The Traveling Vampire Show

He almost never paid me back for anything, but I said, “Fine.”

As we walked along, Rusty moaned softly. He said, “I love Flora’s cheeseburgers.”

“They’re pretty decent,” I admitted.

“Decent? They’re fabulous. How about the way she butters up those buns and grills ’em so they crunch?”

I was on the verge of drooling when we arrived at the Central Cafe. Looking through the windows, I saw nobody at any of the booths or tables, though one guy was sitting at the counter. Behind the counter stood Flora.

Taped to one of the windows was a poster for the Traveling Vampire Show.

“Oh, shit,” Rusty said.

He pointed to a sign on the restaurant’s door.

NO SHIRT. NO SHOES. NO SERVICE.

“Oh, well,” I said.

He said, “Fuck!”

I said, “Shhh.”

“When did they put this up?”

“It’s probably always been here.”

“I don’t think so. Why don’t we give it a try, anyway?”

“Not me. Let’s just go someplace else.”

“Chicken.”

Not in the mood to argue, I walked away from the door and Rusty. He hurried after me.

“I really wanted one of those cheeseburgers,” he said.

“Me, too. But we lost our shirts in a good cause.”

“If I’d known we were gonna end up starving ...”

“You’ll live,” I said.

He groaned. “We should’ve had those sandwiches back at your house when we had the chance.”

“Well, we didn’t.”

“We can go back.”

“Your place is closer,” I said.

He contorted his face to let me know what a lousy idea it was.

I decided not to let him off the hook.

“Why don’t we go there and get something to eat? You can ask your mom about having supper at my place tonight, and maybe I can borrow one of your shirts.”

He sighed. Then he said, “Yeah, okay.”

“A clean one, preferably.”

A smile broke out. “Up yours,” he said.

Chapter Seventeen

” When Rusty’s house came into sight, so did a crowd of parked cars.

“Oh,” Rusty said.

“What?”

He looked at me and bared his teeth. “Mom’s day to host her bridge club.”

“Oh.”

“Forgot all about it.” Looking pained, he said, “There’ll be like a dozen ladies in the living room.”

I nodded.

My mother also belonged to a bridge club, though not the same one as Rusty’s mom. I’d been in our house when she hosted her group. The air was so thick with cigarette smoke you wondered how they could see their cards ... or breathe. And the noise! I had no problem with the clinking of glasses and coffee cups that sounded as if you were in a crowded restaurant. The constant chatter wasn’t so bad, either. What I couldn’t stand were the outcries of surprise and delight that kept blasting through the house: ear-splitting whoops and squeals and cackles and shrieks.

“We can’t go in,” Rusty said.

“What about the back door? We could sneak into the kitchen.”

Rusty scowled. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Mom’ll be running in and out ... and no telling who else.” He shook his head. “We’d get caught. Then Mom would have to introduce us to everyone.”

I grimaced.