowing Vlad’s motive for throwing the party, I doubt I’ll be able to get in without showing skin, not even if I say “pretty please with A-positive on top.” At 7:54 on the night of Friday, October 1st, I drag myself to Caroline’s door and knock with questionable enthusiasm. When it opens, Caroline has a phone cradled in the crook of her neck and a flat iron hard at work on her bangs. She waves me in with her free hand—that, or she’s trying to dry her nails. I choose to view it as an invitation.

“No, we’re not going to crash it,” she tells her phone buddy with a note of finality. “Like I want to hang out in his dirty, musty house ever again.” She graciously allows the person on the other end a few opinions. “Yeah, okay, I’ll see that. Meet you at the theater in thirty? Fab.” After beeping off, she tosses the phone on her bed, where it bounces a few times before coming to a plush resting place between Grover and a nameless stuffed penguin. After fluffing her bangs and unplugging the flat iron, she finally speaks.

“What do you want?” she asks, arranging herself on the bed so as not to muss her strapless navy sundress and sandals that tie up the calf. She plays with the chunky beaded necklace around her neck, choosing to study it instead of me. Caroline has still not forgiven me for my “Vlad-related amnesiosity.”

“Do you have a bathing suit I could borrow?” I ask.

Her eyes narrow. “You’re going to Vlad’s party,” she says, more statement than question.

“Yes,” I say, keeping things simple. I might actually have an easier time convincing Caroline that Vlad’s a vampire than explaining why I hate parties that have no purpose other than to drink things and mingle.

She studies me for a few seconds, her dilemma clear: She can stay mad at me or play clothes fairy. Lucky for me, the latter wins.

“It’s going to be lame, but okay,” she says, hopping off the bed and crossing to her dresser. She flings open the second drawer. “What kind? One piece, two piece—”

“Red piece, blue piece?” I try.

Caroline is not amused, and for once her exasperation is probably justified.

After wading around in the drawer for a few seconds, she comes out holding two red triangles held together by a piece of yarn. In other words, something that looks more like a preschool craft project than a bathing suit.

“No way,” I say. “Next.”

She rolls her eyes but puts it to the side, digging around until she surfaces with two more options. One is yellow with big pink flowers blooming on the nipples, and the other has “Flirt” written in purple block letters across the butt. You’ve got to be kidding me.

“I’ll take the red one, I guess,” I say, holding out my hand. “You have no shame, by the way.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she chirps and tosses it at me. “No, try it on,” she orders when I make to leave. “We’re not the same size. You might have to be happy with the flower-power boobs.”

Reluctantly, I step behind the door and do a quick Clark Kent. After tying the top around my neck, I step out to show Caroline. She makes a face.

“It would be nicer if you weren’t clutching your jeans and T-shirt over your chest like a big weirdo. Drop them,” she orders. I unclench my fingers, letting my clothing shield fall to the ground. “That actually looks really nice on you, Sophie. Who knew T-shirts could hide that much boobaliciousness?” All of a sudden she squints. “It would look better with a tan and fewer freckles, but, well, you know . . .”

“Yes. I know.” I pick up my wrinkled black T-shirt and drag it over my head before thanking her for the bikini.

She waves a hand in front of her face. It’s a throwaway gesture, but I can sense she’s starting to think about the injustice of my invitation, her non-invitation, and a world gone topsy-turvy. She chatters to make up for the tension as she goes to wrestle a purse from the mound of bags that line her closet floor.

“I have to meet Amanda at the movie theater,” she says.

“Is James going?” I ask because I have absolutely nothing resembling willpower at all and should probably be quarantined for further study. But Caroline either doesn’t hear me or chooses not to answer.

“She wants to see that one about the zombies who eat New York or something,” she continues, her voice still muffled. “Whatever. The main guy is hot. I just hope no one munches on his abs.” She tugs on the strap of a gray suede slouch bag and pulls it free with one swift yank before turning to me with a serious glint in her eye. “Oh, and remember; you have to tell me everything that happens tonight. Everything,” she repeats, and then gives me a bright, genuine smile before heading out the door.

Vlad’s place is part of an older subdivision, complete with sprawling grandfather trees and retired couples who are even older. When I drive through the twisting streets, the majority of the houses’ windows are already dark. Every so often I spot the flickering pulse of a television or a lone bedroom light, but for the most part, Shady Grove has closed up shop. Just as I’m turning the last corner onto Preston Drive, a raccoon darts out in front of my car, eyes glowing like iridescent marbles. I slam on the brakes, and it runs for the cover of a nearby parked car. It wasn’t even a close call, but my heart stutters. Thank you, nature, for putting me more on edge.

When I am finally able to control my breathing, I realize that the parked car is one in a very long line of parked cars despite the fact that it’s nine on the nose. Obviously, this crowd threw any thoughts of being fashionably late out the window.

I park my car and trudge toward the sprawling two story house just as more cars pull up behind me, spewing their giggling occupants into the street, most of whom are already wearing their bathing suits. Personally, I plan on keeping my shirt on until someone ties me down and rips it from my body.

After I pass the final street lamp, the only light left is what pours out from the lower floor of Vlad’s house. I see floor-to-ceiling windows, gray, rickety shutters, and a wraparound porch that is illuminated by a single jaundiced light. Moths flutter around it in a vibrating nimbus, and every once in a while one kamikazes into the huddled mass of bodies crowding the doorway. Going by turnout alone, I’d say Vlad’s party is a success.

I join the group crowding the porch. A girl in a simple one-piece suit to my left is crying, “But this is the only bathing suit I have!” while her pixyish friend clumsily pats her on the back and stares longingly at the party beyond. Her suit is a size too large, but at least it’s a two-piece. She bites her lip before turning back to her distraught friend. “Why don’t you go buy one at Wal-Mart and then meet me back here?” she says. “Or we can, like, cut yours.”

I’m jostled to the front of the pack before I can hear her decision. Looking up, I find myself staring into the brown eyes of Devon—or perhaps Ashley—now on guard duty. It’s the first time that I’ve seen one without the other, and it’s an unsettling feeling. D’Ashley’s eyes rake over my body, narrowing when they hit my offending piece of clothing. He points at my shirt and then jerks a thumb to the side.

I grasp the hem, wondering why I’m the only one who’s showing any resistance to the forced disrobing. Overtaken by a sudden fit of stubbornness, I pause halfway and tug my T-shirt back down. I wait for D’Ashley’s next move. After a few seconds of cartoonish confusion, he makes a motion suggesting that my time is up and I should move out of the way to let in the less difficult guests. When I make no sign of complying, he grabs my shoulder and starts to push me from the porch. Suddenly a hand clamps down on my shoulder.

“Hey, Sophie,” James says, sidling up beside me. He looks disgustingly attractive in dark blue jeans and a smoky gray T-shirt. I wasn’t expecting him to be here, so my reply is a mixture between “Hello,” “Huh?” and “Excuse me?” I sound like a thing that just gurgled its way out of the swamp. He’s nice enough to pretend that I have spoken English.

“Ready to go in?” he asks, and then turns to D’Ashley. “She’s with me.”

There is no way I am taking anything off now, not with James standing less than two feet away from me. I grab the dangling ends of my bikini top and waggle them at the hulking bodyguard. “I have my suit on. See?”

D’Ashley starts to shake his head, but a burst of laughter draws his attention to a point behind me. A new gang of students, about twenty in all, are stumbling up the hill. Fear flashes across the large boy’s face; I don’t think he was prepared for bouncer duty, and the students are becoming restless.

“Are you going to let us in or what?” James says, making a point to look at his watch and shake his arm like it’s burning a hole under his sleeve. “Looks like you’ve got a lot of people left to check. Vlad won’t be happy if it’s ten o’clock and half of his guests are still waiting at the door.”

The threat of Vlad’s displeasure does the trick. D’Ashley gives a terse wave.

We slip in, pushing through a crush of people cluttering up the foyer. At first I check backs and stomachs for any marks, but the bodies are packed so tightly that it starts to feel claustrophobic. I struggle my way to the bottom step of the ornate staircase that leads to the dark second floor. It smells musty, like fall leaves after a rainstorm. Still, this is better than drowning in a swimsuit calendar.

“Thanks for that,” I say when James steps up the stairs beside me, and then, because I can’t resist, “I thought you were going to the movies with Amanda.”

“Nah,” James says, and I have to distract myself to hide what I am sure is a glow of pleasure. I look away to do a quick scan of the room. Girls outnumber the boys three to one, and the small number of males present wear their friend status like lodestones around their necks. Most of them hide in corners, staring into their plastic red cups like they might offer up what to do next. As for the girls, a few of them have grass hula skirts—whether vampire provided or not, I don’t know—but as expected, I am the only person not showing any real skin.

“If you want to remove your protective shell,” James says, “you won’t hear any complaints from me.”

“That’s okay. I’m here as more of an observer.”

“I figured you weren’t here for the company.”

I study his face in the shadows cast by the sharp angles of the stairway. Except for that one time during chemistry, I’ve never seen him looking less than healthy and refreshed. Now he’s leaning back against the railing and studying me with a smile. I’ve missed talking to him, I realize. I’ve missed it a lot.

Feeling exposed, I glance to the top of the long stairs. The other half of D’Ashley is standing there like a golem, his arms crossed over his chest as he stares down at us.

“What’s he doing there?”

Reluctantly, James follows my gaze. “Vlad doesn’t want people going upstairs.”

“Why?”

“He’s got this thing about people touching his stuff.”

“That’s all?”

“Pretty much,” James says. “There aren’t any giant wall diagrams that say, ‘This is My Evil Plan,’ if that’s what you’re thinking.”

That is what I was thinking.

“Let’s go up,” I say, suddenly inspired. “He might let me through if I’m with you. We could find out more about who he’s looking for and what the Danae wants with her.”

He looks away. “I knew this was a mistake,” he mutters.

Frustration takes over. “Then why do you keep helping me? First with the journalism project, and now with the party. You have to know why I’m here.”

He opens his mouth but then seems to be at a loss for words. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “Vlad told us we had to come, and I saw you standing there and maybe I just thought that the party would be more interesting with you in it,” he says before the sincerity is ruined with a twitch of his lips. “I mean, there was that party at Morgan Michaels’s house in sixth grade where you drank all that orange soda and then left when everyone started playing kissing games.”

“I didn’t leave,” I say, even though I’m pretty sure I did.

“It was right when we started. I remember.” Something warm has crept into his eyes. There’s a brief second where my body feels carbonated, but then I think I hear the burst of Vlad’s laughter above the din, and it reminds me that no matter how much we skip down memory lane, the cold truth is that we are still at odds. I can’t keep doing this; it’s distracting, and it only makes me want things that are impossible.

“I have to go,” I say and head down the stairs. He calls out behind me, but I’ve already squeezed between a girl in a nautical-themed suit and a senior wearing a kiwi wrap over her black string bikini. I dart through a doorway on the right, where raucous shrieks mark the hub of the party.

The room’s high ceilings and large windows make it a coveted living room, or at least it was once. Between the shuffling feet of party guests, I catch glimpses of the dark, couch-shaped patches where furniture must have once protected the burgundy carpet from decades of sun. The cream wallpaper is stained along the top border, and in many places it curls at the edges. A tattered Victorian couch sits in the corner, covered in gray velvet and missing a few buttons, and folding refreshment tables are set up at the far end of the room. The Hawaiian theme isn’t going to win any decorating contests; the room looks more like Dracula’s dungeon than a balmy island getaway. A limp sign, with ALOHA written in crooked yellow letters, wilts over the punch bowl, and a few dejected leis hang off the ornate chandelier that hovers above the sea of bobbing heads. Ambiance is obviously a low priority when you have young girls to kidnap.

I make my way to the refreshment table, trying to figure out my game plan as I go. Avoiding Vlad’s notice is priority number one, although I still need to keep an eye on him in case he targets anyone in particular. And then there’s the little black book. Now that I’ve infiltrated his home base, there might be a chance to get my hands on it.

I pick up a flimsy paper plate and survey the meager offerings. Not surprisingly, vampire catering leaves something to be desired. Generic cheese puffs lie scattered around a bowl of congealing ranch dip that still holds the shape of the can it came from. The carrots should be a safer option, but instead of being cut into stick form, someone has sliced them into tiny coin-sized discs. How appetizing. I pick up a carrot medallion and start to nibble, swiping a cup from the leaning tower to my right and heading toward the punch. It looks orange, sugary, and unnatural—normal enough. I’m tentatively ladling some into my glass when someone comes up beside me.

“Yo, Soph, what’s up?” Neal Garrett says, resplendent in neon green swim trunks. He grabs a cheese puff and pokes it into the ranch dip. “Cool party, huh?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came with my girlfriend,” he says proudly. After checking to make sure no one’s listening, he leans down to whisper, “We’re playing hide-and-seek. She’s kind of bad at it, though, so I thought I’d take a breather and let her think that it’s taking me a long time.” He pauses. “What are you doing here? You never struck me as the party type.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” Neal says. “I’m counting to ninety-one thousand.”

I open my mouth to tell him that it’s not important when I spot Violet charging toward us angrily. She’s not wearing anything so revealing as a bathing suit, but she’s gotten into the spirit of the evening by wrapping a flowered sheet around her body like a toga. It makes her stumble a little as she bears down on us. Neal yells her name, his voice a mixture of surprise and pleasure.

“What are you doing?” he says. “You’re supposed to be hiding!”

“I was sitting in that dusty old cupboard forever,” she pouts.

“The cupboard in the study? But you hid there the last time! And the time before that.”

Violet shrugs; I’m not surprised that her favorite part of hide-and-seek is being found.

“Is the cupboard upstairs?” I interrupt.

“Sophie!” she cries, delighted. “I thought you would not come.” When she notices that my eyes have slid to where she has looped an arm through Neal’s elbow, she giggles. “Oops,” she says. “We have been keeping it a secret, but you can be the first to know. Neal and I are courting.”

“Congratulations,” I say, my stomach sinking. A serious talk about not turning one’s boyfriends into vampires is on the horizon, but right now I need to focus on Vlad. “Can I, uh, play hide-and-seek with you?”

Violet lights up. “Of course!” She orders Neal to start counting again. “And this time I won’t be in the cupboard,” she says, and then grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd.

When we reach the top of the stairs, D’Ashley stands, an efficient sentry. Violet slips beneath his arm without hesitation, but when I try to do the same, I feel the heavy weight of his hand on my shoulder.

“Oh, do let her in, Ashley. Neal is probably at fifty by now!” she yells and follows it up with a kick to the shin. Clearly disgruntled, he lets me pass, and I am plunged into the darkness of the hallway.