Fade Out

kissed her forehead. “You’ve got to go,” he said. “Otherwise, it’s parents with pitchforks and torches.”

“Sorry.”

“Hey, me, too. I’ll get the keys.” He slid out of bed, and she watched the light gleam off his skin as he picked up his T-shirt and pulled it on. It was all she could do not to reach out and pull it off again.

“And you really need to get dressed, because if you keep looking at me like that, we’re not going anywhere.”

Claire retrieved her pants and shirt and put them on, and caught sight of herself in the mirror—for once, in Shane’s room, not obscured by random piles of stuff. She looked . . . different. Adult. Flushed and happy and alive, and not really geeky at all.

He makes me better, she thought, but she didn’t say it, because she was afraid he’d think that was weird.

Shane borrowed Eve’s car to run her back to her parents’ house—her home?—and by midnight she was at her bedroom window watching the big, black sedan pull away from the curb and accelerate away into the night.

Mom knocked on the door. Claire could tell her parents apart by their knocks. “Come in!”

When her mom didn’t say anything, Claire turned to look at her. She looked tired, and worried, and Claire wondered if she was getting enough sleep. Probably not.

“I just wanted to tell you that I left you a plate in the fridge if you’re hungry,” Mom said. “Did you have a good day?”

Claire had no idea how to answer that in a way that wouldn’t sound completely insane, and finally settled for, “It was okay.” She hoped the scarf she’d wrapped around her throat covered up the bruises, which were turning rich sunset colors.

Mom knew that was a nonanswer, but she just nodded. “As long as you’re being safe.” Which was less about the vampires than about Shane. Claire rolled her eyes.

“Mom.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“Then stop looking like I’m being an idiot. I’m worried about you getting hurt. I don’t doubt Shane means well, but you’re just so—” Mom looked for another word, but settled for the obvious one. “So young.”

“Not as young as I was when this conversation started.”

“Claire.”

“Sorry.” She yawned. “Tired.”

Mom hugged her, kissed her cheek, and said, “Then get some rest. I’ll let you sleep in.”

The next day Claire missed her first class, because Mom was true to her word and the alarm clock failed in its duty, or at least Claire turned it off before she really woke up. She finally got up around ten o’clock, feeling happy and humming with energy. It might have been the sleep, but Claire knew it wasn’t.

She was running on pure Shane sunlight.

Walking to the campus was a delight—the sun was out, warming up the streets and waking a soft breeze that smelled like new grass. The trees were all full of new green leaves, and in the gardens flowers were blooming.

Claire was in such a good mood that when she saw Kim, armed with a video camera, she didn’t actually wince.

Much.

Kim wasn’t paying attention to her, which wasn’t much of a change; she was focused on a guy in a TPU jacket tossing a football, who laughed at her jokes as she filmed. Kim circled around him, waved, and kept filming as she approached a group of girls camped out on the lawn under a spreading live oak tree. More laughter, and smiles all around.

Am I really the only one who doesn’t like her?

Apparently.

Kim noticed her about the same time that Claire’s phone rang. She turned her back on Kim—and the camera—and answered without checking the screen, because she was rattled. “Hello?”

“You bitch.” It was Monica’s voice. “Where are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you on campus?”

Claire blinked and stepped out of the way of a crowd of students heading out from the English Building. “Uh, no. And why exactly am I a bitch, again?”

“I got that wrong. You are a lying bitch. I can hear the bells!” Monica meant the school’s carillon, the tower bells that chimed out a silvery melody at the hour change. For some weird reason, it was playing Christmas music. Maybe somebody had forgotten to change over—or just really liked “O Holy Night.” “Where are you—never mind, I see you. Stay right there.”

Monica hung up. Claire looked around and saw that Kim was filming her—and Monica was charging down the steps of the English Building, heading her way and trailed by an entourage like a comet’s tail. It wasn’t just Gina and Jennifer this time; she’d picked up two strange girls wearing designer spring dresses and cute shoes, and a couple of big football-type guys—bland and handsome and not too smart, just the way Monica liked them.

Claire considered running, but not if Kim was planning on gleefully filming the whole thing. She could live with the shame. She just didn’t think she could live with the reruns on YouTube.

Monica had gone with a floral pattern minidress, and it looked great on her; she hadn’t let her tan go during the winter, and her skin looked healthy and glowy and toned. She strode up to Claire and came to a halt a couple of feet away, surrounded by her fashion army.

It was like being menaced by a gang of Barbie and Ken dolls.

“You,” Monica said, and leveled an accusatory, perfectly manicured finger at her. Claire focused on the hot pink nail, then past it to Monica’s face.

“Yes?”

“Come here.”

And before Claire could even think about protesting, Monica had her wrapped up in a hug.

A hug.

With Monica.

Claire got control of herself, at least enough to grab Monica by the arms and push her back to a safe distance. “What the hell?”

“Bitch, you are the best. Seriously, I cannot believe it!”

Monica was . . . excited. Happy. Not about to beat her up.

Wow. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but what are you on?”

Monica laughed, reached into her messenger bag, and pulled out a stapled two-page paper. It was an economics test.

And it had, written in the corner in red, A.

“That’s what I’m on,” she said. “Do you know how long it’s been since I got an A? Like, ever? My brother is going to fall over.”

Claire handed the paper back. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Monica’s good mood faded, replaced by her more-normal bitch face. “I guess I got my money’s worth, anyway.”

For some reason, Claire thought about Shane paying Eve to clean his room. “There’s a lot of that going around, trust me. Okay then. We’re good?”

“For now,” Monica said. “Stay available. I’ve got other classes I suck at.”

Claire bit her tongue before she could say, I don’t doubt it, and watched Monica and her swirl of hangers-on sweep away, laughing and talking as if they were in their own private shampoo commercial.

She’d almost forgotten about Kim, and when she caught sight of the cold gleam of the camera lens out of the corner of her eye she turned and said, “Cut it out, will you?”

“Not a chance,” Kim said cheerfully, camera still running. “Not until I run out of tape.”