Eternity (v5)

ready to go, even though we had hours to get ready on Saturday. I finished my homework that afternoon, so I wouldn’t have to think about it Saturday and Sunday. I’d even begged off flying with Michael; I told him that I needed at least one night of uninterrupted sleep to look perfect for the dance. He begrudgingly agreed.

But I couldn’t sleep. I was restless, though I couldn’t say exactly why. Thoughts of Missy and Piper crept into my consciousness, but they weren’t the sole source of my agitation. Anxiety about my powers and what they meant crossed my mind from time to time, yet I’d real y let go of my worries over the past week and enjoyed myself. So, why couldn’t I sleep? Had I grown used to staying awake al night? Was it just typical pre-dance jitters that average teenage girls experienced? I didn’t know.

The minutes ticked by, a half hour, an hour, two hours. I grew madder and madder at myself. I should’ve just gone flying with Michael; it always tired me out. Final y, at the three-hour mark, I threw off my quilt and sheets and padded over to the computer. I had to do something other than lie there in my bed.

I stared at my Google homepage. Before I knew it, my fingers were racing across the keypad. I looked up and saw the name “Professor Raymond McMaster” typed into the previously blank search box. Where had that come from?

I real y hadn’t given him much of a thought since that humiliating day in Miss Taunton’s class. Or so I thought. My subconscious must have been working on overdrive. The truth was, I didn’t feel like a vampire. I always imagined vampires as cold-hearted, or no-hearted. The feelings I felt were . . . big, warm, inclusive. I needed an expert to help me sort this out. I clicked onto the Harvard University webpage and read Professor McMaster’s resume. Under-grad and grad work done at Harvard, fol owed by a post-grad stint at Oxford. He did an assistant professorship at Stanford, after which he took on his current tenured role back at his alma mater. Impressive. Especial y for a Dracula expert.

Scanning down the bio, I saw a list of his published papers. They weren’t al about vampires; some of them focused on other “supernatural folklores and mythologies.” But vampires certainly seemed to be his specialty. I clicked on one paper that looked particularly interesting:

“Multicultural Origins of the Vampire Legend.”

I clicked open the paper. The very first words made me shiver unpleasantly. Professor McMaster might not serve as the al y I’d been hoping for, to convince Michael that we were not vampires.

Vampires walk among us. Whether the Scottish baobhan sith, the Indian baital, the Chinese jiang shi, the Croatian kosci, the Romanian moroi, or the Mexican tlahuelpuchi, every society and every culture harbors vampires. The question is not whether vampires exist—in our collective subconscious or on our streets—but in what form and why.

Page after page, Professor McMaster’s thesis—al around the notion that vampires must be real, given their presence in every civilization—

enthral ed me. And chil ed me. This wasn’t some kook spouting off crazy conspiracy theories on the internet, but a respected scholar at Harvard University, of al places.

But, Professor McMaster saved the real zinger—to my mind, anyway—for the last paragraph.

This survey makes clear that, although each society’s vampires take different forms, they share two unsettling characteristics: an inhuman ability to transport themselves, and a fascination with blood. But while interesting, the precise form and nature of a culture’s vampires ultimately is of no import to the vampires’ purpose. Wherever they might be found, whatever form they purport to take, all vampires embody our darkest and most primeval fears of the unknown and serve as the key to the mystery of what, if anything, comes after death.

Suddenly, Michael’s vampire theory seemed al too possible.

Chapter Twenty-two

By morning, I had no time to think about Professor McMaster, vampires, Missy, Piper, or anything other than the fal dance. Ruth arrived at eight A.M.

with as many bags as my parents and I took with us on our summer trips and a computer-generated timetable of our appointments and activities. I was never so happy to see Ruth; I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts for company.

Al day long, Ruth swept me up in a tidal wave of manicure and pedicure appointments and professional makeup applications. I drew the line at having my hair done by her stylist—no one could ever make sense of my thick, pin-straight hair, not even me—but I watched as Ruth had her hair pinned into a complicated style that real y suited her. I thought my parents would balk at al the overt displays of frivolity and materialism, but they didn’t. They seemed relieved to have a normal sixteen-year-old daughter getting ready for a dance. I found it a relief to play the part, rather than wal ow in the reality that I was some freak of nature, like one of the creatures described by Professor McMaster.

“Ruth, El ie! Come down, girls. Everyone wil be here in a few minutes,” my mother yel ed up to my bedroom from the base of the staircase.

“Oh my God, it’s almost six,” Ruth nearly shrieked.

I looked at the clock in disbelief. Had we real y been primping and preening for almost ten hours? I guess if I cut out the time we spent getting coffees and lunch as wel as the time in transit and gossiping, we had spent more like four hours beautifying ourselves. But stil , it was kind of unbelievable.

Ruth and I walked over to my old, stand-alone ful -length mirror. Gazing into it, I gave her the once-over first, not quite ready to face my final self.

“You look gorgeous, Ruth,” I said and meant it. With her long reddish hair pul ed off her face and neck and the pale pink dress setting off her physique, she was transformed into a princess.

She gave me a huge hug and then quickly pul ed back to check me out. “El ie, Michael is going to faint when he sees you. You look so glamorous, like a movie star or something.”

Laughing, I stared back at the mirror. I definitely did not look like a movie star, but I looked better. Somehow, the fitted red dress and new makeup enhanced my figure, straight black hair, and blue eyes. Instead of appearing gangly with oddly bright eyes, I looked, wel , striking. It felt weird to apply that word to myself even in my private thoughts.

“Girls!” my mother yel ed again. That tone meant hustle.