Nice Girls Don't Live Forever

“We open in ten minutes, and nobody’s here yet,” I said, switching the fairies back to their original position. Andrea reached over and smacked my hand.



“Ow! No hitting!”



I shot a significant look at her boyfriend, who was conscientiously stacking midnight-blue shopping bags embossed with the new Specialty Books logo near the register. I considered it a supreme gesture of trust to allow Dick to stand that close to an unlocked cash drawer. At my indignant glare, he shrugged and slung an arm around his glaring girlfriend. “I’ve seen you fight. My money’s on her.”



“I’m not paying you, right?”



Dick shook his head.



I muttered, “Good.”



“Am I your first customer?” I looked up to see my father standing in the doorway.



“Daddy!” I cried, throwing my arms around him and nearly bowling him over. “Yes, you are.”



If there was anyone who could help with my “Improve relationships with family” goal, it was my father. I am an unabashed Daddy’s girl. Not like Carol Anne Mussler, whose home life took on a decidedly creepy aspect after she dedicated “Every Breath You Take” to her father at the high school’s annual talent show. But what more could I do than pledge my undying favoritism for the man who gave me my lifelong love of reading? The man who defended me from Mama and Grandma Ruthie’s repeated attempts to make me into a Jenny clone? The father who loved me unconditionally, despite my growing catalogue of flaws? If Daddy hadn’t decided to give me the unfortunate middle name of Enid, he would have been a parent without fault.



Daddy stroked my hair back from my eyes. “What’s the matter, Pumpkin, afraid no one will show up?”



I mulled that over for a millisecond. “Um, yes. That would be it.”



Daddy opened his wallet and handed me his Mastercard. “Well, point me to the coffee bar, and start a tab for me. And then bring me one of those books on how to be a better parent to an adult vampire.”



“Well, if you gave me a valid credit card, you’ve got my vote for Father of the Year.”



Dad took a long look at the ritual candle selection. “Does that mean you can give me a good deal on a magic wand and an owl?”



“I would respond, but we just established a storewide no-hitting policy,” I said, poking him in the ribs.



He tucked a hand under my chin. “It looks great, honey. Everything. I can tell how much work you girls put into it. I’m very proud of you.”



“Thanks, Daddy. Is Mama coming?”



Daddy cleared his throat. “Mama sends her support in spirit. But Jenny had some meeting tonight, and she needed Mama to babysit.”



“Hmm. Convenient.” I rolled my eyes.



Behind us, the bell tinkled, and the door opened. A goth teen with a pasty face, pierced nose, and lime-green-over-dirty-blond ringlets slumped into the store. She was a vampire, but she was so young. And she was obstinately avoiding eye contact. I took the direct approach, saying in my most pleasant tone, “Hi, welcome to Specialty Books. Can I help you find anything?”



She stopped and stared at me. I think she was willing me to disappear. OK, then.



“Are you looking for something in particular or just browsing?” I asked, dialing down the cheerful factor a few points.



The green-haired teen queen was now staring through me.



“I think she’s pretending to be invisible,” Andrea whispered from behind the counter.



I did not want to alienate my first non-blood-related customer, so I stepped out of her way. As she passed, I reached out to her, gently prying at the edges of her mind. Generally, I can’t read vampires, but she seemed so new, I guess would be the word, that I wanted to see if I could get a few impressions.



Instead, I was flooded with the chaos of adolescent thought bubbles. She was lonely and was afraid of what would happen if her mom found out she’d driven the family car into the worst part of town. She wished I would just leave her the hell alone so she could look for the latest Buffy Season 8 comic and read it in peace in one of those cool purple chairs. She wished she’d brought enough cash for the comic and a mocha latte, because the coffee smelled pretty good, and she loved, looooved chocolate and missed it like crazy. She even missed her mom telling her that chocolate gave her zits. Her mom didn’t talk to her much at all these days. Her whole stupid family seemed afraid of her, but they were even more afraid of kicking her out of the house. It was just great to be allowed to stay in your own room because your dad’s afraid to talk to you. She didn’t know why I was hassling her; it wasn’t as if she was going to steal or anything. Old people always followed her around in stores because of her hair. She wished she’d never dyed it green, but then her mom made such a big deal out of it that she felt she had to keep dyeing it over and over just to try to get a little attention—



I had to fight to pull myself out of the swirling vortex of her thoughts. I shook my head, trying to throw off the feelings of gloom and isolation.



God, I was glad I wasn’t a teenager anymore.



“You’ll find the Buffy comics over in our graphic-novels section, near the back,” I murmured quietly. She turned, eyeing me warily. “Andrea, could you get our first official customer a tall mocha latte with the ‘special’ syrup? On the house, of course.”



The Buffy lover, whom I’d decided I was going to like, even if it killed me, had eyes the size of saucers when I winked at her. “Th-thanks,” she stuttered, in a voice that was higher, shakier, than the voice in her head. “I’m Cindy.”



“Really?” I asked, eyeing the nose piercing. “I did not expect that. Cindy, I’m Jane. That’s Andrea. Let us know if you need anything.”



“OK.” She turned on her heavily booted heels and headed for the graphic novels.



“And for the record, I’m not that old,” I called after her.



A remarkably more cordial Cindy parked in a chair with her comic and sipped her coffee. She proved to be quite the good-luck charm, as her arrival brought a stream of steady peals of the front entrance bell. Several vampires, whom I’d never seen before, came in and sipped warmed blood and discussed forming an undead book club. Zeb and Jolene stopped by for pastries (for Jolene) and a book titled The Drama of the Half-Were Child (for Zeb.) They cozied up at the bar near my dad and chatted about the impending Lavelle. They still hadn’t told Zeb’s mother about the pregnancy. After Mama Ginger broke into the trailer, rearranged all the furniture, “organized” their mail and bills, and cleared most of the food out of Jolene’s fridge, Jolene had adjusted the disclosure date to when the baby left for college. She’d also added those biometric fingerprint locks to her plans for the new house. Seriously, you don’t mess with a werewolf’s food supply, even under the guise of being “helpful.”



Several members of the Friends and Family of the Undead, a group dedicated to helping the loved ones of newly turned vampires, perused new releases in the self-help section and were thrilled when I offered to host the meetings at the shop on Thursday nights. A few of my currently human former library patrons braved the bad part of town and bought up Anita Blake titles they probably wouldn’t have purchased in a “mainstream” bookstore. They also floated the concept of forming a book club focusing on supernatural works, starting with Alice Sebold’s The Lovely Bones .



I missed the children and children’s books. I missed old tattered copies of Harold and the Purple Crayon and tracking down the copy of Behind the Attic Wall that had been lost and nearly kept by careless girls (including myself) a total of fourteen times. But this new enterprise was certainly rewarding. We actually sold books. To live customers. Which hadn’t happened at Specialty Books in a while. Of course, by live, I mean present at the time of sale. I couldn’t guarantee heart or lung function.



I was helping books find their way to people again. I would have teared up a little if I’d had time. These misty thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a petite brunette with a heart-shaped face and high, sharp cheekbones. She had on a thickly ruffled blouse paired with a long black skirt. A delicate cameo pin secured the neck. She was a vampire, and she stared at me for a while before finally approaching the counter.



“Can I help you?” I asked.



“No, I believe I’ll just browse about for a while. I think you might have exactly what I’m looking for.” She smiled, the tips of her fangs peeking out over her thin, whitened lips.



“O … K.”



Directing two men who I suspected could be ghouls to the financial-planning section kept me distracted from this odd customer. There was something not quite right about this woman, and it wasn’t just her taste in old clothes. Her eyes were feverish and bright, and I couldn’t seem to look into them for too long. Her skin was pale even by our standards. She smelled wrong, like liniment and camphor, the combination of which was almost overpowering when she approached the register carrying copies of Love Bites, How to Survive Sire Abandonment, 30 Days to a Healthier Undead You, I’m OK, You’re Undead, and, oddly enough, A Walk to Remember .



“You have a wonderful selection,” she said, her dark eyes boring through me.



“Thank you. Did you find what you were looking for?”



“Not quite. But this will do for now.” Her voice was flat as she handed me cash, which was quickly becoming my favorite medium of payment.



“Well, please come back. And let me know if I can help you find it.”



“I’m sure you can,” she said, smiling at me with an intensity that, frankly, was starting to weird me out a little.



She faded into the crowd (crowd!) of customers and out the door. An hour before closing, my feet were so sore I didn’t even think of asking Andrea whether she’d noticed Creepy Cameo Chick. Instead, we totaled out the drawer, rejoiced over every large bill, and promised each other that Cindy the Goth Good-Luck Charm would be welcome to free lattes whenever she wanted them.



Mr. Wainwright and Jettie reappeared and admitted to a tiny fib. Mr. Wainwright couldn’t stand the idea of missing my big night and had spent most of it watching the sales floor in invisible ghost mode. Mr. Wainwright waxed poetic over every sale and declared that the shop had probably made more in-store customers that night than in the previous year. He declared Andrea and me to be marketing geniuses. Aunt Jettie just smiled and claimed to have “known it all along.” Dick popped a bottle of champagne so expensive I dared not ask where he got it, and we sat at the coffee bar toasting a good night.



All in all, Gabriel certainly picked the right moment to walk back into my life.



“Jane?” he said, tentatively walking toward me, holding a bouquet of fat, vibrant yellow sunflowers tied with raffia and ribbon.



I was surprised at how much trouble I had looking him in the eye as he crossed the room, and at how gratifying it was that he looked like ten miles of bad back-country road. Gabriel was paper pale, the hollows of his cheeks dramatic and drawn. And if I wasn’t mistaken, there was a little nervous twitch to his upper lip. If he felt half as bad as he looked, well, the vindictive part of me thought that was a pretty good start. And I was touched that he knew I would know that sunflowers meant “adoration” and “warmth.” But even after weeks of missing his voice, his face, I found that more than anything, I just wanted him gone. I didn’t want to have this conversation now. I wanted to bask in my success for just a little while longer. I should have known better. If my history has taught me anything, it’s that once I start enjoying a little good fortune, the karmic balance shifts to kick me in the face and restore the status quo.



“Hi,” he breathed, as if he had spent an entire evening planning that single syllable.



“Hi,” I conceded after considerable thought.