"That Raven is an odd one," I overheard Mrs. Peevish saying to another teacher as I skipped past the crying Trevor, who was now throwing a fit against the hard blacktop. I blew him a grateful kiss with my bitten hand. I wore my wound proudly as I got on the school swing. I could fly now, right? But I'd need something to take me into warp speed. The seat went as high as the top of the fence, but I was aiming for the puffy clouds. The rusty swing started to buckle when I jumped off. I planned to fly across the playground--all the way to a startled Trevor. Instead I plummeted to the muddy earth, doing further damage to my tooth-marked hand. I cried more from the fact that I didn't possess supernatural powers like my heroes on TV than because of my throbbing flesh.
With my bite trapped under ice, Mrs. Peevish sat me against the wall to rest while the spoiled snot-nosed Trevor was now free to play. He blew me a teasing kiss and said, "Thank you." I stuck out my tongue and called him a name I had heard a mobster say in The Godfather. Mrs. Peevish immediately sent me inside. I was sent inside a lot during my childhood recesses. I was destined to take a recess from recess.
Chapter 2 Dullsville
The official welcome sign to my town should read, "Welcome to Dullsville--bigger than a cave, but small enough to feel claustrophobic!"
A population of 8,000 look-a-likes, a weather forecast that's perfectly miserable all year round--sunny--fenced in cookie-cutter houses, and sprawling farmland--that's Dullsville. The 8:10 freight train that runs through town separates the wrong side of the tracks from the right side, the cornfields from the golf course, the tractors from the golf carts. I think the town has it backward. How can land that grows corn and wheat be worth less than land filled with sand traps?
The hundred-year-old courthouse sits on the town square. I haven't gotten into enough trouble to be dragged there--yet. Boutiques, a travel agent, a computer store, a florist, and a second-run movie theater all sit happily around the square.
I wish our house could lie on the railroad tracks, on wheels, and carry us out of town, but we're on the right side near the country club. Dullsville. The only exciting place is an abandoned mansion an exiled baroness built on top of Benson Hill, where she died in isolation.
I have only one friend in Dullsville--a farm girl, Becky Miller, who is more unpopular than I am. I was in third grade when I officially met her. Sitting on the school steps waiting for my mom to pick me up (late as usual) now that she was trying to be a Corporate Cathy, I noticed an impish girl cowering at the bottom of the steps, crying like a baby. She didn't have any friends, since she was shy and lived on the east side of the tracks. She was one of the few farm girls in our school and sat two rows behind me in class.
"What's wrong?" I asked, feeling sorry for her.
"My mom forgot me!" she hollered, her hands covering her pathetic, wet face.
"No, she didn't," I consoled.
"She's never this late!" she cried.
"Maybe she's stuck in traffic."
"You think so?"
"Sure! Or maybe she got a call from one of those nosey sales people that always asks, 'Is your mother home?'"
"Really?" "Happens all the time. Or maybe she had to stop for snacks, and there was a long line at 7-Eleven."
"Would she do that?"
"Why not, you have to eat, don't you? So never fear. She'll be here."
And sure enough, a blue pickup drove up with one apologetic mother and a friendly, fluffy sheepdog.
"My mom says you can come over Saturday if it's okay with your parents," Becky said, running back to me.
No one had ever invited me to their house before. I wasn't shy like Becky but I was just as unpopular. I was always late for school because I overslept, I wore sunglasses in class, and I had opinions, all atypical in Dullsville.
Becky had a backyard as big as Transylvania--a great place to hide and play monsters and eat all the fresh apples a growling third- grade stomach could hold. I was the only kid in our class who didn't beat her up, exclude her, or call her names, and I even kicked anyone who tried. She was my three-dimensional shadow. I was her best friend and her bodyguard. And still am.
When I wasn't playing with Becky, I spent my time applying black lipstick and nail polish, scuffing my already-worn combat boots, and burying my head behind Anne Rice novels. I was eleven when our family went to New Orleans for vacation. Mom and Dad wanted to play blackjack on the Flamingo riverboat casino. Nerd Boy wanted to go to the aquarium. But I knew where I was going: I wanted to visit the house of Anne Rice's birth, the historical homes she had restored, and the mansion she now called home.
I stood mesmerized outside its iron gate, a Gothic mega- mansion, my mom (my uninvited chaperone) by my side. I could sense ravens flying overhead, even though there probably weren't any. It was a shame I hadn't come at night--it would have been that much more beautiful. Several girls who looked just like me stood across the street, taking pictures. I wanted to rush over and say, "Be my friends. We can tour the cemeteries together!" It was the first time in my life I felt like I belonged. I was in the city where they stack coffins on top of one another so you can see them, instead of burying them deep within the earth. There were college guys with two-toned spiky blond hair. Funky people were everywhere, except on Bourbon Street, where the tourists looked like they'd flown in from Dullsville. Suddenly a limousine pulled around the corner. The blackest limo I had ever seen. The driver, complete with black chauffeur's hat, opened the door, and she stepped out!
I freaked and watched motionless, like time was standing still. Right before my eyes was my idol of all living idols, Anne Rice!
She glowed like a movie star, a Gothic angel, a heavenly creature. Her long black hair flowed over her shoulders and glistened; she wore a golden headband, a long, flowing silky skirt, and a fabulous vampirish, dark cloak. I was speechless. I thought I might go into shock.
Fortunately my mom's never speechless.
"Could my daughter please have your autograph?"
"Sure," the queen of nocturnal adventures sweetly replied.
I walked toward her, as if my marshmallow legs would melt under the sun at any moment. After she signed a yellow Post-it note my mom found in her purse, the Gothic starlet and I were standing beside each other, smiling, her arm around my waist.
Anne Rice had agreed to take a picture with me!
I had never smiled like that in my life. She probably smiled like she'd smiled a million times before. A moment she'll never remember, a moment I'll never forget.
Why didn't I tell her I loved her books? Why didn't I tell her how much she meant to me? That I thought she had a handle on things like no one else did?