I Am Not a Vampire (Anymore)

Chapter One

It's eighty-three degrees outside, and I'm wearing leg warmers.

Despite the early morning hour, the parking lot already smells like melting asphalt and salt, the humidity so thick that I may as well be swimming. With every step, I can feel my painstakingly crimped hair deflating a little more.

By the time I reach the school's main doors, I'm panting slightly with effort, and my ridiculous spandex leotard is sticky with sweat. When I step inside, the air-conditioning blasts me with frigid, subarctic air.

Awesome.

Now I'm both sweaty and freezing to death.

Never change, Florida!

After dumping my backpack in my locker, I fan the front of my leotard back and forth, rummaging around for my chemistry notebook.

As per usual, I'm running late, which means I have . . . exactly nineteen minutes to finish my homework.

Okay, fine.

So I have exactly nineteen minutes to start my homework.

Sue me.

I'm just wrapping my fingers around the pencil when I sense someone behind me. I feel them before I see them, their breath warm on the back of my neck.

I stiffen, my nerve endings humming suddenly to life.

Sneaking up on me is a bad idea.

Every fiber of my being tenses, telling me to attack.

I tighten my grip on my pencil.

As the unseen hand slides around my waist, I brace my right arm, jabbing it backward as hard as I can. I hear a loud grunt as my elbow sinks into my would-be attacker's stomach, but I don't pause, sweeping my leg out to hook their ankle and yanking them to the ground instead.

Whipping around, I face them, the pencil raised menacingly above my head, my teeth bared in a snarl. One wrong move and I can sink it into their heart faster than-

"Lily, what the hell!" Max cries, throwing up an arm to shield himself. "It's me!"

I freeze, stilling my hand above his chest.

"It's me!" Max says again, his voice barely audible over the thundering of blood in my ears. "It's Max!"

My hand goes slack, the pencil trembling in my grip.

"Max?" I ask, my voice breathless.

Not an enemy.

Max.

My boyfriend.

Whom I tried to stab with a pencil. In the middle of the hallway. While wearing leg warmers.

Max blinks up at me, his blue eyes wide with alarm.

Across the hall, I can see Eve Kha backing away from us, a hand pressed to her mouth in shock. Next to her, Olivia Andrews already has her phone out, her eyes whipping gleefully between me and her screen.

She's not the only one filming us, I notice, peering dazedly around. It feels like half of the senior class have gone full paparazzi, their excited murmurs growing louder and louder as their voices overlap into a single, chaotic din.

Well.

It looks like this day just got even more awesome.

Turning back to Max, I try to force a smile.

"Hey," I say. "Sorry. You, um . . . startled me."

"No shit," Max says, still staring at the pencil in my hand. Suddenly painfully aware of the fact that I'm straddling Max in public, I shift my weight backward and scramble to my feet, guiltily tossing away the pencil and offering him a hand.

Out of sight, out of mind, am I right?

For a split second, Max hesitates.

I watch in disbelief as a nervous-looking freshman darts forward, scooping the pencil from the floor like some sort of crime scene trophy.

"Seriously?" Max asks the kid.

Flushing a mottled red, the freshman mumbles something vaguely apologetic before scurrying away toward his friends.

I can feel the panic building in my throat, the cold sweat gathering beneath my armpits.

Oh, God.

Is Max about to break up with me?

Did I just ruin my entire life with a pencil?

I'm already mid-spiral by the time Max grabs my hand, his fingers warm around mine.

"Call me paranoid," he says, hauling himself to his feet. "But I'm suddenly very glad I didn't do one of those surprise promposals."

He grins down at me and, for a second, the brightness of his smile makes me dizzy.

Max is all white teeth and glowing skin and wide shoulders; I swear, he probably came out of the womb with perfectly tousled blond hair.

Sensing the end of the show, the rest of the hallway slowly begins returning to its scheduled programming.

"Technically, I asked you to the dance," I point out, relief pouring through my veins.

This year's prom theme is Love Among the Stars. Which, for the record, was also the dance's theme in the original 1976 horror movie Carrie.

Apparently no one is concerned that it . . . did not end well for anyone involved.

"Are you sure you're okay?" I ask Max, eyeing him anxiously up and down. He looks worrisomely natural in his '80s-rich-kid prepster costume: a pastel pink cashmere sweater knotted casually over the shoulders of his polo shirt, and his thick blond hair feathered perfectly on the sides.

"I'm fine," he says. "Although you might have punctured my spleen with your elbow." Pointing at his side, he pretends to wince. I'm glad I didn't go with my initial instinct: slam him so hard into the lockers that he left an indent.

"Your spleen actually is on your left side," I say. Stepping forward, I rest my forehead against his chest. "But point taken."

My head fits snugly beneath his chin, right in the hollow of his throat. His sweater is scratchy against my cheek, and I can hear his heart beating against my ear.

He holds himself stiffly, at first, and I can feel myself start to spiral again. But then his arms come up, pulling me closer, his chin dropping to rest on the top of my head.

"Have I mentioned that I'm really, really sorry?" I ask, burying my head against his chest.

"It's fine," Max says. "I mean, that foot sweep thing?" He pulls his head back a tiny bit, looking down at me. "Badass. Seriously."

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. "Yeah? So, you'll still be my date to the dance?"

Logically, I know that prom is an exclusive, outdated tradition that promotes unrealistic standards of beauty, creates unnecessary financial burdens, and romanticizes the monarchy system.

But still.

I really, really want to go.

"Obviously," Max says. "Hey, speaking of which, you're wearing black, right?"

"Yeah," I say, thinking unenthusiastically of the floor-length satin dress currently hanging in my closet. Is it disturbingly poofy? Yes. But more importantly, it's also cheap. "Why?"

"My mom wants to order you a . . . what's it called? The flower thing?" Max reaches out, tracing a line across the inside of my wrist to demonstrate.

"Corsage," someone says behind me, their voice flat. "It's called a corsage."

I turn to see Max's best friend, Ezra, leaning against a nearby locker, his head tipped back far enough to keep his dark curly hair from falling in his eyes.

"Oh," I say. "Hey, Ezra. I didn't, um . . . see you there."

For some reason, Ezra always manages to catch me off guard.

I step self-consciously away from Max, feeling myself flush.

Ezra runs his bloodshot gaze up and down my costume, his dark brown eyes dull with exhaustion. There's a grayish tinge to his skin, and his curls are sticking sweatily to his forehead.

He looks sick.

Or hungover.

Or possibly both.

"Nice outfit," he says at last, letting his head drop back against the locker. "Very . . . flammable-looking."

"Aw, thanks, Ezra," I say sweetly, adjusting the strap of my leotard. "Have I mentioned how much I value your opinion?"

Sunrise Harbor High has a full week of activities leading up to the prom, starting with today's Eighties Day and ending with a School Spirit-themed pep rally on Friday.

Because nothing says school spirit like mandatory attendance, am I right?

Anyway, as a member of the prom committee, I'm expected to participate in all the dress-up days. Which, up until this very moment, seemed like a great idea.

"Don't mind Ezra," Max says, sliding his hand reassuringly around my waist. "He's allergic to fun."

Raising my chin defiantly, I lean back into Max's solid warmth, giving Ezra a considering look.

"Now that you mention it, he is looking a little green," I observe.

"I'm fine," Ezra says, his eyes still closed. "You're the one who went full John Wick on her boyfriend, remember?"

Max lowers his head to murmur softly in my ear. "Mmm. I love those movies."

He goes to drop a kiss on my cheek, but I purposefully turn instead, slipping my hands around his neck.

Ignoring Ezra, I lean in, kissing Max squarely on the mouth.

Max's kiss is warm, and familiar, and safe.

Exactly like him.

And for a minute, at least, the rest of the world disappears: There's no Ezra, no Olivia, no hallway full of people still whispering my name . . .

There's no one but me and Max: a regular boy and a regular girl, kissing in the hall before class.

It's absolutely perfect.

Somewhere in the background, I can hear the first bell ringing. I cling more tightly to Max's shoulders until Ezra clears his throat.

"Um," he says. "You guys do realize that Mr. Markowitz is staring at you, right?"

Max gives a little choke, pulling abruptly away from me.

I turn to see the grizzled, middle-aged teacher watching us from his doorway, his arms crossed against his chest in disapproval.

"Hey," Ezra says, raising his hands innocently. "Listen, if that's your thing, don't let me stop you."

Ignoring Ezra even harder, I turn back to Max, straightening the popped collar of his polo shirt. "You should go," I say. "The final bell's going to ring soon."

Unlike me, who's signed up for the absolute bare minimum of graduation requirements, Max has spent the past four years taking every AP class he can get his hands on. A bunch of Florida colleges have already offered him swimming scholarships, but he's still waiting to hear back from his dream school: Dartmouth.

Which also happens to be his mother's alma mater.

What a coincidence!

Anyway, Max's AP Bio class is all the way on the other side of the school. Where the bathrooms are actually clean, and the air-conditioning doesn't smell like leaking Freon.

I hear it's nice.

"Okay, yeah," Max says, dropping a final kiss on the top of my head. "I'll see you at lunch." He takes a few steps, then turns, pointing a pair of finger guns in my direction. "And watch that pencil," he says. "If I hear about you trying to stab some other dude, I'm going to be jealous."

"Ha ha," I say. "You're hilarious."

Max grins as he rounds the corner. "And don't you forget it!"

As I turn back to my locker, Ezra shakes his head, looking physically pained by our interaction.

"You know what?" he asks. "Maybe I really do feel sick."

Lifting my chin, I rummage around in my backpack. Maybe, by some strange miracle, I can finish my homework in the next four minutes. Well, as long as I can find a new-

"Pencil?" Ezra offers innocently, holding one up for me.

Slamming my locker shut, I turn on my heel.

I can feel Ezra smirking at me all the way to class.