I try to fight the blush creeping up the back of my neck. “What? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Elaine pushes her glasses up her nose, looking at me. “Oh, so it’s not ridiculous for us, but it’s ridiculous for you?”
“That’s not what I mean…” I look away, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’m not that kind of person.”
“Whatkind of person?” Sophie asks, placing her hands on her hips and staring at me.
“Oh, so you’re asking us to do something you think you’re too good for?” Elaine suggests, scowling.
“That’s not it!” I pause, flustered, trying to get a hold of my thoughts. That’s not what I mean at all. It’s not that I’m too good for being a valentine. I mean, itcouldjeopardize my career, but that’s not even the point. I don’t think I’d make it there in the first place. It’s just that both of my roommates are so… unique. Sophie is going to be a famous writer someday; Elaine is just waiting for a break in her acting career. And Iknowboth of them are going to make it big someday. They’re the kind of people who become valentines. Not people like me, who go to bed at nine p.m., choose an engineering path because it’s practical, and carry Tums at all times.
Believing in that kind of hope is dangerous. If I think too hard about all of those pictures I’ve studied inFangsmagazines, try to imaginemyselfin the place of a valentine… me in a beautiful dress, with a beautiful man, his hand grazing my hip…
My face must be bright red by now. My roommates are still staring at me. “Fine,” I say. “What the hell. I’ll try out too.”
Chapter Three
My roommates and I spend all evening calling different valentine agencies around the city. Each time, we meet only rejection. The Valentine’s Day Ball, one of the biggest events in the vampire world, is only a week away, and most agencies state that their rosters of hopeful humans are already full. Others snootily inform us that they only take referrals, anyway.
Finally, I reach the last agency on my list, a tiny organization called The Valentine Society.
“There’s only one review,” I tell my roommates. “But itisa five-star one.”
Elaine shrugs. “Worth a shot.”
I nearly drop my phone when the woman on the line says they’re accepting applications. She hardly sounds enthusiastic about it, and this is far from the most prestigious of the businesses we’ve been looking at, but a tryout is a tryout.
Soon enough the three of us are booked for the next evening. We share our last bottle of rosé to celebrate. Despite my insistence that I don’t have a chance of being chosen, I fall asleep with thoughts of ballgowns and fangs.
* * *
The next day, I’m so nervous I can barely eat. But the advice online was adamant about having a hearty meal a few hours before giving blood, so I decide to cook breakfast. But my heart sinks when I open the fridge and realize it’s nearly empty aside from half-used condiments and too-old takeout.
The pang of anxiety is familiar. So many times in my childhood, I was left to fend for myself with a fridge just like this. But that means I’m used to pulling together a struggle meal. After a few minutes, I scrounge up some peanut butter and jelly. We’re out of bread, but tortillas will work in a pinch.
“Breakfast of champions,” I say, passing the surprisingly delicious creations to my roommates as they emerge from their screened-off partitions of the living room.
I spend most of breakfast coaxing my roommates into eating, but I manage a few nibbles before ushering them out the door. They’re the ones who have a real shot at this, anyway. I’m just here to make sure they show up on time.
Between the three of us, we only have one car: Elaine’s clunky old sedan that hasn’t had working air conditioning in years. But I end up driving, as usual, when we’re together, because Elaine’s road rage has made me break out in stress-induced hives before.
Elaine and Sophie chatter the whole drive over, but we’re silent when we lay eyes on our destination. This feels a lot more real with the sight of the narrow, gothic house with its iron gate. We’re about to meet a real-life vampire. Something I’ve daydreamed about for an embarrassingly long time, but I’m not about to show them how nervous and starstruck I am.
“Let’s keep in mind they’re just people, at the end of the day,” I say as calmly as I can manage, as I roll past the gate and park in front of the house.
“Just super rich, super famous people,” Sophie says, nodding.
“No different from your average brush with a celebrity at a grocery store, really,” Elaine says.
“Except we’re the groceries.”
“And they’re a little bit dead.”
“And—”
“Guys,” I say, turning off the car. “Pleasebe normal.”
“This is us being normal,” Sophie says.
