"Oh, honey! Where are you?"
"School." For a second I panicked, imagining all the reasons that my mom might be home today. "You have the day off?"
"No . . . Don't you remember? That foreign exchange student . . ."
I smacked myself in the forehead. "Crud!"
"Honey?"
"Mom, I'm sorry. I completely forgot about our little houseguest. I'll be home ASAP."
Without waiting for her reply, I clicked off the phone and handed it back to Sean. "I've gotta get home. Our little live-in should be showing up any time now."
"You're gonna show up all Sweaty the Olfactory Slayer?"
"No choice. It's stink or be late. If I'm on time, I'll just bathe in perfume. Mommy dearest won't mind." I checked my watch. "You driving?"
Sean nodded. For his sixteenth birthday, he'd received a beat up, aqua van with large psychedelic flowers painted on the side. As cars went, it was up there with Mercedes in the femininity, but try explaining that to former Mr. and Mrs. "Flower-child-incense-hippy" Allen.
Winter was in full swing, and, even through the sweater, I shivered. Sean put his arm around me. It wasn't a romantic thing; Sean had been my best friend since fifth grade when he'd come up to me after "the talk" and began ruthlessly asking questions.
"So, what's the deal-io with Egyptian Chick?" Sean asked.
"You know. Mom signed on to take her in for a year while she's staying in America. She's staying in my room, wearing my clothes, stealing my soul . . ."
"What was that last one?" Sean stopped and pulled open the door to his car. "I do believe that, in order to have ones soul stolen, one has to have a soul to begin with."
I punched him. Hard.
"No vampire cracks." I reminded him.
I'd been obsessed with vampires since the first time I saw "Buffy", the year I turned 12. Since then, it had been one fad after another, but vampires were always near and dear to my heart. I'd read "The House of Night" series, seen "Once More With Feeling" so many times that I could stay two words ahead of the actors, obsessed over "Twilight", TiVo-ed "Moonlight", and done everything I could to make sure I knew everything that there was to know about vampires.
I'd been out about my obsession for a few years before the teasing that I made some "necessary" changes. I took choir and found out that I could sing. I tried out for, and got accepted to, the cheerleading squad. I became another perky "it-girl," except that, instead of being completely in love with the Jonas Brothers, I harbored a secret crush on David Boreanaz and James Marsters (What can I say? This girl likes her men cold, dead, and flammable).
"Aw, you know that I'm just teasing. You didn't have to hit me that hard." Sean whined. "What were you thinking about?"
"The usual." I giggled. "David and James."
Sean smacked his lips loudly as we stopped at a red light. "Yummy."
I hit him again, not so hard now. "Sean, be pathetic on your own time. Right now, I'm about to be filleted alive if I'm not home in the next five minutes."
"That could be a problem . . . unless you're hiding a time machine in your blouse." Sean raised an eyebrow and openly surveyed my shirt. "Which, at this point, I highly doubt."
"You're disgusting." I pointed out.
"I'm not the one that wore an extremely skimpy tank-top." Sean diligently watched the road as he snapped my bra-strap. "And that extremely dark red bra."
I blushed and muttered something about "laundry day".
"Right. You don't grow up with someone like Vanilla and not know a thing or two about bras, cacheeka." Vanilla was Sean's older sister, another throwback to the definite hippy-ness of the Allen's. "Such as, never, ever, despite how young you may be, attempt to use one as a slingshot. There will be bodily harm involved. And, when a girl wears a dark bra with a white shirt, she wants it to be noticed." He looked mildly pleased with himself.
"Dear god, you've figured us out." I threw my hand across my forehead tragically. "I must warn the others! Whatever will we do now?"
Sean nodded and pulled into my driveway.
"We've reached your destination, Lady Marks. Anything else I can do for you today?" He asked, lapsing into a horrible British Accent. It made me giggle.
"How about unlocking the door?"
"Your wish." Sean clicked the lock open. "Call me?"
"You bet." I agreed, grabbing my sweater and slamming the door shut, just as a boy stepped from my mom's immaculately kept hydrangea bushes onto the pavement.
I gazed curiously at him. He was dark, from his tousled "Edward Cullen" hair to his impeccably clean black tennis shoes.
He caught sight of me and smiled, showing toothpaste commercial teeth, strangely white in contrast to the overall darkness of him.
When he spoke, his voice held just the slightest hint of an exotic accent.
"Would you, by any chance, be Mrs. Angela Marks?"
