Nice Girls Don't Have Fangs
Page 39If I corrected her and said anything about my new job, it would only prolong their visit, so I shrugged it off. “Daddy says you repainted your kitchen.”
“How are you going to pay the bills? You know, the taxes on River Oaks are coming up soon,” she said, trying her hardest to be nonchalant. “If you can’t pay them, you can always come to Kent and me for a loan.”
I narrowed my eyes at my sister. Same old Jenny. The same Jenny who refused to let me touch her pep -squad pom-poms because I’d “mess them up.” The same Jenny who picked our second cousin to be a bridesmaid over me because everyone else in her wedding party was thin and blond, and she didn’t want me to “stick out.” Well, screw the same old Jenny.
“I’d rather roll naked over broken glass and dive into a pool full of lemon juice, but thanks, ” I said, smiling back. “Besides, Junie said there are some shifts opening up at the Booby Hatch. I thought I’d give that a try.”
Mama gasped and turned, prompting Jettie to drop the candlestick behind the couch with a thud.
No one noticed, because Grandma Ruthie loudly demanded, “You know what your problem is, Jane?”
“No, but if I had a couple of hours, I’m sure you’d tell me.”
“You’re too full of yourself.” She sniffed. “Always have been. I’ve never understood what you thought was so special about you—”
“Why don’t you just go get dressed, honey, and we’ll wait down here?” Mama asked, her voice desperately cheerful.
“I wasn’t finished, Sherry,” Grandma Ruthie said.
Behind her back, Aunt Jettie muttered, “The minute she’s finally ‘finished,’ that’s when we’ll know to call the undertaker.”
“Well, what about selling the house?” Jenny asked, irked that the conversation had strayed from her agenda. “You don’t need all the space to yourself. I have two growing boys. We need the room. And it’s just impractical for you to have all this room now that you’re broke.”
“I’m not selling you the house so you can raise those two wolverines you call children here. ” I rolled my eyes. “Honestly, Jenny, you’re about as subtle as a sack of hammers. And I’m not broke. So just back off.”
“Jane, how about getting dressed?” Mama asked again. Her voice was desperate now. “We’ll need to hurry if we’re going to get a table.”
“Mama, I can’t. Really, I can’t.”
“I am working! OK?” I exclaimed. “I’ve had a job for almost a week now.”
Oh, crap.
“What?” Mama demanded, her face paling. “How could you not tell me you have a new job? You know how worried I am about you! How could you not do something as simple as pick up the phone to tell me you got a job? And where, if I’m allowed to ask, are you working?”
“It’s a little book boutique, very specialized, in the old downtown area. You probably haven’t seen it before.”
Mama scoffed. “Well, excuse me for not having the sophisticated tastes in books that you do.”
Jettie circled Mama, shaking her head. “You really shouldn’t have told her, Jane. It’s going to make them stay longer.”
“I know,” I ground out through clenched teeth.
“Jane! What a hurtful thing to say!” Mama exclaimed.
For a moment, I lost track of the various conversations. “Wait, what?”
“Now, I think you need to just go upstairs and get dressed.” Mama sighed, plucking at my pajama top. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask for you to join your family for a simple meal. You know, your Grandma Ruthie only has so much time left.”
“Mama, I can’t go out with you tonight.”
“Why not?” she demanded.“Because I—” I looked up, in the hopes that a plausible excuse would be written on the ceiling, I suppose. Monday night—
what could I be doing on a Monday night? If I said I had plans with Zeb, Mama would tell me I could see him anytime. I couldn ’t say, “Date with Gabriel,” because Mama would demand to see him.
“Who would invite you to a cocktail party?” Jenny asked, eyeing me suspiciously. Even without telepathy, I could tell what she was thinking: Who would invite me to a cocktail party but not her?
“It’s just a networking thing.” I smiled and winked at Jenny. “You know, all of the Hollow’s best and brightest young professionals, getting together, making connections, swapping numbers.”
OK, it sort of sounded like a swingers’ cocktail party when I put it like that. Jenny’s lips disappeared as if she’d eaten a persimmon, though, so it was worth it.
“Well, I’m so glad!” Mama cried, patting my back. “It’s wonderful that your new job has you socializing.”
“You know what they say about jobs that involve socializing,” Grandma Ruthie said under her breath. From behind her, Aunt Jettie slapped the back of her head. Grandma cried out and turned to look for what had hit her. I snickered. Jenny shot me an annoyed look.
This wasn’t turning out to be such a bad visit after all.
Mama turned on me, hands on hips, asking, “So, what are you going to wear?”
Oh, crap.
17
Never leave a vampire social gathering without thanking your host. A faux pas like this can lead to feuds lasting hundreds of years.
—From The Guide for the Newly Undead
It took another hour and fourteen outfits before I could get everyone out the door and get ready for the party. I’d decided to actually attend, since (a) it would get Missy off my back, and (b) Mama was likely to swing back by the house to see if I really left or not.
I knew that Ophelia had told me to stay home, keep a low profile, but if nothing else, attending the party would prevent further “Oh, come on, shug!” calls from Missy. Also, I kind of wanted to see what the gossipy Undead would say about me to my face.
Besides, Jenny and Grandma had a wonderful time “helping me,” perched on my bed, picking each and every outfit apart.
I finally agreed to Mama’s chosen outfit—a navy-blue dress I’d had since high school, complete with a white sailor ’s collar—just to get them out of the house. And then I ran back upstairs to put on black slacks and a soft blue cashmere sweater that Aunt Jettie had bought for me on my last birthday. Touched by the gesture, Jettie agreed to stick around the house that night, just in case Jenny and Grandma returned to help themselves to the silver.
Missy lived in a brand-new subdivision called Deer Haven, in an unassuming little two-story ranch house that looked exactly like the twenty-seven unassuming little two-story ranch houses on the same street, most of which were empty. It was easy to find the party, as Missy’s place was surrounded by cars. From the front door, I could hear smooth jazz piano and people chattering and laughing. Before I died, my idea of a good party had involved an ice cream cake. Somehow, I doubted that would be offered at this soiree.
Before I could register someone coming to the door, Missy had it open and was squealing in greeting. “Jane, I’m so glad you could make it!”
I just said, “Here I am.”
I’d brought a bottle of merlot that a library patron had given me for Christmas as a hostess gift, because I figured Missy would be into that sort of thing. Fortunately, I’d remembered to remove the gift tag. As I handed it over, Missy cooed, “Oh, shug, you didn’t need to do that. Come on in.”
Missy hooked her arm through mine and steered me into the foyer. The walls were sponged a subtle beige. There was a maple table with a bowl full of business cards and a votive of roses. Beyond the living room was a huge, airy, and empty kitchen decorated in a rustic Tuscan motif. It was obvious the kitchen was never used and, given Missy ’s dietary habits, never would be.
About thirty vampires were circulating pleasantly in the living room, admiring Missy ’s collection of blown-glass sculptures, all of which looked vaguely anatomical to me.
These were definitely newer vampires. There was no mystery here, no mystique. They were all cheerful and shiny and clean-cut. Some of the guys were wearing polo shirts, for goodness sake. They still seemed remotely human, as if they were clinging to remnants of their former lives. I kind of liked them.
“Now, y’all know the rules!” Missy lectured in a preschool teacher’s tone, dragging me through the crowd. I bumped into several people, sloshing their drinks. Missy seemed oblivious to this. “A few minutes of chat, exchange business cards, and move on! We want to meet as many people as possible, don’t we?”
Missy handed me a frosty cocktail glass, glittering with ice and mint, led me around the room, and forced me into several introductions. Everyone else was prefaced by their profession—Joan the vampire party planner or Ben the vampire tax attorney—
or the brilliant things they were doing with radio advertising or blood brokering. I was introduced as “Jane Jameson, she used to be a librarian.” Or “You must know Jane, she’s Gabriel Nightengale’s childe.” It felt like the time Mama dragged me around the Girl Scout campout, determined that I would have the most signatures in my friendship book. The words “Stay sweet, have a great summer” still make my stomach turn.
And much as at that third-grade campout, I was not a hit at the cocktail party. At first, the undead movers and shakers were thrilled to meet me, but as soon as my name was mentioned, their lips twisted into snide little grins. They’d smirk and ask me about the price of a Grand Slam or tell me they’d heard the tombs over at St. Joseph’s offered great leverage. As soon as Missy pulled me away from one group, they’d snicker and bend their heads together to talk about me as if I couldn’t hear them. Some of the female vampires seemed downright hostile when Missy told them who I was. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">