A very warm welcome our first guest poster, Rebecca Maizel, author of INFINITE DAYS. Visit her at her website here: http://www.rebeccamaizel.com/
He’s wearing a team jersey. I’ve been watching him for a while now - this party
smells like beer and cheap perfume. My friends are all lips and legs with their boyfriends in
the corner. He wears a varsity jacket of the rival high school. The jacket’s busted - ripped
fabric, but he’s smirking and I think he likes it that way. The jacket, I mean.
He puts down his red cup.
He’s coming toward me.
“You’re the best looking thing here,” he says. He’s got a strange accent, he’s not from
“You go to Union?” I ask, nodding to the jacket. His shoulders are wider than Elliott’s,
my last boyfriend, the one guy whose not at this party. The one guy who’s six feet under, the
one who rammed his truck into a telephone pole seven months ago.
“I go a lot of places,” he says looking me in the eyes, not moving his stare. It kind of
freaks me out, who stares like that? But something in me tells me this is exactly what I need.
I need to forget about Elliott, forget about that night, forget about the scars on my hands
from where I braced the dash.
“Where did you get those?” he asks, grasping my wrist with his long fingers. He has
dirt under his nails.
“What? My scars?” I ask. They’re still red, in years they’ll be white, my parents have
mentioned plastic surgery.
He brings my wrist to his mouth and runs his tongue along the scars, I shiver, and
take a step back.
“You taste good,” he says.
Broken glass. Elliott’s nose broken in six places. Gasping for air, last breaths.
“Thanks,” I smile hesitantly and look into this boy’s eyes, which are grey like storm
clouds, like granite.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he says and laces my fingers between his.
We’re walking toward the front door, past my best friend Annie. Her mouth is
attached to her boyfriend Jake’s. Jake was there that night Elliott slammed into the
telephone pole. He was behind us, tailing us, egging Elliott to drive faster. Now Jake has a
tattoo on his shoulder that reads:
Elliott Long, RIP.
All I want to do is forget about that night, forget I exist, take myself out of the ebb
and flow that has ripped my boyfriend out of this world.
The boy in the varsity jacket gives my hand a small squeeze and leads me outside. He
shuts the door behind me with an unneeded slam. When I look up, his eyes dagger into
“I’ll make you forget about that accident,” he says, with a strong grip on my fingers.
He might break them.
Maybe he should. Maybe I deserve it. After all, I was supposed to be the designated
Then it hits me.
“I-I didn’t mention an accident.”
“I know,” he says with a smile and I gasp, unable to help it because this boy... has fangs.