The Traveling Vampire Show

me, and had been for years. Maybe because I was such a handsome fellow. Or maybe because I always treated her like a regular person and never teased her and often stuck up for her when Rusty started giving her crap.

As the door swung shut behind her, Bitsy blushed and smiled into my eyes, then checked out my bare torso, then met my eyes again and said, “Hi, Dwight.”

I nodded, swallowed some Velveeta and said, “Hi, Bitsy. How you doing?”

“Oh, fine, thank you.” As if suddenly worried about her own appearance, she patted her hair and glanced down at herself. Her hair, as usual, resembled a shaggy brown football helmet but without the face guard or chin strap. She was wearing an old T-shirt and cut-off blue jeans—the same sort of outfit Slim normally wore, except Bitsy was barefoot. Plus, her T-shirt was more ragged than Slim’s and she wasn’t wearing a bikini top underneath it. She could’ve used one. Or a bra. Especially since her T-shirt was so thin you could pretty much see through it.

“Hey, Bits,” Rusty said. “Wanta do us a favor?”

“Like what?”

“Get us some shirts.”

She frowned slightly at him. “What for?”

“To wear, stupid.”

I gave him a look. One thing that always puzzles me; people smarting off when they’re asking for someone’s help. It seems not only rude but incredibly dumb.

Trying to sound extra-nice to make up for Rusty, I said, “Our shirts got ruined over at Janks Field.”

Bitsy’s eyes widened. “You were at Janks Field? She glanced at Rusty. ”You’re not supposed to go there.”

“Thanks, Dwight. Now she’s gonna tell on me.”

To Bitsy, I said, “You won’t tell on him, will you?”

“If you don’t want me to.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Anyway, our shirts got ruined when we were there.” Seeing the concern in her eyes, I explained, “A dog attacked us.”

“Oh, no!”

“We’re all right, but our shirts got wrecked. We’ve been running around without them all day and we’re getting pretty sunburned.”

“You’ve got a good tan,” she told me, blushing.

“Thanks. But anyway, we just want to borrow a couple of shirts so we don’t get burnt any more than we already are when we go back out.”

“What sort of shirts do you want?” she asked.

“Anything,” I said.

“Just go in my closet and grab us a couple, okay?”

“In your closet?”

“Want me to draw you a map?”

With a sort of pleased, now-the-tables-are-turned look on her face, she said to Rusty, “But I’m not supposed to go in your closet.”

Rusty’s eyes narrowed. “You have my permission. This once.”

“Well well well,” she said.

“Just do it, okay?”

“Why can’t you do it yourself? They’re your shirts. It’s your closet.”

Before Rusty could answer and probably make matters worse, I told her, “We don’t really want to meet the bridge club, you know?” Shrugging, I glanced down at myself. “No shirts? It’d be kind of embarrassing.”

Nodding and blushing, she stared at my bare torso.

“C’mon, Bits. We haven’t got all day.”

I scowled at Rusty. “Leave her alone. She doesn’t have to get the shirts if she doesn’t want to.”

“I’ll get them,” she said, speaking to me.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. How many do you need?”

“Twenty-eight, you moron, ” Rusty said.

“Just two will be fine,” I told her.

“What about Slim?” she asked.

The sudden reminder made me go sick inside. Trying not to let it show, I said, “What about her?”

“Does she need one, too?”

“Let’s ask,” Rusty said, and looked over his shoulder.

“Slim isn’t with us,” I explained.

“Why not?”

Rusty and I spent a little too long thinking about that one.

Bitsy suddenly looked worried. “Is she all right?”

“She’s fine,” Rusty said.

“No she’s not,” Bitsy said. Her eyes turned to me. “Something happened to her, didn’t it?”

Considering Bitsy’s crush on me, you might’ve expected her to be jealous of Slim. But it didn’t work that way. Instead of hating Slim, she idolized her. I’m pretty sure she wished she could be Slim: cute and slender and athletic and smart and funny, and hanging out with me almost every day.

“Where is she?” Bitsy asked.

I shrugged.

“She had to stay home and do the laundry,” Rusty said.

Bitsy’s eyes stayed on me. Clearly, she didn’t believe Rusty’s explanation. She wanted to hear it from me.

“Why don’t you go ahead and get us the shirts?” I said, a gentleness in my voice that surprised me. “Just two shirts. We’ll wait in the backyard, okay? And I’ll tell you about Slim.”

“Okay.”

When Bitsy shoved open the door, the noise of the bridge ladies swelled. The door swung shut, coming half- open again on our side and fanning in a few gray rags of smoke.

Rusty muttered, “Shit.”

Then he cut off another thick slab of Velveeta cheese, folded the end of the wrapper, and returned the cheese to the refrigerator. While he still held the door open, he asked, “Another dog?”

I shook my head.

He shut the door. Both of us holding what was left of our wieners and cheese, we hurried outside and down the stairs to the backyard. Over near a comer of the house, we stopped to wait for Bitsy and finish eating.

“Jush wha’ we nee’,” Rusty muttered, his words mushy from a mouthful of partly-chewed lunch.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.

He swallowed and said, “Why’d you have to go and tell her about Janks Field? ”

I shrugged. “I have a hard time lying sometimes.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Sorry. But look, she’ll be all right.”

“Easy for you to say, she isn’t your sister.”

The screen door swung open. Bitsy rushed out and bounded down the stairs. Her hands were empty. I figured something must’ve gone wrong. As she hurried toward us, though, I saw that the front of her T-shirt bulged more than usual.

“Got ’em,” she said. Stopping in front of us, Bitsy patted her bulge. Her T-shirt was so thin I could see the wrinkled bunch of fabric underneath it.

Rusty put out his hand and snapped his fingers. “Give,” he said.

Fixing her eyes on me, Bitsy asked, “Where’s Slim, really? Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”