Abigail Rath Versus Bloodsucking Fiends

“Mom,” I said. “I kind of want to see how this comes out. Let’s watch it.” Did I say that?
Mom pressed the play button. “Okay. Expect parental guidance.”
“And Abby?” said Dad, “You would never, ever sneak out to go to a European disco?”
“Scout’s honor.”
Sure enough, after American Girl falls for Prince European, she tries to sneak back in, but Strict Aunt catches her, and is strict. My expectations are unexcited by Hollywood. The camera tightened to a close up on Strict Aunt.
“Freeze it, Polly!”
Whenever there’s a particular point Dad wants to explain to me from a film, he freezes the scene and we talk until the DVD’s screen saver comes on.
Dad leaned toward the screen. “Yes, I think it is.”
“Someone you know?”
“One of the Bathory sisters.”
“Who?” I had never heard of the Bathory sisters.
“Three Brides of Dracula. The Bathory sisters were three actresses who looked a little alike. They all peroxided their hair, their agent helped them pick a suitably horrific name, and they were a hot commodity for a bit.”
“I haven’t seen any of their movies,” I said.
“Nor will you,” said Mom. “Not at your age.”
“Names,” said Dad, trying for recall. “Lacey, Velvet, and… and…”
Mom smirked. “Butterfly.”
“Butterfly?”
“Could’ve been worse. She could’ve chosen Bambi. I think Velvet is the aunt.”
“Ah,” Mom said. “Not the vampiric one.”
“It couldn’t be, could it?”
Now they had my full attention. “Explain.”
“This isn’t working out,” said Dad.
My ring tone sounded—Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. Captain Nemo plays it on the Nautilus. Mom and Dad traded a look which said they were grateful for the reprieve.
“Sorry.” I slipped into the dining room. Vince. Good.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” said Vince. “Thought you’d be wondering about whether Ned followed Mom and me home last night.”
“Yes. And?”
“Nope. No signs of parents under hypnotic vampire spell either. All clean here.”
“All that means is Ned could be biding his time because we’re onto him.”
Silence for a moment. “How’s your reform going? Doing anything?”
“Oh yeah. Gotta get back to quality family time, also known as reprogramming.”
“Have fun. See you tomorrow?”
“No. I’ll be doing hard time at Wolcroft after school.”
“Right,” said Vince. “I bet I get in-school suspension. Do you want me to say hello to Austin Von Trapp?”
“And Limbo Sister if you see her. Gotta go.”
“Bye.”
“Ciao.”
Mom snapped the DVD back into its case. “Your father and I wondered if you wanted to go out for ice cream?
Kaplan Kone?”
“Not open yet. Next weekend.” Which for those of you who are noting we are in California, and why does an ice cream shop close, I will tell you about the Kaplans and their migrating habits later. “About the vampire?”
“No vampires today,” said Dad. “And no princesses. Miniature golf.”
I resigned myself. “Miniature golf.”
Mom pulled up in front of Wolcroft, a modern facility built with an old-fashioned sensibility, as the brochures outside our main office touted. I pulled my backpack out of the back seat. “I’m done at five. Detention.”
“Every day this week. I’ll expect you home at 5:30, sharp.”
“Sharp.”
I watched our car putter away, hoisted my book bag, and passed through the glass doors.
Inside the building, lots of girls dressed just like me were milling around in the hallway and the cafeteria. At Wolcroft, we are all about navy. Navy skirts with pleats. Navy blazers with our school crest, and a navy pullover or a navy cardigan, also with the school crest. Also a white shirt, which is pretty standard for school uniforms. And my favorite part, the navy blue, gold and gray striped tie. I was not a slouchy tie wearer. My dad had taught me to tie one properly, so my tie was always crisp.
“Hey, Abs.”
Marty was a slouchy tie wearer, her neck gaping at the top instead of tucked away. Her black hair sported two fuzzy braids at the edges. She had switched over to contacts and looked owly when she wore them. Her face was blank where her glasses used to perch.
“Good morning.”
“There’s a new girl,” Marty said. “You know her already.”
I opened my locker. Taped inside was my picture of Frankenstein’s Monster as portrayed by Boris Karloff. Classic film that. It aggravated me that a lot of people called him Frankenstein, because Frankenstein wasn’t Boris Karloff. Frankenstein was really Peter Cushing. Not in the film with Karloff. I mean, Peter Cushing is Dr. Frankenstein in other Frankenstein films, where the monster isn’t anyone to speak of most of the time. If I could have it my way, I’d have Karloff play opposite Cushing. What a film that would be! Who would care if one of them was in black and white?
My brain is more than capable of multitasking. I did not lose track of Marty’s conversation because of my alternative universe Frankenstein movie. “I know her how?”
“I’ll show you,” said Marty. She pushed her glasses up, and discovered they weren’t there.
“Hunh,” I said, “just like when someone gets their leg cut off.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You are weird, Abby.”
“Yup.” I smiled, showing all my teeth. “You too, though.”
Marty giggled a little. Good. Vince is so easy going I want to prod him with an electric rod to see if I can get anything out of him. Marty needs to relax. Dr. Frankenstein could take Marty and Vince and put them together into a really cool best friend. Abigail Rath’s monster? It was a Franken-kind of morning.
The new girl was the eye of a hurricane of navy uniforms, a little unusual for the new student experience. Usually, no one wants to talk to you, people cut you off, and you can’t make new friends. Not that this would bother me, because I am a rugged individualist who doesn’t care at all what people think.