Fangs for Nothing (Vampire Hunting and Other Foolish Endeavors) Page 3

  “Hey.” I was confused. “Did we… uh… Did we have plans or something?” I slouched down into a chair, and Grandma bustled over to put a full plate in front of me. If Xander wasn’t there, I probably would have been given a bowl full of cardboard-flavored oatmeal. Grandma always puts out a spread for company, especially if the company is an attractive boy with blue eyes like Elvis. If she wasn’t in such a hurry to get to the market before the crowds, I’m sure she would have made pancakes.

  “Your grandma invited me to go to the market,” Xander said between bites.

  “Oh,” I said, tucking into breakfast before Xander got any ideas about co-opting my sausage links. It was just like him to show up at our house at all hours. If he was bored or couldn’t sleep or just wanted someone to talk to, he usually headed over. He lived in a big, gorgeous mansion on the lake, but his parents were never home. Wandering around a seven-bedroom house by himself made him stir crazy. Xander preferred our dingy little one-story bungalow. He said it felt cozy, like a house is supposed to feel. Plus, Grandma fed him like he was a starving refugee who had finally made it to America. His family had a personal chef that came in and prepared meals a couple times a week, but Xander preferred Grandma’s cooking. She was no culinary whiz, but her food was very homey, and she always put in the extra effort when Xander was around.

  “Let’s go, you two.” Grandma had a bee in her bonnet to get out the door. “I’m not fighting the crowds just because you two can’t get a move on.” Xander rose to rinse his empty plate at the sink. “Just leave that, honey.” Grandma pressed on Xander’s arm. “I’ll take care of it when we get back.”

  “Come on, Mrs. Lehmer, you know I can’t do that.” Xander gave the plate a quick douse of water before cracking open the door to our ancient harvest-gold dishwasher. “What kind of guest would I be, leaving dishes around after you made me such a nice breakfast?” Lines like that were why Grandma doted on Xander. He rinsed a dish and stuck it in a rack. Big deal. But Grandma acted like he’d just re-shingled the roof. It didn’t matter that she’d pull the plate out and wash it by hand after we returned from the market. She was in a tizzy of ecstasy that he’d actually made the gesture. Xander really knew how to work adults. There wasn’t a grandmother in greater Cleveland that he couldn’t charm.

  For once, Xander had to sit in the back while I drove. Grandma sat next to me with her purse in her lap, constantly vigilant for carjackers. I’d tried to explain to her dozens of times that our barely-clinging-to-life station wagon wasn’t a likely target for would-be car thieves, but she knew better. We drove along in a pleasant silence for several minutes before Grandma cleared her throat. I knew that was the signal that we were about to be privy to a lecture. Fortunately, it couldn’t be a long one because we weren’t that far from the market. “Another one of those teenagers committed suicide yesterday,” she began. There had been a rash of teenage suicides across greater Cleveland in the last several months. We’d even had a “Suicide, Just Say No” assembly before school had let out for the summer.

  “Was it the same as usual?” Xander asked. “Did she cut her wrists?”

  “This time it was a he, and yes, he did,” Grandma said tartly. “Now I hope neither of you boys would ever think of doing something so stupid.”

  “Don’t worry, Grandma. I would never slit my wrists,” I assured her, an involuntary shudder making be twitch. “Yick.”

  “That’s right,” Xander agreed. “If I was going to snuff it, I think I’d go carbon monoxide. You know, die in my car. Everything else just sounds too painful.”

  “What about your head in the oven?” I asked.

  “I don’t think I could handle the smell.”

  “And you think carbon monoxide poisoning doesn’t have a smell? Besides, what are your parents supposed to do with your car after you croak in there?”

  “What are they supposed to do with the oven?”

  “Stop it, you two,” Grandma barked. “Suicide is not something you joke about.” She actually sounded pretty upset.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Lehmer.”

  “Sorry, Grandma.”

  She went on, “I only brought it up because I know that teenagers sometimes get stupid ideas in their heads. You start thinking, everyone else is doing it, I should do it, too.”

  “Um, Grandma? We don’t think like that,” I told her.

  “Yes, you do. You all do. You start thinking something is the big, hot fashion trend, and the next thing you know, you’re in the shower with a straight razor. Do you have any idea how awful this is for that boy’s poor parents? His grandparents? His brothers and sisters? His friends? Everyone he’s ever known?” Her voice started to waiver, and I knew she had been thinking about how horrible it would be if I did something that stupid.

  “Grandma, I know I’m just a teenager and easily influenced by stuff and all that, but I promise you, I would never kill myself. Okay? Never.”

  “Me neither,” Xander said from the backseat, reaching forward and giving my grandmother’s shoulder a squeeze. “I mean, there’s too much I want to do, anyway.”

  “That’s good.” Grandma sniffed. “Now let’s stop talking about it. I need to get ready for the market.”

  The West Side Market has been publically owned since 1840. That’s pre-Civil War, baby. The current building, a massive blimp hangar of yellow brick, was built in 1912. Grandma likes to launch her first wave of attack on the main building, haranguing the meat and fish vendors. Then she gains a psychological advantage over the fruit and vegetable vendors with a crushing flanking maneuver, attacking them from a small side door rather than coming at them straight on from one of the main passageways. After brawling for a lengthy period of time with Eastern European immigrants over every last brussels sprout, she’ll wheel around and charge the bakeries, forcing them to surrender their freshest breads and handmade pastas.

  Grandma doesn’t just stumble into the place dressed like a bum, either. She comes prepared for combat, always wearing her nicest coat, depending on the weather, a solid pair of walking shoes, and some type of hat, usually affixed to her head with a sizable hatpin. She’s not opposed to using the pin to remind people of their manners if the crowd gets too thick or she feels someone has cut in front of her in line. A lot of the clerks, especially the butchers, remember her by name and call out a courteous, “Good morning, Mrs. Lehmer,” when they see her bearing down on their counters.

  If all goes well and a table is available, we’ll get a snack at the cafe. There are usually some pretty good specials, and by that point, Grandma really needs to get off her feet. Once we’ve refreshed ourselves and she’s paid the bill, tipping the waitress exactly one quarter, we head for the candy counter. If I’ve comported myself according to Grandma’s expectations, she’ll buy a half pound of hand-dipped chocolates from The Candy Corner or Campbell’s Popcorn Shop for us to share. But if I’ve displeased her, for example the time when she caught me adding a couple bucks to the tip, then we bypass the dark chocolate turtles and coconut haystacks and head straight for the car, with me staggering under the weight of her hard-won victory.

  I always like the crisp smell of the market when first entering the main building. In the winter, they turn up the heat and the transition from freezing to warm will make your nose burn, but in the summer it’s just a cool and pleasant odor of fresh meat. Grandma usually doesn’t need me for the first thirty minutes of battle, so I’m free to wander around unencumbered by a chronically querulous senior citizen. Xander, naturally, wanted to head straight for the balcony. There’s really nothing up there. It’s just a place to look down and see all the shoppers, but Xander likes to hunch his back, swing his arms, and gallop about grunting “Oo-o-oo-o” like an oversized chimp ready to fling some poo. (Yeah, I know. It’s a private joke kind of thing.) Unless there are cute girls around, then he prefers to James Dean it, leaning on whatever ledge is available and taking in the view while thinking deep thoughts.

  The balcony was empty exc
ept for a mom and a couple of kids, so Xander gave them the full gorilla treatment. The mother was alarmed, but the eight-year-olds shrieked with delight. Xander hammed it up, grunting and blowing raspberries while he lurched from side to side, dragging his arms and beating his chest. For someone who is unreasonably good looking, Xander can sometimes act like a total dork. It’s one of the things I really appreciate about him. A lot of the time, good-looking people can take themselves waaay too seriously.

  The mom was just inching past us, heading for the stairs, dragging her children in her wake when suddenly Xander stood straight upright, his eyes wide. He smoothly adjusted his posture to more of a lothario slouch and half lidded his eyes. I casually turned my head to see a girl coming up the stairs. But she wasn’t just any girl; she was the girl of Xander’s dreams. Petite, long black hair with curled bangs giving her a hint of Bettie Page, pale skin, and eyes like giant emeralds. She wore a pale violet dress with matching stockings. Shiny black patent leather combat boots encased her tiny feet. She looked just like a smoldering pixie. Exactly Xander’s type. Or what I assumed was Xander’s type even though he’s never come right out and told me the kind of girl he finds most attractive. She appeared a little flushed, like she was chasing someone or being chased. She froze as soon as she saw us.

  “Hello,” Xander said, cocking his head to the side and letting his black hair fall over his eyes so he had an excuse to slowly smooth it off his face. The greeting caused the girl’s eyes to widen, quickly dart around the balcony, and then narrow when she realized we were the only three up there. She locked eyes with me, giving me a penetrating look. It kind of felt like she wanted me to say something, but I really couldn’t think of anything more beyond Xander’s greeting.

  “Hi?” I hazarded.

  I guess this displeased her because she abruptly turned and disappeared down the stairs. Xander frowned. “That was weird.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. It wasn’t the reaction Xander normally elicited from the opposite sex. “She sure was pretty.”

  “Not bad.”

  This made me laugh. “Oh, come on, Xander. She’s exactly your type.”

  “I don’t have a type.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Xander shook his head. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Play it that way if you want.” I shrugged. Looking over the balcony, I immediately met the impatient glaze of Grandma. She was staring directly at me. Raising her hand, she made a come here, immediately gesture. “Oh,” I said, while giving her a nod to let her know I was on my way. “Grandma needs me for something.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “Don’t you want to look for that girl?” I asked, surprised.

  “No,” he said firmly. After a moment, he added, “And even if I did, I wouldn’t go charging after her like a dog looking to hump her leg. If you want to meet a girl, you’ve got to play it cool.”

  I didn’t say anything, but I couldn’t stop from smirking as we headed for the stairs. I was sure that before we left the market, Xander would somehow manage to end up in a conversation with the violet girl.

  “Herbert. There you are,” Grandma snapped. “You remember Mr. Sarducci.”

  I smiled politely at an elderly, somewhat bulky gentleman wearing an apron and standing behind the counter at Sarducci Meats. “Hi, Mr. Sarducci,” I said as the dutiful grandson.

  Grandma went on, “Mr. Sarducci’s granddaughter is staying with him for the summer, and I thought you’d like to meet her.” That’s when I realized that there was a person standing behind Mr. Sarducci, somewhat eclipsed by his bulk. “Herbert, this is Lydia. Lydia, this is my grandson, Herbert.”

  A sullen-looking girl glanced over at me. She was about sixteen, medium height, medium weight, with medium-length, medium-brown hair, and she had medium features. She was dressed in jeans, a gray t-shirt, and a white apron—just like her grandfather. The only thing distinguishing about her was that she wore a cool, enamel, multicolored bat necklace. That, at least, drew my interest. “Hi,” she said halfheartedly.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I replied with an equal lack of enthusiasm. I hated when Grandma tried to fix me up. It was so embarrassing.

  Then I saw Lydia’s face grow more animated. Her eyes lit up. She was looking at me with interest. She even sort of smiled. I was just thinking that when she wasn’t being all dour, she wasn’t half bad looking, when I realized that Xander had walked up behind me and was observing the introduction over my shoulder. “Who’s your friend?” Lydia asked, doing nothing to conceal her interest.

  I restrained myself from making an exasperated face. Xander couldn’t help it if he was the epicenter of gorgeous in the tri-state area. “Lydia, this is Xander Hipsher. Xander, meet Lydia Sarducci.”

  “Hi,” Xander said, flashing her the baby-blue high beams. I could tell he wasn’t even trying to flirt with her. That’s just how he looks. In a lower voice, he said to me, “Sherbie, I’m going to grab a soda.”

  Just so you know, no one says soda in Cleveland. America can be divided by regions that say soda and regions that say pop, and Cleveland is definitely a pop town. But Xander doesn’t like pop. He won’t drink Coke or Pepsi or any of the other big names that come in a giant two liter. He only drinks traditional soda pop. The kind that has flavors like orange cream soda, birch beer, and old-time ginger ale and are only sold in undersized glass bottles. He even tried to start using the word sarsaparilla once, until Rini shut it down.

  “I’m kind of thirsty,” Lydia said, her eyes bright and hopeful.

  “Oh, okay,” Xander said, not picking up on her hugely obvious hint. “I’ll bring you back something.” Then he said to me, “Are you coming or what?”

  Grandma fixed me with a beady stare, and I knew my presence by her side as head porter was required. “No, you go on,” I told him. “I’ll text you when we’re ready to snack.”

  Xander loped off, and Lydia sank back into sour. Not a good look for her. Mr. Sarducci wrapped up some pork chops for Grandma, and I stood there feeling like an idiot. Grandma kept winking at me and then cutting her eyes over to Lydia. She was being about as subtle as a brick through a window.

  Grandma didn’t harangue me for a while, not willing to lose focus while giving the Eastern European immigrants the screws over what constituted a ripe banana. But I knew it was only a temporary reprieve. “Why didn’t you flirt with that young lady back at Sarducci’s?” Grandma asked after she had declared victory over the fruit and vegetable stands. “That’s why I introduced you.”

  “Come on, Grandma. She didn’t like me,” I told her, struggling under the bags of peaches, eggplant, strawberries, and squash.

  “Sure, she did. I saw her smiling at you,” Grandma insisted.

  “No, Grandma. She was smiling at Xander.”

  Grandma’s face became a little pinched. “Don’t be fooled into letting Xander take all the cute girls, Herbie. He’s a nice boy, but he doesn’t lay golden eggs or anything. If you like a girl, then you go after her. Don’t let being friends with Fabian stop you.”

  “I won’t, Grandma. I promise,” I said, but I was really just placating her.

  We hit the bakeries, and then it was time to get Grandma off her feet and prop her up with some tea. I pulled out my cell phone and was about to text Xander when I caught sight of him out of the corner of my eye, leaning against the wall next to Jorhensen’s Apiary, chatting with—you guessed it—Violet Girl. She didn’t look happy about it. Not exactly unhappy either, just sort of intense. I must have been sending off some weird vibe while looking at her because she immediately turned her head to stare right at me. I felt like a total idiot, and I have no idea why. I mean, I was just standing there. I wasn’t making obscene gestures with my hands or anything. Xander cocked an eye in my direction, breaking out of his classic Marlon Brando slouch. Violet Girl took this opening to dash out of the building. I mean, she literally fled.

  “What was that all about?”
I asked after he caught up with us.

  “Nothing.” Xander played it casual.

  “Well, what’s her name?”

  “It’s…” Xander thought about it, frowned, and then said, “You know, it’s weird, but I can’t remember.”

  This floored me. “You can’t remember a pretty girl’s name?”

  “No, it’s completely gone.” He thunked his head a few times trying to rattle the name loose.

  “That is weird. I thought rule number one was to always remember a girl’s name.”

  “That is rule number one,” Xander assured me. “But I guess I blew it this time.”

  After we’d perked Grandma up at the café and purchased our chocolates (Grandma splashed out on a full pound of assorted so Xander could enjoy a few), we headed for the car. Just as we were about to hit the exit, Xander pulled up short. “Oh, wait. I forgot something.”

  “What?”

  “It’s no big deal. I just need a minute,” he said. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

  “What?” I repeated.

  “It’s that Lydia girl at Sarducci’s,” he called over his shoulder as he trotted back into the fray. “I promised I’d bring her a soda.”

  Chapter 4

  When we got back from the market, Xander helped us put the groceries away, which sent Grandma completely over the moon—again. She was going to make us lunch, but Xander said, “Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Lehmer. Why don’t you just relax? I’ll drive Sherbie to work, and we’ll grab a sandwich or something on the way.”

  Grandma and I only have the one car. It’s an ancient station wagon from the Neolithic period. The kind with the fake wood paneling and where the back bumper is usually held on with wire. Ours is in a little bit better shape than that, but still, it’s no beauty. Grandma doesn’t like to drive, but she doesn’t want me to take the car either in case she needs it to go somewhere, which is never. So I’m usually on the bus if I can’t manage to sponge a ride off of Xander or Rini.