Maybe someday. But not now. I had real-life issues to deal with.
I gathered myself together and strode across the quiet parking lot, filled mostly with teachers' and school administrators' cars. I'm sure I must have looked slightly drunk - or perhaps sick - huddled in my clothing, head down, stumbling slightly.
A small wind stirred my thick hair enough to get a few strands stuck in the copious amounts of sunscreen caked on my face. I ignored my hair. I needed to get the hell out of the sun. And fast.
I picked up my pace as another wind brought to me the familiar scents of cafeteria food. Familiar, as in this was exactly what cafeteria food had smelled like back when I was in elementary school.
After crossing the hot parking lot, I stepped up onto a sidewalk and a moment later I was under an eave, gasping.
Sweet, sweet Jesus.
Keeping to the shade and sliding my hand along the stucco wall to keep my balance, I soon found myself in front of the main office door.
Focus, Sam.
I needed to look as calm and normal as possible. School officials didn't take kindly to crazy-looking parents.
My skin felt as if it were on fire. And all I had done was walk across a school parking lot. I wanted to cry.
No crying.
I sucked in some air, held it for a few minutes - yes minutes - and let it out again. My skin felt raw and irritated. I picked hair out of the heavy sunscreen with a shaking hand, adjusted my sunhat, put a smile on my face, and opened the office door.
Just another mom here to see her kids.
* * *
A few minutes later, I found myself in the principal's office; apparently, I was in trouble.
Principal West was a pleasant-looking man in his mid-fifties. He was sitting behind his desk with his hands folded in front of him. He wore a white long-sleeved dress shirt with Native American-inspired jade cuff links. As far as I knew, he wasn't Native American.
Principal West had always been kind to me. Early on, just after my attack, he had been quick to work with me. I was given special access to the front of the school when picking up my kids. Basically, I got to park where the buses parked - thus avoiding long lines and sitting in the sun longer than I had to. Good man. I appreciated his kindness.
That kindness had, apparently, come to an end.
"I can't let them see you, Samantha, I'm sorry."
"I don't understand."
"I got a call today from Danny. In fact, I got it just about a half hour ago. Your husband - or ex-husband - says that the two of you have an unwritten agreement that you will not be picking the kids up anymore."
"Yes, but - "
"He also says that you have agreed to supervised visits only. Is this true?"
Principal West was a good man, I knew that, and I could see that this was breaking his heart. I nodded and looked away.
He sighed heavily and pushed away from his desk, crossing his legs. "I can't allow you to see them without Danny being present, Samantha. I'm sorry."
"But I'm their mother."
He studied me for a long time before saying, "Danny also said that you are a potential danger to the kids, and that under no circumstances are you to be alone with them."
I was shaking my head. Tears were running down my face. I couldn't speak.
Principal West went on, "You're very ill, Sam. I can see that. Hell, anyone can see that. How and why you pose a threat to your children, I don't know. And what's going on between you and Danny, I don't know that, either. But I would suggest that before you agree to any more such terms, Sam, that you seek legal counsel first. I have never known you to be a threat. Outside of being sick, I have always thought you were a wonderful mother, but it's not for me to say - "
I lost it right there. I burst into tears and cried harder than I had cried in a long, long time. A handful of secretaries, the receptionist and even the school nurse surrounded me. Principal West watched me from behind his desk, and through my tears, I saw his own tears as well.
He wiped his eyes and got up. He put an arm gently around me and told me how sorry he was, and then escorted me out.
Chapter Nine
I hate all men, I wrote.
Even me?
Are you a man, Fang?
Yes, but I'm a helluva man.
Despite myself, I laughed. I was in my hotel room sitting in the cushioned hotel chair. I should have been comfortable, but I wasn't; the chair's wooden arms were bothering me. Come to think of it, the chair wasn't that comfortable, either. Maybe I should complain to hotel management.
Or maybe I should just calm down, I thought. Even better, maybe I should get myself an apartment somewhere and decorate it with my own chairs.
It was a thought, but something I would think about later.
How do I know you're a helluva man? I wrote. I've never seen a picture of you.
You'll have to take my word for it.
The word of a man? Never! :)
Remember: A helluva a man.
So you say.
What's got you so upset tonight, Moon Dance?
Fang was my online confidant. I had met him via an online vampire chatroom years ago, back when chatrooms were all the rage. Nowadays, he and I just chatted through AOL, although we kept our old screen names. His was Fang321, and mine was MoonDance. To date, I had yet to tell him anything too personal, although he has probed repeatedly for more information. Admittedly, I have too. We were both deathly curious about each other, but I had my reasons to not reveal my identity, and, according to him, he did, too. Of course, my reason had been obvious: I admitted to him early on that I was a vampire. To his credit, or, more accurately, a ding to his sanity, he had believed me without reservations.
So I told him about my attempt to see my kids, and how Danny was stymieing me at every turn.
You could always kill him, wrote Fang.
Sometimes I don't know when you're joking.
There was a long pause, and then he wrote, Of course, I was joking.
Good. You had me worried.
Still, he wrote. It would solve all your problems.
And create a ton more, I wrote, and then quickly added: I'm not a killer.
Thus wrote the vampire.
I'm a good vampire.
There are some who would say that's an oxymoron.
Why can't I be good, too?
Because it's in your nature to kill and drink blood. Ideally, fresh blood from a fresh kill.
I won't kill anything. I would rather shrivel up and die.
But by not drinking fresh blood you are denying yourself the full powers of your being.
How much more powerful do I need to be? I wrote.
You have no idea.
And how do you know so much about vampires, Fang? You've told me long ago that you are human.
A human with a love for all things vampire.
And why do you love vampires so much, Fang?