TWO
TWO DAYS AGO, MAYBE?
Green rooms aren’t really green, proving once again that much of life was a lie. But it was a decent enough room to cool your high heels in, with comfortable chairs, a sofa, a full-length mirror, a fridge full of snacks and pop,* and a TV.
So I sat there and guzzled my third Coke in five minutes and tried not to fidget and politely returned the stare of the cookbook author who had the segment before mine. She was a pretty, curvy woman who looked to be in her early forties, with short, fluffy brown hair, pale blue eyes, and big glasses with brown rims that made her look like a cute owl. She was clutching her book so hard her knuckles were white.
Someone (producer? guy who lost the coin toss?) opened the door, stuck his head in, saw we were both in the room, nodded approvingly, left. The woman’s gaze had shifted to him and she seemed a little devastated when he shut the door.
As for me, I was too antsy to play with my phone and, like an idiot, hadn’t brought anything to read. So, what the hell. “You’re thinking, if it’s true, I’m alone in a room with a vampire. And if it’s not true, I’m alone in a room with a crazy lady who thinks she’s a vampire.”
There was a reason I hid behind humor, and it wasn’t just because I was Minnesota Nice, which was code for passive-aggressive. It’s because humor worked. Sometimes.
“Well . . . yeah,” she admitted, and her mouth curved into a bashful smile. “That’s pretty much the whole thing right there.”
“Don’t worry. I only drink . . . Coke,” I said, because what’s more cheering than my terrible Bela Lugosi impression? I leaned forward—she was sitting opposite me—and held out my hand. “My name’s Betsy.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m Carol.” She moved the book to her other hand to shake mine and I let out a yelp of delight.
“Smoothie Nation,” I breathed, delighted by the title and content. “Oh my God, everyone in my family loves smoothies! We make them every single day! We have so many blenders!”
“Your family? You mean . . . other . . . um . . . vampires?”
“Vampires, humans, maybe a zombie or two. The family I made.” As opposed to my blood relatives, who, with the exception of my mother, were all degrees of terrible. “We’re nuts about them. Are you going to make smoothies during your segment? Please, please tell me you’re making smoothies during your segment!”
“Well, yeah.” Another giggle. “Course I am. Look.” She opened the book to a glorious concoction: Strawberry Colada Smoothie. Ooh, and on the facing page: Cinnamon Roll Smoothie!
I started groping for my purse. Pen, pen, where was my pen? “May I please have your autograph? And where can I get your book? The gang will love your book. I have to get your book!”
She giggled, which was so charming. “Sure. Here, I’ve got an extra copy.” She picked up her tote bag, rooted around, produced another book and a pen. “It’s, uh, Betsy, right?”
“Yeah. You don’t have to say it. I’m well aware it’s an absurd name for a vampire queen.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, and started to write.
“Would you mind terribly making it out to my husband, too?” At her nod, I added, “It’s Sink Lair, two words, just like it sounds.” Heh.
“Oh, is he foreign?”
“No, but he was super insufferable when we met. I just like sticking it to him sometimes.” All times. But who was counting? “Thanks,” I added, smiling down at my new (free!) book. “I can’t wait to try these. I’m so lucky I ran into you.”
“Yeah, I was just thinking the same thing. You don’t seem . . . um—” She cut herself off and the color rose in her face.
“Like a drooling psychotic with an unholy thirst for human blood?” An uneasy giggle was my answer. “Yeah, don’t believe everything you see on YouTube.”
“I won’t,” she promised at once. “Y’know, my husband’s on the St. Paul City Council, and I could tell him . . .”
“You’ll put in a good word for me?”
“Sure.” She started to say something else, then cut herself off again.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“C’mon, we’re bonding over smoothies and I’m going to brag to everyone that I met a smoothie chef and you’re gonna tell your husband that I’m not a knuckle-dragging psychotic, so it’s all good. What is it?”
“Are you really?” She laughed again—I figured it might be a nervous tic—then added, “You’re, um. It’s daylight.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” I started flipping through Smoothie Nation. Glorious, lots of color pictures and the recipes looked simple. “That happens during the day a lot.”
“But you’re a vampire.”
“Or crazy,” I reminded her. Then I got it. “Yeah, I’m out in sunlight. Or I would be, if I went outside. But I didn’t teleport here, so, yeah. I can be out in the daytime.” I shrugged. “Maybe don’t believe everything you read, either?”
“Or see on random YouTube vids,” she agreed. “That’ll be what gives you the most trouble.”
“Hmmm?” What’s this? Blackberry Creamsicle Smoothies? What a time to be alive!
“That you guys break the rules. That what people thought they knew about vampires was wrong.”
I looked up. Carol’s expression was troubled, but the good news was, she didn’t seem scared. Just worried. Possibly for me, even.
“Just my opinion,” she added.
“Yeah, well, it’s a good point.” It was, and I wondered that I hadn’t thought of it before. Scary news: vampires are real and always have been. Scarier: they have a hierarchy most people never noticed. Scariest: they’re a lot harder to kill than legend indicated. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
A quick knock, and the guy who lost the coin toss was back. “Smoothie Nation?”
Carol popped to her feet. “That’s me!” She turned back to me. “Well, it was nice meeting you.”
“Oh, likewise. Good luck with your segment.”
“You, too. ’Bye, Betsy.”
“Good-bye, Carol.”
And then there was one. One with a wonderful new cookbook! And I figured as far as omens went, Carol was a good one. Which showed, once again, how much I suck at predicting the future.